By Any Other Name

Pedestrian and auction-goer Mike Bodnar wonders how and why tabloid journalists label people in the media...

Source: Petty Images

I am writing this as an author. But at the same time I'm also a DIY enthusiast, and I'm keen on astronomy and all things space. I read mystery thrillers and spy novels. I am an old boat owner (in both senses) and I'm a whole lot more, but for the purposes of this article I'm simply a writer. That, however, would be of little interest to journalists from the Daily Mail, the Sun or the Daily Express. It's not exciting enough.

Tabloid journalists, you see, are more interested in providing extra and sometimes-tenuous contexts to those who feature in their stories so that readers will be drawn in, gasping to know more. A mini-survey I've conducted just over the past three days revealed (another word the media loves to use; Mike Bodnar can now reveal...) that a Celtic fan, a new mum, and a widowed pensioner all had something bad happen to them. And that's not even mentioning the other footy fan or the Durham student. But I have anyway.

The point is that in many, if not most, cases, the status of the subject featured in the story has little or nothing to do with the story itself. Take for example the headline, 'Celtic fan, 36, will stand trial over Captain Sir Tom Moore tweet.' 

The first thing you discover on reading the article is that the fact the man was a Celtic supporter has absolutely no relevance whatsoever to his having been charged with sending an abusive Tweet. Neither for that matter does the fact that he was 36 years old. If I were a Celtic fan I'd be fuming about the subtext of this, vis: Celtic fans are right bastards to old people, especially when in their mid-thirties.

This tendency to label people in media stories as something more than they are is presumably to increase the shock-horror and tut factors. Somehow we are likely to be more gobsmacked that a Celtic fan would dare insult the dearly departed Captain Tom than if we'd been told, 'Man on trial over abusive Tweet.' Man? Who cares? Celtic fan (36)? Tut!

Meanwhile, a 'mum' was ordered by a local council to take down a Christmas wreath from the front door of her council flat due to health and safety concerns. The story is laughable enough for its absurdity, yet the Sun newspaper (I use the term loosely) felt it necessary to add motherhood into the mix. The fact that her daughter is actually 19 has very little to do with the story, but of course we are supposed to feel increased sympathy for the (apparently) single parent. Since the headline wasn't, 'Wife told to pull down wreath' we can't tell. Maybe we should be furious she's not married. I shall write to the Pope.

That esteemed organ the Daily Mail was pleased to inform us that, 'Durham student, 21, loses court battle with aunt over mother's will.' I was so relieved that it wasn't a student from Glasgow, or Leicester. Phew. Also, so she's a student, do we care? Well yes, I guess we're supposed to have sympathy for all students due to the horrendous cost of education, but in fact the story reveals (there's that word again) that she needed the money to put a deposit on a house and to buy a polo pony. Well diddums. 

But in contrast to the Durham student (21), the Daily Mail also brings us the heart-warming news that  'Father-of-two, 44, finds £100,000 medieval brooch.' I always find archaeological discoveries fascinating, and in this case the brooch could be around 800 years old, unlike the finder who, as you know, is just 44.

More frustratingly though is that the dad's two kids don't even get a mention in the story, so it's hard to see what relevance there is in telling us they exist. The dad himself is an architectural technician, but maybe that was too wordy to fit in the headline; father-of-two is easier on the eye. 'Man' might have been even better.

'Man' also wouldn't do for the Mirror's story: ' 'Extremely popular' football fan, 46, dies after being unable to get Covid jab.' Although sad, the extremely popular man (46) would have died if he'd been a train spotter, a twitcher, or an orchid grower. Being a football fan doesn't make you any more susceptible to Covid, although there is the danger of close bodily contact with like-minded sweaty fans on the terraces, so maybe the Mirror was doing us a public service. 

Turns out Mr Popular was also 'quite outdoorsy' and was a keen martial arts exponent, but for some reason the Mirror hacks decided 'football fan' would be more of a headline drawcard. And seriously, there's something a bit tacky about telling us he's 46 when he's not any longer.

The Mail Online meanwhile informs us that a mechanic was beaten to a pulp outside a nightclub. Are we supposed to assume that if he'd been at work and had a hammer or wrench to hand he could have fended off his assailants? That his lack of proximity to his Snap-On toolbox put him at a disadvantage? 

Of course not; it was 2.30 in the morning. So what possible context can there be in his being a mechanic (24)? None, but the media hacks desperately need something to put in the headline, and an occupation or interest will do. 

Oh, and an age, of course, because we all want to know how old someone is, said the author (67) of Sunbury-on-Thames.

I'm not highlighting anything new; this sort of sloppy irrelevant so-called journalism has been around for years, as has the British tabloids' tendency to label criminals 'yobs,' 'thugs,' and 'louts.' The Court of the Tabloids is judge, jury and executioner in one.

It's just that I miss the days when reporting was balanced and neutral and we could all form our own opinions after reading an article, and go 'tut' or shake our heads and comment 'shocking' as required. Or indeed move on and form no opinion at all. But we live in an age of extremes and extremists. And terrorists. Britannica.com says that terrorism: '...seeks to create fear, not just within the direct victims but among a wide audience.'

That seems to me what the tabloids are doing with some of their stories: seeking to create or highlight fear. I'm in fear every time I read any news, and you may well blame me for doing so. 

Well, let me make it clear that I certainly don't read the tabloids, but sometimes their headlines pop up uninvited in my daily feeds on Flipboard and I can't help but notice them. But instead of letting myself be unsettled by stories of yobs and louts, I instead take some pleasure out of analysing the policies and thought processes of modern journalism and the media in general, and try to work out the rationale behind the different reporting styles. I haven't reached any firm conclusions yet, other than the media sector is so competitive that the papers, radio and television news programmes will grasp at anything to make a headline.

As I said at the start, I am at this moment a writer. When I go upstairs to prepare dinner I am a husband (and chef). When I stroll round the block I'm a walker, and when I watch the International Space Station go overhead I'm a space geek. I can be a driver, a boater, a cyclist or a pedestrian at any given time, which obviously the tabloids love. 

