Complaints and How to Answer Them

After a recent travel debacle, I decided to complain. My letter and the response are below. Sometimes being manly is about knowing when you've been wronged as a paying customer and standing up for yourself, within civilised bounds, of course. It clearly hits home. I congratulate Delta for the tenor of their reply.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I would like to describe to you my journey from Montreal to Berlin on Air France on the 28th-29th June, 2011. I would like to ask you if you would yourself tolerate such an experience. I further wish to know why, given the competition in the airline market, I should ever choose to fly with Air France again? You should be aware that this is a trip I have made about three times per year for the last five years or so on different airlines. Of all of these experiences, my recent Air France trip was the worst. I hope you will reply promptly to this letter. In two weeks time I shall publish this letter on a blog that receives about 12,000 page views per month. I should very much like to include your reply.

My trip began with a delay. The scheduled departure time of 17.20 was put back to 19.00. No explanation was offered. In the event, we did not depart until 19.45 because of “boarding difficulties.” This delay occurred even though boarding began at 17.30 – a full 90 minutes before departure. The first load of passengers, myself included, were driven to the aircraft in a vehicle that raised and lowered itself. When this vehicle arrived at the aircraft it stood there, suspended thirty feet in the air, for 40 minutes. There was nowhere to sit, no ventilation, and no explanation.

Once underway I realised immediately that the screen in my seat did not work. I informed a flight attendant who said he would “re-set” it. He forgot. When I could next attract his attention I asked again and he saw to it. It was one hour into the flight before I was able to avail myself of the in-flight entertainment. I watched a movie. As soon as it was over, the screen went black and the system remained inoperable for the remainder of the flight.

At no point before being served a meal was I (or anyone else) offered a drink. What happened to champagne in economy? It was your proudest boast in former times. By the time I was served my meal I had been sitting in my seat for three hours. The man next to me repeatedly asked for water and was either ignored or told explicitly to wait for his meal.

The quality of the meal was very poor. I’m not sure of the wisdom of serving scallops in economy even under the best of circumstances, since they are dangerous when re-heated. In this case, however, it was completely inedible. I actually wondered if a small piece of hard rubber had accidentally landed in my salad by mistake, until I realised that everyone had one. In addition there was no choice of meal offered. It was a questionable beef and pasta dish or nothing.

My connecting flight was in Paris. Unbeknownst to me, I arrived in chaos. When I first checked the boards, my 10.20 flight to Berlin was showing “on time.” At 10.00 it changed to “delayed until 10.55.” At 10.30, the flight disappeared altogether from the boards. I asked three separate Air France members of staff at the gate what was happening, and all three assured me that the flight was not cancelled.

At 10.50, it was announced that the flight was, prior assurances notwithstanding, cancelled. At this point, the Air France member of staff at the gate began to communicate without a microphone and only in French to the assembled crowd. I could neither hear nor understand her. Confusion was extreme. Eventually I managed to get re-booked onto an earlier flight that was about six hours (!) delayed.

No reason was given for any of this. Rumour was the only source of information: a French strike? A lightning strike? Only at 12.00 did the pilot of the next flight tell us of a massive systems failure in Paris, but it is hard to believe that this can be allowed to happen.

I arrived in Berlin shortly before 14.00. The baggage did not arrive for nearly an hour. No reason given; no communication. Needless to say, when the bags did arrive, mine was not there. I went and joined what turned out to be a very long queue of disgruntled Air France customers reporting missing bags. Mercifully, I was near the front. I reported my case, and was assured the bag would be with me the next day. That should have been today (June 30th). I called the service and was told that my bag had been found but was still (!) in Paris. I am now expecting delivery tomorrow. Of course, I am without clothing, and without some important items in my case.

I left the airport finally at 15.30. The total travel time, from scheduled departure until leaving the airport at my destination: about 16 hours. From Montreal to Berlin, that is completely ridiculous.

In all, my trip was a series of delays, with poor service, poor communication, poor food, and lost luggage. I highly recommend that your senior customer services representatives try flying Air France Economy some time and see how they like it. I wouldn’t wish this trip on my worst enemy, and yet I undertook it voluntarily! I even paid hundreds of euros for the privilege! It seems that Air France needs to be reminded that its customers are neither cattle, nor are they cargo. Your passengers were sorely let down by this frankly brutal experience.

I hereby challenge you to make amends: what assurances, or compensation, can you offer me that might once again induce me to purchase an Air France ticket? I promise you I will not be easily tempted to return.

Sincerely yours,

[VB]

Dear Dr. [VB]

Thank you for your communication.  I would like to inform you that Delta Air Lines represents Air France and KLM in North America.  Therefore, on behalf of Delta Air Lines and our SkyTeam partners, I would like to extend our sincere apology for flight disruptions causing your late arrivals and our service failures on your trip to Berlin on Air France.

After reading your email, I can only imagine your frustration when the Air France flight from Montreal to Paris was delayed.  I am so sorry for this inconvenience of leaving over two hours late.  To make matters worse, the connecting flight to Berlin was canceled and you were rebooked on another flight that was delayed six hours.

We all take on time performance very seriously and despite our tough economic conditions are not sacrificing these goals or safety in any way.  At the same time, we realize travelers want an airline they can count on to reach their destinations in a timely manner and how upsetting it is when plans are disrupted.

Additionally, it is disturbing that you were not offered explanations by the Air France staff regarding these flight disruptions.  We expect our team members to provide prompt flight information updating our passengers at the gates, but I apologize your experience in Montreal and Paris was to the contrary.

Also, I am truly sorry for your disappointment with the inflight service received on our flight from Montreal to Paris.  I deeply regret our video system was malfunctioning  on this lengthy flight, you were not offered a beverage prior to our meal service, and the food quality served was unfavorable without being offered a choice of meals.  We want our partner's inflight environment to be pleasing to our customers, but I understand your disappointment with the inadequate service you received on this flight.

Finally, after waiting one hour for the checked in baggage to arrive, I am so sorry your checked in luggage did not arrive with you in Berlin. Like you, we certainly wish that instances of mishandled bags never occurred.  Your frustration is understood considering you were without clothing and some important items during this delay.  Please know we have dedicated goals for delivering bags, but I apologize, again, for this inconvenience.

We appreciate you taking the time to advise us of this unfortunate experience.  It is important for us to know any instance where our partner's service is lacking.  Please know your concerns are taken very seriously and have been thoroughly documented.  Be assured, I will be sharing your comments with the Air France Airport Customer Service leadership teams in Montreal, Paris and Berlin for their internal follow up.

As a gesture of sincere apology for our flight disruptions, our inflight service failures and your mishandled baggage,  I have issued an Electronic Transportation Credit Voucher (eTCV) in the amount of $200.  Please note the voucher number and associated Terms and Conditions will be arriving in a separate email.  I encourage you to add Delta Air Lines to your receiver list so the voucher document is not misdirected to your spam folder.  Please keep the voucher number and the Terms and Conditions since the number is required for redemption.  It is also important to remind you that there is no Direct Ticketing fee for reservations confirmed online at delta.com.

Dr. [VB], thank you for your support as an Ivory Flying Blue member and for trusting your business to us. We hope you will continue to choose Delta Air Lines and our SkyTeam partners, Air France and KLM, for your future air travel needs. Please know your comments will not go unnoticed.  We will make every attempt to serve you better in the future as we look forward to our continued business relationship.  Thank you for writing to us.

Sincerely,

Thomas Wyborski
Coordinator, Customer Care
Delta Air Lines

Why Men Riot

Immediately before Pompeii was covered in lava people were making love. How do we know? They were forever preserved in the act, turned to stone in the heat of passion. Danger does funny things to human beings, reducing us to the rush of chemistry in our blood and brains. There’s no accounting for it.

Rich Lam’s brilliant photograph (below) has everything but the requisite tide of lava. Caught up in a melee, men find themselves doing the strangest things. A fire becomes a primal occasion to beat one’s chest. Glass becomes an outrage to form that must be smashed. Alcohol in the blood turns to heat, and men become defiant. For an indescribable moment, men succumb to the animal inside.

Or so goes the apology. I rather think that last night’s laying waste to Vancouver was rather more organised and wilful than it was primal and forgivable. The men in hockey shirts – from Boston as well as from Vancouver – likely had no interest in the game, but came with the intent of kicking off. The instigators, I will bet my life’s savings, were not swept along by an animal impulse, but were organised, determined, and acting under their own sober (if idiotic) volition. A hockey loss does not cause men to loot Sears (below). A hockey loss does not cause men to attack the CBC or the police. A hockey loss does not lead men to cover their faces, lest they are identified, before casting the first stone.