We are all different things at different times, so - I can now reveal - I've asked my wife that, should I suffer another heart attack she is to advise the media of my status accordingly so that there can be no doubt.

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Putting Our Nationality Behind Us

 Mike Bodnar contemplates the bumpy road ahead for drivers after leaving the EU...

The now-compulsory UK sticker

One of the consequences of leaving the European Union is that drivers of British cars, when they journey overseas, must now display a specific sticker on their rear identifying their country of residence. Not on their bums obviously, on the rear of their vehicles. Come on now, behave.

Prior to joining the EU in 1972, such stickers were common, and declared the vehicle to be from Great Britain, with the initials GB, black on a white oval background. Upon becoming part of Europe however, these stickers were no longer necessary, since registration plates were changed to include a small ‘GB’ featuring the lovely EU yellow stars. In style and presentation they matched all the other EU number plates, and signified a unity, a togetherness.

But now that Britain has left, divorced, withdrawn and retrenched, we are once again faced with having to declare our nationality on our rears, except now the stickers have been changed from ‘GB’ to ‘UK.’ And we aren’t allowed to use the attractive yellow stars or the EU’s blue background.

Apparently we only learned of this through the United Nations, which issued a memo. But it wasn’t a decree from the Eurocrats – it came from Westminster. A Department for Transport spokesperson told the BBC: ‘Changing the national identifier from GB to UK symbolises our unity as a nation and is part of a wider move towards using the UK signifier across government. We notified the UN of our intention to make these changes in July, and have been working with the sector to implement the change.’

Searching for a United Kingdom

So we are no longer Great Britain apparently, but that much has been obvious for quite some time. There’s little that’s great about a country as torn by racism, crime, homophobia, homelessness, political incompetence, and a mishandling of a pandemic that’s been, well, plagued by ill health from the start, as we are.

Tellingly, the requirement for us to now declare ourselves as being from the UK underlines that we are not part of the Europe Club any more; instead we are on our own, against Europe, independent, maybe even adrift. But – and here I finally arrive at my point - united we are definitely not.

We have the north-south divide in England, Scotland seeks independence, there’s an almost equal split between those Brits who wanted to leave Europe and those who wanted to remain in the EU, an increasing political chasm between the Tories, Labour and any of the other parties, and a general unease about how we should manage ourselves and our international reputation from here on. And I haven’t even mentioned the rich and the increasingly poor. There is little sign of unity.

However, the prospect of bumper stickers declaring us to be from the Disunited Kingdom are slim, since DK is already taken (by Denmark). NSGB would be appropriate, since we’re not-so-Great Britain now, but presents problems to those who design and print the stickers themselves. Instead of being a neat oval, the NSGB sticker would have to be more of a sausage shape. Not a German sausage note - a good old Cumbrian sausage. Or maybe a black pudding. NSUK also invites a wealth of derision. NSUK on this, etc.

Disunited Kingdom might work as DUK, but would open the way for references to dead ducks, duck for cover, and so on. So no, we’ll have no derision here thank you.

Anyway, United Kingdom? I think not. We haven’t had a kingdom since George VI, and although there’s a candidate pacing up and down in the wings as we speak (and has been for decades), we are a Queendom, and have been since 1952. One, at least, is not amused.

But mentioning the Royal Family brings up another thorn in our side, since we are increasingly divided over the relevance of the monarchy. The republican movement might well be rubbing their hands in anticipation of radical change, but the vehicle sticker designers will be holding their heads in their hands in fear of having to squeeze REPUBGB into a standard oval. We’re not talking a sausage shape here; we’re talking a whole salami. But then that’s Italian and would never do, no, no, no.

Maybe we just need to honestly declare ourselves a Free United Kingdom in Disarray.

 

 

 

 

 

Incompetence Rocks!

 Mike Bodnar apologises for having a rant at politicians and how they rise to power…

 

Yup, that's how we feel too. Image: the Guardian

Yes, I’m sorry. I humbly apologise that I am now forced to write about politicians, because politics is one of my no-go areas generally. But there comes a time. There comes the hour. Here cometh the Man.

What’s tipped me over the edge today are pictures in the media of our prime minister (Boris Johnson, for it is he) drinking from a water glass and looking sneezy, because – shock, horror – he has A COLD!

OMG and all that, hold the front page! Breaking news! FFS.

While hundreds of migrants a day try their luck crossing the English Channel, while the Amazon continues to disappear at an alarming rate, while homeless people around the country face a bleak and hopeless winter, and while HS2 isn’t – surprise, surprise – going to contribute to levelling up with t’north after all, all the media are concerned with is the fact that the prime minister appears to have a raspy voice.

Well diddums. Boris can afford private health care, efficient central heating, a warm overcoat or three, and he lives in a fine house – all paid for, need I remind you – by us. He can even go on holiday to somewhere lovely and warm, paid for by his party supporters. Can we?

And let’s face it, Bozo is just the one at the top. Beneath him and alongside him there’s a raft (apologies to migrants) of fellow politicians all equally well paid (some with two or three extra lucrative jobs) who also enjoy all the trappings of public office. Including I now might add, anonymity as to what those extra roles and incomes might be. FFS again.

Priti useless. Image: the Conversation

These senior politicians – Ministers of the Crown – enjoy their privileged positions because their boss, the aforementioned Bozo, has handed them the roles. They haven’t earned their seats in the ivory towers, they have merely been chummy with the right person, and have thus been rewarded with positions of appalling power and influence.

But where is the evidence that any of them – go on, I dare you – has shown true professionalism and excellence in their roles? We have had huge payments to Tory chums during the pandemic, support and protection for offshore tax haven companies operating in the UK and not paying due tax, millions wasted on spurious projects run by even more spurious quick-start companies, and with how much accountability? Fuck all.

Good luck. Image: The Guardian

Meanwhile, during the shambolic ‘measures’ (I use the term loosely) taken to mitigate education during the pandemic, GCSEs were missed, critical benchmarks in students’ lives were compromised, and a whole section of our youth is now having to play catch-up in the hope – get this – that they will eventually qualify sufficiently to be able to hold down a secure job and earn a decent wage. Well good luck.