The British police have known now for several decades that the presence of a crowd will always attract an element that wishes to degenerate it to violence and anarchy, and they have become the best in the world at preventing it at sporting events. (At political events they have recently taken too many leaves from the book of Italian policing). I do not know what the security arrangements were like in downtown Vancouver  last night, but it stands to reason that if 100,000 people gather to watch a game, someone should be watching for the usual suspects. Quite simply, this should not have happened.

Let’s be clear: men don’t riot because they are disappointed. Men don’t riot because they are hockey fans. Men riot because they are easily led by other men who adore violence and chaos. The easily led are weak, pathetic animals, and (I should imagine) soon remorseful. The others are dangerously rational, but lost to civilisation. Something is deeply wrong with them. Let’s not call them hockey fans. Let’s find out who they are, and determine how, through profound failure, our society has produced these sorry excuses for men.

Vive la Différence

I grew up watching Andy Gray play football, and distinctly remember his big-hair-phase photo from the ’81 Panini album. Then he went into the ‘boot room’ at Sky Sports, and made a respectable career for himself. I actually liked him.

I also grew up watching Ron Atkinson haul his heavy weight along the gantry walkways at Derby County to take up his commentary position on the match days that were televised. Ron was an early hero of mine at Manchester United – I still have the ’85 Cup Final programme that symbolises what was perhaps his finest hour. I actually quite liked him too.

Gray and Atkinson worked together rather well at Aston Villa, Gray being coach under Atkinson’s management tenure. They produced attractive football. There was a lot to like about it.

What else to Gray and Atkinson have in common? Well, Atkinson’s post-football media career went up in smoke in 2004 when he disclosed his racist streak on air, not realising his microphone was switched on. I won’t repeat what he said – it’s easy enough to find – but he was rightly banished to obscurity for the ridiculousness of his insult. Gray, just last week, was fired from Sky for a combination of comments of a retrograde and unwarranted sexist nature, also recorded when he thought his microphone was switched off. Again, no need to report what was said, but only to point out that the female referee’s assistant to whom the jibes were directed got the big decisions right on game night and made the chauvinists look like complete idiots.

It’s all very bad for the game and makes one wonder whether anything has really changed out there. In general, the FA has done a good and high-profile job of kicking racism out of football, and so far as I can tell it has been making a real effort to do the same for chauvinism of late. Things like this really taint that effort, and it’s such a shame. I have a feeling that for Gray, much like for Atkinson, the comments made were an expression of what it means to ‘be a man’; I would style it, ‘being a macho idiot’. If there is anything this blog does consistently it is to call out the disjuncture between manliness and being a moron; the distance between the finer points of the masculine disposition and the knuckle-headed attitudes of those who would wield clubs and grunt. Gray and Atkinson got what they deserved. If our heroes are revealed to be so deeply flawed we should not be disappointed, but grateful for the insight.

For my part, it’s just another nail in the coffin wherein I have lain football. May it find some peace.

Common Decency Not So Common

Much as we might like to dwell on the finer points of holding open doors for ladies, unfortunately we must complain in general of people and doors. Although I tend to moan about London, at least the vast majority of Londoners understand that in a very difficult and crowded situation, it’s better to let people off the train before trying to embark. However much we may like to confine our lives to the ethereal world, we humans are irrevocably and cumbersomely solid: no amount of pushing will propel us through oncoming persons, and we realise that less haste makes for a speedier, and more civil, commute. This is not the case in Germany.

Unknown in Germany: the orderly queue

I think it’s probably something to do with population, or the lack thereof. Such boisterous pushing and jostling would end in tears before bedtime in Blighty. On the whole, I must say that Germans know very well how to be civil, and would out-compete most nations at the Being Civil Olympics. Politeness is built into their language; the laws are strictly observed (try crossing the road on a red man and listen to the gasps of disapproving locals); little rituals hold sway in everyday life (church, Kaffeetrinken, customer service); everything is on-time. And yet, and yet… Today I was pushed in the back by an old woman who was concerned to beat all the young tykes to a seat on the tram. Everyday, the fit and agile push their way onto the U-Bahn trains before anybody has managed to disembark. A man recently served me with a full body-check as I attempted to leave a carriage carrying a heavy suitcase. I thought we should come to blows, but I held myself in check. One mustn’t sink to their level. And bus queues? Don’t make me laugh! There is a semblance of order, but only until the bus appears on the horizon. Then there is manoeuvring, pushing and place holding like nobody’s business. The fittest survive. The weak, the old (except for today’s grumpy granny), the infirm, the with-child – they all eat dust and end up standing in the aisles. It’s all pretty ordinary, as the Australians put it.