The best advice I can offer our yoof is to enrol for a political science degree and join the Tory Party. Oh, and take a course or two in schmoozing, public relations, and try for a B.Fawn. (Batchelor of Fawning). That way you might one day become prime minister.

Rant over.

PS: When I was in my late teens I said to my mother, ‘I’ve half a mind to become a politician.’ She replied, ‘Well in that case you’re overqualified.’

Woke Comedy

Mike Bodnar will never do stand-up again...

Never again...

There's some comedy I did twelve to fifteen years ago that today would get me in trouble. Obviously I can't say what it was, because, well, see above. Let's just say that times have changed, and the woke brigade takes no prisoners.

Were I to tell you the plastic bag joke, for example, the crowd would be baying for me to resign as a comedian. They'd put up a statue to me just so they could tear it down in anger. I would be trolled on social media, and I would have to publicly apologise.

Then there's the 101 Dalmatians joke. Nope, can't tell you that one either sorry. All I can say is that no animals were harmed during the telling of it, but I would be reviled today. Maybe I could sell it to Roy Chubby Brown (although it would be a bit tame for him).

The point is, I can never do stand-up comedy again; I'd be too afraid. I would have to write, edit, and rewrite my material multiple times to ensure there was not an ounce of anything that could cause offence. So much analysis would have to go into my material that any humour would end up crumpled in the waste basket and I'd end up with a sermon instead.

Not that I've ever given offence. Not once did I ever write sketches with the aim of causing offence, and I doubt many comedians do (except RCB maybe). But today offence is too easily taken, and there's the thing: people take offence where it has never been given or intended. So who's to blame? The giver - who may not actually exist - or the recipient? 

A bar waiting for a joke to turn up

I could not, for example, even fall back on that good old stand-by joke that starts, 'A man walks into a bar.'

What?? I’m sure to offend someone from the get-go with that. A man? No no, no, that just won’t do. What if the man identifies as a woman? Or used to be a man but has undergone surgery and is now female? Exactly; I am presuming too much. And anyway, does the gender matter? Well it might further into the joke, but by then my woke audience will have walked out, or thrown something at me.

So, 'Someone walks into a bar'? No, that won’t do either. What if they’re gender fluid and can be more than one gender at any given time? They are therefore not someone, but sometwo. Or something. They have the right to choose their own pronoun, to which I am not party, which puts me at a disadvantage.

Seriously, I cannot say, 'Something walks into a bar' because that doesn’t conjure up the right image at all. I mean, that something might be a stapler. Or a dishmop. Person! Yes, that will do. Let’s start again.

'A person walks into a bar...'

But wait again. Walks? Uh-uh; this is not inclusive, because of course not everyone – or everything – can walk. I could therefore say that a person wheels into a bar, but that excludes those who can actually walk, unless they're a cyclist. Enters, then. Let’s go with that.

'A person enters a bar...'

The blackness of the audience. No offence.

Why does it always have to be a f****ng bar? something calls out from the blackness of the audience. And when I say blackness I’m referring to the fact that when a comedian is on stage it is usually very difficult to see any further into the audience than the first couple of rows due to the glare of the spot lights. That’s assuming of course that there are any more people beyond the first two rows. I should be so lucky. Anyway, don’t shoot me for being racist about dim light. I’ll admit to being lightist, but that’s it.

But in this case I know there are more people beyond the front rows because one of them has just shouted, 'Why does it always have to be a f****ng bar?'

Well, er, it’s because a barman features further into the narrative.

A barman? Oh pur-lease. I hear a seat flip up and the exit door slam.

Okay, okay (sigh), a bar tender. Or barkeep. Whatever.

The remaining audience is strangely silent, their own glares outperforming the spotlights. This is going to be hard work.

Bill Bailey: funniest man in the world

So let's have an interval. This is where I declare my admiration for the world's funniest man, Bill Bailey. He can stand on stage for two hours and not offend anyone. People laugh till they cry, and where Bailey does occasionally make an acerbic reference to some societal failure or political indiscretion it generally has the audience applauding and whistling in agreement. He does it with panache, and in the knowledge that anyone who has paid up to £80 for a seat in the venue is unlikely to want to be easily offended.

Unfortunately, many casual stand-up comedy venues don't charge admission, so those audiences have no investment in enjoying themselves and can bring all their attendant frailties and cultural worries with them.

I am of course at a disadvantage in that I can't play any musical instruments. Bailey can play an entire orchestra's worth and be funny at the same time. I can't wring a tune out of a tambourine. (But come to think of it, who can?)

So, leaving musical instruments out of it, here's my take on Bill Bailey telling 'a man walks into a bar' joke and getting away with it; interval over.

A person rides into town on their horse, dressed as a cowboy - the rider, not the horse, obviously - and stops at a saloon for a drink. They enter the bar. Not the horse - I'm using 'they' as an all-encompassing pronoun for the rider here. 

Unfortunately, the locals have a habit of picking on strangers, which this person is. When they'd finished their drink, they found that their horse had been stolen. They went back into the bar, deftly flipped their gun into the air, caught it above their head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling.

A man, or possibly a woman or something

“Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?” the person dressed in cowboy garb yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered.

“Alright, I’m gonna have another whisky, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t wanna have to do what I dun in Texas!”

Some of the locals shifted uneasily. The rider, true to their word, had another drink, walked outside, and found the horse had been returned to the post. The rider saddled up ready to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and said, “Say pardner, before you go… you mind tellin' me what happened in Texas?” 

The rider turned, spat in the dust and said, “I had to walk home.”

PS: I unreservedly apologise to all those who find walking difficult or can't walk at all. And those who can't ride or are allergic to horses. The bar, just so you know, also served food - vegetarian, and vegan choices were available, the bar nibbles were complimentary and were accompanied by a little sign warning that they 'may contain nuts.' There was a space reserved outside the front of the saloon for disabled riders, and the bar was wheelchair accessible. The firearm used in the joke fired blanks only.

Smile - You're Caught on Camera!