Also unknown in Germany: the consequences of the disorderly queue

I confess I do not understand why Germany can’t get this right. This and looking after their dogs. Domesticated canines seem to defecate willy-nilly in Berlin, and no one bats an eyelid. Everything else is just tickety-boo, and by-and-large we’re getting on swimmingly. I just can’t help the feeling that such things as these are the cornerstones of civil society. They are the things that, if done properly, help us repress the misanthropic feelings that inevitably arise from living among the urban. Just a semblance of the urbane softens our ire, cools our jets, waters our whiskey. When the common little courtesies among strangers are not observed, we wonder what else is awry, and before we know it we’re in a world of paranoia. So, sort it out please you lovely Berliners. Imagine everyone you see on public transport is your mother and behave accordingly. And clean up after your dogs!

Decline and Fall

The world has been in a bad way, to such an extent that one can only personalise the experience in order to make sense of it. People do not understand deficits, downturns, depressions. Those things are mere numbers on the news. They only understand their own unemployment; their own house’s repossession; there own dwindling savings and pensions. This personalisation of the economy does, in some places, take the form of a general reaction against government policy. The French are so adept at this. A million personal gripes – the collective selfishness of the mob – somehow gets coordinated and the country is shut down. Like it or not, you have to marvel at the effort.

Then there is the other extreme. In Britain, so it seems, the cuts are so breathtakingly universal that everyone has his own distinctive complaint, and nobody does a damn thing. A generation is being turned to face a new dark age, and we shall usher them into it without so much as a peep. The culmination of our apathy, our decadent indulgence, and our broken political system is to be their loss. For shame!

Last night I attended a lecture given by a very British man: bald, blue blazer, ill-considered tie, old-fashioned spectacles, Cambridge elocution, Knighthood, Professorship, interest in things aristocratic, interest in things past. This man, as so many of the best British men will come to do, lives and works abroad. He talked, from a flowery yet elegant script, of Churchill’s hopes and dreams for the English-speaking peoples – wistful fantasies come naïve expectations come ridiculous anachronisms – and reminded his German audience (patient, listening, laughing), of the absolutely sealed status of Britain’s decline. After the war, the nation looked inwards – it saw that its problems lay at its own doorstep, and it voted ‘charity begins at home’ – and nobody could blame it. As the nation once again confronts the wolf at the door, with what staggering lack of vision do the nation’s leaders plot to feed it?

One cannot help thinking that the whimper of dissent with regard to all of this is terrifically unmanly. We have succeeded in failing to educate our youth, so that they know not how intelligently to protest; we have succeeded in failing to safeguard our political institutions, so that there is no viable opposition; we have inculcated apathy until it became normal, and now we blink like stunned rabbits as the snares tighten around our ankles. Isn’t it time we woke up?

The Great Stitch-Up

I’ve been on the road again. After ten hours on a bus between Montreal and Boston, it’s all I can do to persuade the blood to move around my body. At dear Hilton’s prompting, and thanks to Mrs. VB’s mother, who popped a late nineteenth-century pocket edition into my hands the other day, I’m reading Sartor Resartus this week, in gaps between more sober eye work. It has long been something of an oversight of mine not to have indulged in this great literary stitch up. Already at the forefront of my mind is the choice question: ‘A man that devotes his life to learning, shall he not be learned?’ Carlyle aside, I’m planning to make hay in the library this week.

The subject of this entry, however, is not so much the warp and woof of Carlyle’s rhetorical entanglements as it is another great knot in the smooth course of freedom. You will no doubt remember all the fuss about Arizona’s new immigration law a while back, the tenor of which might lead you to believe that Arizona is something of a desert island, and now a pariah to boot. Liberal New England tut-tutted in shame, no doubt. It would surely grow louder if they found out that such things were close to home.