 Mike Bodnar investigates the rise and rise of doorbell cameras, and asks, are they any good?

A popular video doorbell.
Image: The Sun

Ding-dong! It's a sound that always makes us drop everything and head to the front door to see who it is. An unexpected parcel? A surprise visitor? The bailiffs again? We don't know of course until we open the door itself to find out. Or at least that's the way it used to be. Now of course we can see who's there from the safety and comfort of our home - or even overseas if we're lucky enough to be there - thanks to doorbell video cameras. 

While intercom-type doorbell systems have been around for decades, and ordinary electric doorbells much longer (since 1881 in fact), video camera doorbells only really captured the market big-time around 2012. Their rapid rise in popularity since then has been aided by developments in Internet and wireless technology, plus the fact that there is plenty of competition in the marketplace and prices have been dropping steadily. Home security has never been so affordable, or convenient.

But just how useful is video doorbell technology? The answer is both positive and negative depending on the circumstances. Let's start with two negative case studies, because bad news always travels fast.

Lorraine has a video doorbell camera installed at her suburban home in Surrey. It gives a good view of her driveway, her car parked outside, and the front of the property where the driveway meets the street. It also works at night, although the video capture is in black and white.

Caught in the act on Lorraine's video doorbell

One evening recently she was alerted to some movement out the front, and, on investigation, she discovered that a thief had come up her drive, grabbed her two topiary trees in their planters from beside the front door and had run back to his car and driven off with them.

Furious at the brazen nature of the theft (her front porch lights were on too), she took to social media and posted the video of the culprit stealing the plants in the hope someone might be able to identify him.

Social media quickly responded - not with a positive identification unfortunately, but with some helpful suggestions as to what to do next. Despite the modern camera, it was night, the culprit is a bit blurred in the video, and the logo on his shirt is not clear. His car, parked across the front of her driveway, is identifiable as to make and model, but no registration number is visible as it's seen side-on. Its colour is also unknown.

A better image kindly provided by a local

But one amateur sleuth noticed that a public bus had driven past at the time the theft was taking place and suggested that since buses usually have dashcams maybe the company could supply footage showing the thief's car's number plate. Someone else provided a link to the bus company's website, while another Facebook follower enhanced the culprit's image for Lorraine.

Many others shared the footage far and wide, and of course recommended she tell the police, which she had done.

Alas, when I contacted her about a week later, the plant thief was still at large and the case remained unsolved, despite an outpouring of community rage and concern. The bus company wouldn't provide their dashcam footage - citing 'data protection' - while the police, Lorraine says, hadn't responded. (Anyway, if they had caught the thief with the stolen goods he probably would have claimed it was a plant. See what I did there?)

Joking apart, Lorraine is very disappointed that despite the culprit being caught in the act there's not enough clear evidence for any action to be taken. The only good thing to come out of this is the way the community responded with suggestions, advice and of course sympathy. There are still some good people out there.

Case study number two is a cautionary tale, summed up simply as: if you've got a video doorbell camera, use it.

Jayne lives on our street where there's no private parking - everyone has to park on the roadside. Her partner's motorbike was outside her house on the kerbside, but one morning they discovered that someone had apparently backed into it, or even over it. The handlebars and front forks were bent, bits of fairing were detached, but - bizarrely - the culprit had picked the bike up and put it back on its stand a couple of car-lengths down the road before driving off. No note was left, no offer of compensation or admission of guilt.

Luckily Jayne has a video doorbell camera. Unluckily it was switched it off at the time the damage was caused. No evidence, no culprit, nothing. To say that she feels embarrassed and annoyed is an understatement, and you can be sure she will keep the camera active at all times from now on. But of course it's too late. The motorcycle has been written off by the insurance company with little prospect of recouping any costs. Her partner is still fuming. And hitching rides.

A trawl of the Internet shows there have been many, many instances where thieves have been snapped on camera, but not always caught in real life. Police responses to video footage from door cams vary hugely - some instances show police immediately recognising a culprit from previous offences, others demonstrate what appears to be a complete lack of interest.

Amazon have bought the Ring company and
are partnering with police departments.
Image: The Sun

Here in England in 2019, The Sunday Times and The Sun tabloid revealed that Amazon's Ring Video Doorbells were being offered to various police forces for them to promote to their communities - either handing them out free and/or offering discount vouchers for purchase.

 A Ring spokesperson was quoted as saying that its technology 'had led to amazing results,' while Detective Superintendent Andy Smith of Suffolk police added, 'This is massively powerful for us.  We have had at least four prolific criminals captured as a consequence of Ring doorbells.'

Media however also reported concerns from privacy and criminal justice watchdogs about the partnership between Amazon's Ring doorbells and the police, citing worries over privacy and the 'Big Brother' implications of the surveillance technology. The Guardian reported disturbing evidence that in the United States Amazon had even created press release templates for police departments to use in promoting the Ring partnerships, even going as far as requiring sign-off of any media releases by Amazon executives before dispatch.

A video doorbell with security concerns,
according to Which? magazine. 
Image: Which?

Meanwhile, consumer watchdog magazine Which? revealed that some of the cheaper video doorbell options widely available online are extremely prone to hacking, often not encrypting passwords. Some can very easily be stolen too as they are not hard-wired to the house, and then on-sold. In fact, just last month police in Poole, Dorset recovered 18 stolen video doorbells, possibly the most ironic example of theft given that the doorbells themselves are designed to deter thieves.

A Poole police spokesperson said, 'Following a spate of Ring doorbell thefts in Poole North, enquiries have been made at two addresses and suspects identified. Eighteen camera doorbells have been recovered today and I am in the process of linking these back with their owners.'

Oh the irony! Stolen security video doorbells.
Image: Daily Echo

Actual statistics of just how effective video doorbells have been in catching criminals however are hard to find. Usually such success stories either detail one specific crime caught on camera (such as this story, 'Delivery driver and passenger steal bike'), or vague statements like this from last year by Edinburgh police: '...[we] have been able to make "a number of good arrests across the city" thanks to the technology.' Well, two is a number, but how many arrests did they actually make? We don't know.