The bus ride from Montreal is actually a beautiful thing, for the most part. Descending the length of Vermont in any season is to be recommended. The fly in the ointment is the border, of course, but despite a full bus containing passengers from around the world, today’s crossing ran smoothly. All those who needed visas had them; all those who needed to answer questions answered them. Fifty people were stamped up and packed off in thirty minutes. Those border guys do a great job. No one could question their thoroughness, or their seriousness. Yet, in Vermont at least, they do it with a lot of humility and a sense of humour. They also speak French – a rare quality for your average American. Two hours later, we arrived in White River Junction, Vt., where the bus terminated, and most of us boarded a new bus, along with some newcomers.

At this stage, two plain-clothes police officers – no, two shabbily dressed teenagers with badges – alighted and made their way down the bus, demanding declarations of citizenship, taking away passports, and interrogating everyone on the bus. Having found someone who looked suitably foreign, they confiscated his identification and started making telephone calls. While teenager number one carried this out, teenager number two stood at the front of the bus chatting with the driver in full earshot of us nearby passengers: you can never be sure of the Chinese, apparently; his ID could easily be fraudulent, since so many of them were; it was difficult to catch their organised crime rings, what with them being so shifty, but it’s always best to check. All of this, apart from being offensive and unnecessary, was, so far as I can tell, illegal. There is surely no requirement that ticket holders for domestic bus routes should carry proof of citizenship, and I doubt the legitimacy of the police officers’ demands to produce it, as well as their unwarranted admittance to the bus. The dubious alien, shockingly, turned out to be perfectly legitimate. Shortly, the boys’ supervisor arrived (equally shabby) and asked the driver where this bus had come from. In perfect honesty, she replied, ‘it hasn’t left yet’.

Nobody gains by such nonsense. A stitch in time saves nine, so they say. The international border is that stitch. The other nine were clearly superfluous, not to mention in poor taste.

The Retrograde Menu

Twice on our European travels in the last weeks, Mrs. VB and I have been confronted with customs that I presumed were long-since abolished. Readers of this humble blog will know well that although I see clear values and virtues for manly men, these generally tend to be inclusive, considerate and, by-and-large, in keeping with the times. I hold on to traditions where they are important, but I am not hard-headed about the hard-won social victories – progress, if you will – of the last fifty years. For my many female readers, I hope to provide an image of man that they might endorse. It would be remiss of me, therefore, not to call attention to the Retrograde Menu.

The Retrograde Menu comes in two forms. One of them looks like any other menu, replete with prices. The other contains all of the dishes on offer, but no prices. The latter form is given to the lady, on the nineteenth-century understanding that a woman has a) no understanding of money; b) no income; c) no interest in the ways in which a household’s money is spent; d) no notion of value; e) no intention ever to pay, or contribute to the expense; f) no self-esteem g) no standing whatsoever when in the company of men. Furthermore, she is supposed to be relieved of having avoided the political minefield of choosing a dish that will not offend her male counterpart’s wallet. She may assume, after all, that if he couldn’t afford the Lobster and the Dom Perignon, he wouldn’t have taken her there. For the man of straightened circumstances, the menu for her can simply be dispensed with: he will decide what she would like.

What utter rot! Needless to say, on both occasions Mrs. VB and I studied the same menu. As a form of protest, I suggested in one instance that she might order for me. I do not think, on the whole, that men are still concerned either to pay for everything, or to conceal the price of things from women. This is an empty chivalry, and no way for a modern marriage to function. So why, please somebody tell me, does this custom remain?

I have noticed that the service in those establishments persisting with this system also tends completely to ignore women. When a man and woman walk into a restaurant together, is there not something distinctly odd about the greeting ‘Good afternoon, Sir’? No eye contact for the lady; no words of welcome; not even an acknowledgment that more than one person has entered the room. I do wonder what would happen if a woman were to dine alone in such a place. What a horrible dilemma for the maître d’. He might have to admit that women exist (and, what’s more, earn more than he does).

I was under the impression that we were well beyond reducing women to empty-headed and meaningless extensions of their husbands. To prove that we are not, and to enhance the foul taste that this leaves in our mouths, I hold up for your general derision the Retrograde Menu.