Of course, not everyone captured on a video doorbell is a criminal. Sarah, another Surrey resident recently snapped a man on her doorbell video who was doing a good deed. He had found her daughter's lost wallet and personally returned it to her. She said on a local Facebook group page, 'In the midst of an emotional meltdown ... I didn’t thank him enough. I didn’t ask his name, or offer any gesture for his kindness and I feel awful. He went above and beyond and his timing was perfect to allow us to make a really important appointment. Please let me know if he is in this group or on Facebook?' She included a very clear image of the man ringing her doorbell, and not stealing her plants.

Know this kind gent?

Despite being shared 228 times no positive identification has been made to date, though the kindness and honesty of the gent has elicited much praise from the community. In an update Sarah commented on Facebook, 'Sadly we haven’t managed to find him. I hope he realised in my moment of elation and frenzy that the effort he went to was truly appreciated and made a difference to our day. Thank you whoever you are.'

So, is a video doorbell effective as a crime deterrent and evidence-gathering technology? Obviously it depends how clear the image is, what has transpired, whether the actual crime was clearly caught and recorded, and whether the police show any interest in the footage. Good luck with that one. And that's not even touching on whether you as a householder have worries about hackers or Big Brother privacy issues.

In the end it's up to you the householder to decide whether the potential security benefits outweigh any privacy concerns, and whether you are determined enough to maintain your video doorbell security and keep it active at all times. There's lots to think about. Maybe the moral of the story is: don't make a snap decision.

Summertime, and the Living Ain’t Easy

 Mike Bodnar has the summertime bad weather blues…

Image: Mike Bodnar

There is no better way to become an intense weather watcher than to be without a roof. We know this because we currently don’t have one.

Not that it’s blown away or anything – our builder has recently removed all the tiles from it, along with some of the rafters, and is now carefully building a new roof which will be the crowning glory of our house renovation. I can’t wait.

But wait I have to, and in the meantime we are covered in a patchwork of tarpaulins. When these are removed there is nothing between us and the firmament. As I joked on Facebook the other day when I posted a picture of the sunlit clouds above a few remaining rafters, ‘Look! We’ve had Sky installed!’

Look! We've got Sky!

However it’s been no joke. We chose ‘summer’ to have the roof done because, y’know, sunshine, warmth, blue skies. Bollocks. We’ve had precious little of any of those, just the odd ‘mini-heatwave’ as the tabloids would have it, interspersed with ‘cooler than average temperatures for this time of the year.’ And rain, rain and, well, need I say more? Yes I need.

So much rain that when I looked into the garden recently to see how our little boat was coping where it’s moored in the river there were all sorts of creatures queuing up two-by-two to get on it. Which confirmed it was a downpour of biblical proportions.

Meanwhile, as the rain came down in stair-rods, infiltrating any nook or cranny in the tarpaulins and overnight soaking our broadband modem, I am reading about heatwaves in Canada and Siberia (I mean, Siberia, seriously, WTF?), wildfires in Greece due to the extreme heat, and various other parts of the world where SPF 50 sunblock just isn’t going to cut it. California is running out of water, while at our place we have it running in.

During July I was brave enough to watch a bit of TV news (ref. a previous blog about bad news affecting my mental health) so I’m slowly reintroducing myself to world events, starting mainly with the weather. It didn’t do my mental state much good.

Of biblical proportions. Image: Daily Express

There seemed to be a pattern emerging, where the forecaster would stand beside the map of the UK and Northern Ireland and point to low pressure systems building in the Atlantic Ocean and heading for our green and pleasant land. This, they would apologetically warn, could bring widespread showers, thunder, lightning, and the possibility of flooding in some areas.

They would then – somewhat tentatively it has to be said – touch on the longer-range forecast which showed potential for improvement in about three days’ time. Always in about three days. But, bollocks again.

Image: Manchester Evening News

Three days later, guess what? Another surprise low pressure system forced down from the north and squeezed from the south brings rain, wind and yes flooding in some areas. But it’s okay, because in three days things are looking brighter! Well, the grass is always greener and all that, but you know why don’t you? Because rain.

And this cycle of a new low every three days or so has been ongoing through summer. If we’d bought this thing called ‘summer’ in a shop we’d be asking for our money back by now and complaining about the misleading information on the packaging.

Meanwhile, all around the UK– across to the west, above to the north-east, and over to the east and darn sarf it’s blistering – endless sun and heat, lovely warmth, sweltering. Okay, and on fire, but hey.

Under canvas

But then – hallelujah! A forecast last weekend promising us ten whole days of no rain, some sunshine, gentle breezes and okay temperatures of around 20 to 23 degrees Celsius from Tuesday. Yay! This would mean our builder and his helpers could crack on and get the new roof well advanced. I breathed a sigh of relief, and the animal pairs queuing up at our boat mooring scuttled, loped, flew, trotted and slithered back to their homes.

But no. By Thursday, after a measly two days of reasonably clement weather – nothing you could call ‘summer’ by any stretch – the clouds came over and guess what? Showers.

Luckily our builder has stoicism of biblical proportions, and, like Noah, continues to saw, screw, hammer and drill even as rain sweeps in from yet another shifty low pressure system that’s snuck its way across the Atlantic.

Stoic Trevor and Big Dee

Okay, we can blame climate change, which we’ve been told for some years now is about extremes: more intense heat here, more rain there, more misery everywhere. But knowing where the blame lies doesn’t change the forecast, or my current mood, or indeed my optimism.

So thank God for Trevor our builder (‘Treasure,’ my wife calls him), who I can hear on the roof right now whistling and singing as he works, even as the grey clouds gather ominously and the first few spots of the next downpour begin. I just hope it doesn’t take him forty days and forty nights to get the roof finished because by then it will be too late.

Now if you’ll excuse me I just need to go and do a better job of marking out
where the animals should queue up beside the boat. Just in case.

Putting Ability into Accountability

On the back of the Marble Arch Hill disaster, Mike Bodnar wants to see those in charge of huge infrastructure and vanity projects held to account…

London is hopeless. Not the city itself or its lovely notable bits – give me an ancient alleyway, historic pub or the Tower of London any day – no, I’m talking about bureaucratic London, the one that looks to spend taxpayer money on public works. Because very few of them work as planned, or open on time, and some don’t even reach completion.

The value of the mound has dropped. Image: The Guardian

The latest debacle is the Marble Arch ‘hill’, a frivolous folly rooted in good intentions that has suddenly closed after three days due to its universal unpopularity. Online memes suggest the Teletubbies’ mound was better executed, while even the media has called it ‘crap.’ One woman who paid her £8 to climb to the top said it was the worst London attraction she’d ever experienced.

It was supposed to give unparalleled views of inner central London; instead it has given us a clear panorama of wasted taxpayers’ money - all £6 million of it - stretching to the horizon.

But that shouldn’t be a surprise since none of the other recent proposed taxpayer-funded attractions or infrastructure projects have resulted in overwhelming approval, or completion.

The dream: the Garden Bridge. Image: Heathwick

Four years ago former London mayor Boris Johnson’s proposed garden bridge over the River Thames was abandoned after five years of hype with not a single bucket of concrete poured. The total cost? A staggering £53.5 million, of which about £43 million was from the public purse, according to an inquiry by Transport for London (TfL). Worse, it is now costing a further unbelievable £5.5 million as part of a ‘cancellation agreement,’ so the bridge spans the gulf of incredulity from one side to the other if nothing else.

By now, July 2021, I should, in principle be able to travel in some luxury and great convenience across London and out to Heathrow in under an hour via the Crossrail Elizabeth Line. I should have been able to do this for the past two years, but I haven’t because it’s still – after ten years since its inception – not finished.

Crossrail. Or not. Image: The Guardian

It could be argued that when it does finally open it can at least begin to recoup some of its cost (unlike the Bridge of Nothing to Nowhere), except that to date that cost is over £18 billion, which in itself is about £2.5 billion over budget. Yes billion, that’s not a typo. Okay, it’s apparently Europe’s largest infrastructure project, but that doesn’t excuse the ineptitude of those responsible for it, including Mayor Sadiq Khan who has been accused of taking too much of a ‘hands-off’ approach to it.

Should I mention HS2, the much-hyped fast rail connection between the north and south? Should I note the original proposed cost of £32 billion then became £55.7 billion which then further escalated to £88 billion in 2015? It now currently stands at an estimated £107bn, a figure not unreasonably suggested by Lord Berkeley, former deputy chairman of the government's independent review into the project.

We may as well just do some Swedish rounding right now and call it £200 billion by the time it’s finished (yeah, sure) in the 2030s.

High Speed 2 (HS2). Image: City A.M.

The problem we have here is unaccountability. Those in public office at the time of origin of such fantasies tend not to be in power later, and therefore escape the net of inquiry. There are few checks and balances, and public inquiries after the event are toothless in apportioning blame and – especially – recovering wasted money.

Imagine for a moment that you or I – normal everyday individuals – wanted to take out an extension on our mortgage. Do you think for a moment that the bank will agree to it without first going into extreme detail about our income plus the value of the property plus our equity in it? And, even if they agree to the extension, they will also draw up a contract that puts them first in the queue should we default on our payments and the property has to be sold. In short, they want a guarantee that they will get their money back plus interest in the event the deal falls through.

So why then are people in public office like Boris Johnson able to dream up fantastic schemes, invest millions of public funds, and not be held accountable? If they had to sign a personal guarantee that they would refund lost taxpayer funds in the event of a project’s collapse, the project would then never go ahead. But it’s not their money that’s involved.

Image: Free Enterprise

I know, you’re saying, ‘But then nothing would ever get done.’ Well, in the case of the garden bridge it didn’t anyway, yet it still cost over £50 million. But yes, there has to be a compromise between pie-in-the-sky or much-needed projects, their costs and their over-runs, and appropriate accountability in the event of significant delays or no-shows. 

Independent reviews after the event are too late – the money has gone. What we need is accountability at the top level on a weekly scale, independent fully-armed, locked-and-loaded reviews that have the ammunition to call a halt to a project in the public interest at a time before the damage is done. Whoever heads these accountability crack squads should also have the ability to fire at will (in the sense of ‘You’re fired,’ rather than actually putting the culprit in the cross-hairs and pulling the trigger. Although…)

Darfield Earthquake 2010, NZ.
Image: Mike Bodnar

And there should be some insurance to safeguard the public’s funds from misappropriation. Because in the end that’s what is happening: taxpayer money is being thrown away. I’m no expert in high finance or international economies, but if entire countries can take out international insurance against devastating earthquakes (viz. New Zealand and others) then surely we can do it on the basis of our own domestic home-engineered disasters.

Further, while I’m on a roll, let’s see those in charge of huge infrastructure and vanity projects are held to account by having contracts that stipulate no bonuses where targets are not met, no pension pay-outs in the event they lose their positions, and no golden handshakes either whether they are fired or resign in disgrace. It’s exactly what the rest of us humble individuals would be up against in the workplace. 

And public office is just that: a workplace. Let’s make it work.

 

 

 

Heart Break

Mike Bodnar suffers a major heart attack and tells the story from the inside

Image courtesy BAPS Charities

You read about these things and see them in the movies or on telly: heart attacks. 

Typically the actor clutches their chest, looks bewildered, maybe mutters something about a pain in their left arm, and then they keel over and - sometimes - expire. Cut to concerned partner going, 'Oh my God, Ron! What's the matter?' (Followed fairly quickly by tears, hysteria, so forth)

The reality is somewhat different, as I've just learned from experience. To be fair, the scene above could be totally accurate in some circumstances, but mine was perhaps more common. There's no denying the drama though.

Sunday morning on one of the hottest days in Britain so far this year, Liz and I had decided to tidy up some timber in our chaotic garden (read: builder's yard) and take garden waste and rubbish to the tip. We lead an exciting life.

At one point just after putting some waste bags in the car I said to Liz, 'I feel a bit funny.' Not the best of medical descriptions, but it essentially captured what I was experiencing: a mild dizziness and a slight tightness across the chest. It was hot so I was already sweating. Anyway, it seemed to pass and we carried on.

After stacking some scaffold boards I went inside, and then my chest tightened considerably. It was like someone had pulled a strap across it, with more wooziness and the beginning of a chest pain too. I probably didn't need to say it out loud but I told Liz, 'I really don't feel well.' She looked appropriately concerned. (And the Best Actor goes to...)

Except she wasn't acting, and nor was I. I sat on the edge of the bed and the pain got worse, and my chest felt as though someone was sitting on it. Sweat poured off me. I told her I thought it was a heart attack, and although I'm known in our house for being a bit of a drama queen (you should see the performance when I catch my finger on a sharp nail or get a splinter; Olivier would be proud) Liz didn't question it. 'Do you want me to call an ambulance?'

Yes please. I would normally hesitate to interrupt the important work of the emergency services, but this felt like the real thing, so I nodded and groaned. She got on the phone, I lay down and tried massaging my chest. It didn't help. We went upstairs to the lounge (it's an upside-down house, the lounge is at street-level) and I lay on the floor while she quickly got through to the ambulance service. The pain in my chest was increasing rapidly now, an intense crushing pain, and nothing I could do - no position I could get in - was helping. 'Tell them to hurry,' I pleaded needlessly.

999 Emergency dispatcher. Image courtesy Kent Police

So here's what happens when you dial 999: Firstly they identify that you've dialled the emergency services, then they ask which service you want - so far, so film script. The ambulance dispatch man came on and asked Liz about the nature of the emergency. I can tell you now that saying, 'I think my husband's having a heart attack' doesn't do it - the dispatcher wants to go through a mandatory checklist first. 

This included asking Liz a whole raft of questions, not one of which included, 'Is your husband lying on the floor in agony holding his chest and rolling round breathing shallowly and sweating?' He instead wanted to know whether I had vomited in a particular colour, did I have a history of heart problems, was I subject to bouts of anything, and occasionally asking questions that wouldn't be out of place in a biology quiz.

Liz put the phone on speaker so that we could both answer (conferring allowed, your starter for ten...) but I was rolling around in agony and, it has to be said, real annoyance that this guy wanted to tick boxes and hadn't yet dispatched the ambulance.

At some time during the game of 20 Questions he interrupted to say that an ambulance was now on its way (Liz had given our address) and continued his interrogation. He finished up by saying that if my condition worsened in any way to call back, the line would be kept clear. By now the pain was showing up in my left arm between shoulder and elbow as well, with sweat running off me in rivulets. This could have been partly due to the scorching weather but the dispatcher had asked whether I was sweating and did I feel cold and clammy. Liz checked and confirmed, so there's an oxymoronic clue - you can be both cold and sweating during a heart attack.

By now Liz was really upset. I asked if she knew how to do CPR should it be necessary. She did, but we both hoped that wouldn't be the case. She called one of our neighbours to come and help because, she admitted later, she felt 'completely useless.' I meanwhile was getting worse and asking where the ambulance was.

Neighbour Aaron arrived and did all the things you see in the movies, kneeling beside me, putting his comforting hands on me and telling me to 'Keep breathing Buddy, keep breathing.' I wasn't planning to stop, but I wanted medics leaning over me with oxygen and something to take the pain away. Hearing Aaron admit he felt useless too didn't help, but actually just having people there did.

Liz got back on the phone to ask where the ambulance was and this time got a different, dispatcher who, frustratingly, started going through the whole same checklist the first man had done. All she would say about the ambulance was that it was on its way, coming as fast as it could and would be here soon. Amid my pain and now moaning (and I admit it, some crying) I listened for the siren of the approaching ambulance. Aaron's partner had gone out into the street to watch for it, and unbeknown to me neighbours had moved their cars to create a parking space for the paramedics. We love where we live- I just wanted to live to keep loving it.

Eventually the ambulance arrived. I had my eyes closed now so didn't see the paramedics come in, I listened to the drama as you would a radio show. They too asked lots of questions but I could hear them unpacking equipment, one of which turned out to be a portable electrocardiogram (ECG) to monitor my heart. 

I was given dissolved aspirin and a spray under the tongue. After lying back down on the floor they took an ECG reading, and confirmed the results between them. Finally I heard what I already knew, 'It's definitely a heart attack.'

They called it in (another phrase we get from the movies and TV) and said that a specialist team would be waiting for me at the hospital. I didn't ask which one, as long as it was the nearest, but I wanted them to get me there ASAP. They hooked me up with wires and stuff, loaded me into a chair and wheeled me out to the ambulance. I was groaning in agony and telling them to hurry up, and superfluously yelling that I couldn't stand the pain.

I'd heard them tell Liz that unfortunately she wouldn't be able to come with me but that the hospital would call her. She stood on the road at the back of the ambulance as I was secured, we said we loved each other. 'Tell the kids I love them,' I said feebly, and I watched her sad face as the ambulance door slammed closed. I wondered if that was the last time I would see her.

Image courtesy Daily Mail

 Then we were off. 

As a driver I've always pulled over when spotting an emergency vehicle with siren and lights flashing in my rearview mirror and I remember hoping that every driver between our place and the hospital would do the same. I heard the siren start up and Natalie the paramedic who was monitoring me on the stretcher told me it would be no more than 12 minutes, holding on as the ambulance careened round corners flinging us both from side to side. 

Above and below my chest were two foil pads which, I'm guessing, were connected to a defibrillator should I flatline, but I was too busy going for the Best Portrayal of a Man in Agony award.

We twisted and turned through Lower Sunbury and then onto the motorway. Frustratingly we didn't seem to speed up, but then I heard Natalie say, 'We're on the hard shoulder now,' as the ambulance sped up along the inside on the M25. Or maybe it was the M3. I didn't care as long as people got out of the way. 'Won't be long now, almost there' she assured me. I urged her to hurry, which was a bit useless since she wasn't driving, but all she could do was to keep describing how we were almost there, that a fantastic team was waiting for me, and that it was all good. She did everything right of course even though I didn't appreciate it at the time.

Nor was I relieved or calmed by our arrival. I was lowered from the ambulance and wheeled into what looked like a temporary prefab building, escorted by another medic, then down a corridor where, at last, I could see a group of gowned medical staff waiting for me. I continued to ask them to stop the pain which was now unbearable, all-consuming, intolerable, searing.

They very professionally transferred me to an operating table in a gleaming theatre (I later learned we'd come in the hospital the back way, the shortest route), took the stretcher away, removed my jeans and threw a hospital gown over me. Then it was all on. I heard more than saw the team take their positions, calling out instructions, echoing instructions, swabbing bits of me, applying things to me, then telling me I might feel a small scratch on my right wrist - like that was going to be a worry given what was going on in my chest.

I was given morphine and more spray under the tongue. The pain didn't reduce. One of the team seemed dedicated to my pain management and over I don't know how long administered three doses of morphine and more oral spray but still to no effect. Meanwhile the surgeon was looking at a bank of monitors above me to my left and calling out instructions for the x-ray machine above my chest to be constantly repositioned by an unseen operator. 

Image courtesy verywellhealth.com

I know now that he was trying to clear an arterial blockage in my heart having gone in through my right wrist with a wire or something. He was obviously using Google Maps because I wouldn't have thought the quickest and easiest way to the heart was via the wrist. (Comedian Jo Brand knew this year's ago when she told her audience about the old saying that the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and then added, 'That's bollocks - it's through his rib cage with a bread knife!')

The cardio surgeon was, I understood, also following up the blockage clearance with a stent insertion - a sort of tube - to keep the artery clear and open, and I could hear him constantly reporting to someone else that, 'The O-ring is open... the O-ring is closed' repeatedly until satisfied.

And then I died.

Just for a few seconds, and no longer than about a minute according to one of the consultants later, but I did flatline. I was lying on the operating table feeling better that the pain was lessening, and relaxing for the first time in what seemed like hours. As I relaxed, the room started to go dark, and I remember thinking that maybe they'd decided to knock me out since none of the morphine had had any effect, or possibly that this was the morphine finally working. I welcomed the fading to black and let it flow into and around me. I felt at peace. I didn't know it then but I was actually 'resting in peace.'

No, didn't happen. Image courtesy Daily Express

Bang! Suddenly my world exploded in golden light. Above me I saw what looked like the underside of a stunningly bright gold bar with bright sparks all around it. I felt myself thump back onto the table so I assume I'd physically jerked up off it, again as we often see in the movies.

'Jesus Christ!' I shouted, as I realised where I was and guessed that more than a few volts of national grid had just passed through my heart. But invoking the name of Jesus was the closest I got to meeting my maker; there was no bright light at the end of a tunnel, no St Peter ready to welcome me through the Pearly Gates (or turn me away more likely) and I didn't have an out-of-body experience where I looked down on the team in the theatre as they worked on my lifeless body. None of that - I just faded to black. It was warm, calming, and maybe even welcoming.

I recovered quickly and was pleased to see the surgeon and the team were still working, and still intent on the stent insertion. The bank of screens beside me showed the action.

'Shocking,' I quipped, stealing the groan-worthy pun from a scene in Goldfinger, to which someone nearby said, 'Yes, literally!'

But I felt good. The pain had gone, I had stopped squirming and moaning, and a short time later it was all done. Whatever clever things they'd inserted up through my arm were withdrawn, my entry incisions were sealed up, and finally the sensors were detached. After the surgeon had explained what he and the team had done I was transferred onto a trolley and wheeled up to a recovery room in the hospital's Birch Wing, and there I stayed, plugged in to seven sensors scattered around my torso for the next three days. I had survived.

Image: Mike Bodnar

More than that, I had survived a massive heart attack. One of the consultants, Doctor Beeton, told me that if I'd been in the heart attack Olympics I would have won a gold medal. He showed me two charts, one was my heartbeat at its normal rate - clean and regular - and the other was of my heart activity when I was brought in. Nothing regular or even in that one - it looked like a toddler's drawing of a storm at sea, a terrible tempest of spiky waves and troughs.

'The scale of these charts is in millimetres,' Mr Beeton explained. 'We'd normally see a heart attack rise up to maybe two or three millimetres, but yours is up there around the ten mil mark!' So, big then. This wasn't me being a drama queen, this was the real thing.

As I write this I am still in the hospital but looking forward to going home tomorrow. The care from the NHS staff has been absolutely amazing, exemplary, and wonderful consultants have visited me each day to talk through my progress and enlighten me on some bits I might have missed due to being dead.

Selfie in the 
Birch Acute Cardiac Unit

I've had more blood tests, blood pressure readings, injections and pills than I've had in the past five years, and I will be on a pharmacy-load of pills from here on. 'Will I be on the medication for the rest of  my life?' I asked Dr Beeton. 'Only till you're 99,' he said. 'Then you can do what you like!'

I feel very lucky to live in an age when medical science can save my life with absolutely astounding technology and skills. I also feel very lucky to have a wife who wasn't going to wait around to see if I was being a drama queen, and who called the ambulance quickly. (I learned later that it took about half an hour to arrive, but it seemed like an eternity)

I wondered out loud to a consultant whether the doughnuts I'd eaten the day before had contributed to the heart attack, or maybe that I'd been working overly hard on our home renovation project for the last three years. 'Hard work doesn't cause heart attacks,' he told me.

I had a blocked artery, and certainly a life of doughnut eating would contribute, but I don't actually eat that many. However, my LDL cholesterol level was six, when it should have been below four, so a better diet is coming, along with a reduction (but not an elimination thank heavens) in alcohol consumption. There's more, and I have quite a bit of post-op literature to devour instead of doughnuts.

For now I just give thanks - to Liz, our neighbours, the ambulance paramedics, the team waiting for me at St Peter's Hospital Chertsey, and of course all the lovely NHS recovery staff in the Birch Acute Cardiac Unit. 

Thank you with all my heart.

(PS: Liz gave the remaining doughnuts in our house to nephew Sam!)