British Humour

A man walked into a bar and ordered a pint of bitter, a G&T and a sticky toffee pudding. ‘It’ll be a twenty-minute wait on the food’, said the barman, ‘do you still want it?’. The man said ‘yes’. Pouring the gin, the barman realised he was out of ice and sent his barmaid to fetch more, telling the man he’d have to wait for his drinks too. Meanwhile, a second man had walked into the bar, followed by a third, followed by a woman. The lack of ice having caused the barman to lose his cool, he knew not in which order the customers came. The third man, being drunk but sensible, suggested the lady be served first. The lady ordered fish and chips and two large glasses of pinot grigio. The ice had not yet arrived. ‘Who’s next?’ asked the barman. ‘It must be me’, said the third man, ‘since I just let her go before me’. Faultless logic, no doubt, for the third man. But the second man took exception. ‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages’, he said. Regardless, the third man was served next, during which time the ice arrived. The second man, thinking he was sure to be next, was disappointed to discover that the man, patiently waiting and observing, could now have his original order filled. ‘Still want that sticky toffee pudding?’ asked the barman. ‘Yes please’, said the man. ‘This is getting beyond a joke’, said the second man. The barman apologised, but pointed out that the man had been waiting for his ice. During the distraction, the returning barmaid decided to serve an American man, lately arrived, who couldn’t quite decide what he wanted, but settled on a glass of water. The second man pointed and loudly observed, ‘Well, I know I was before this geezer!’. On another level entirely, the barman and barmaid were in disarray that erroneous orders had inadvertently been transmitted to the kitchen, wherein the chef was preparing food for nobody in particular, causing the twenty-minute delay for sticky toffee puddings. Apparently the computer printouts were unintelligible, and nobody could think of a better way to communicate orders between front of house and rear: all of twenty yards. The barman, by now heavily sweating, concluded the transaction with the man, telling him he was owed £8.50 change, but handing him only £3.50. Turning to the white-knuckled second man to take his order, the barman was interrupted by the man, who informed him that he had been short-changed a fiver. The second man walked around in circles, fuming. The barman did not apologise to the man, but rather slapped the £5 note into the man’s hands and slammed shut the till. Everybody went away to their respective darkened corners and to the waspish beer garden. And the man thought, ‘this is indeed beyond a joke’.

The pub into which the man walked. The pudding was good.

I’ll be in Blighty for the month. I hope to share my thoughts more regularly than of late, old-world irritations permitting.

Pot and Kettle

‘She’s just some bigoted woman’. So said Gordon Brown, of some bigoted woman he’d just met. Now, I don’t happen to think there’s very much wrong with that. So far as I can glean, the comment was fair. In these few moments of absolute candour Gordon Brown seemed a more real human being than I’ve noticed at any other time. Unfortunately, however, he’s just some bigoted man.

I cite these things not by way of crass electioneering. It’s much more important than that. Gordon Brown behaved, we might say, like a politician. We tend to roll our eyes and mutter and then vote for one or the other of them. I should rather point out what is essentially wrong with politicians. Only a few seconds before his indiscretion, Mr. Brown had been smiling and chatting gaily with the aforementioned woman, his cracked smile of a political mask firmly in place. A few minutes after his unwittingly recorded honesty, the mask was back in place in order to deliver the most insincere set of wimpish apologies one is ever likely to hear. His private moment of reality was entirely framed by galling fakery and absence of spine. Yes, dear readers, I aver that Mr. Brown was not really sorry, at least not in the way he claimed. How much better it might have been if, during the initial conversation, Mr. Brown had properly stood up to his misguided voter. How much better it might have been if, after the microphonic gaff, Mr. Brown had stood by his real inclinations and explained in detail precisely why the woman was a bigot, and what his party values mean. Instead, the distance between reality and political front could not have been wider, and we can only conclude that insincerity defines our political leaders.

Out of context, I know, but then all UK MPs are donkeys

Insincerity, lack of courage, lack of spine. These qualities make not for a good leader. Yet we see them wherever we turn. One of these days, a politician is going to be brutally honest, say what he really thinks, back it up with a sound education in things political, legal and constitutional, and shock the pants off all of us. And that’s scary, because such a man (or woman) would not encounter any opposition. Our political leaders are supposed to safeguard our freedom, but they’re nothing but hot air and posturing. All this false and wholly unnecessary politeness on the one hand, and all their pointless bickering and pedantry on the other, does not fill me with confidence that our liberty is being vigilantly guarded. We should call them out; upbraid them for their fawning political correctness. We should call a bigot a bigot when we see one.

Ad Nauseam: Miller Lite

The phrase ‘Man up’ is a noxious one at best. But it risks losing all meaning if it is continually employed for trivialities. A man struggling to find courage in the face of adversity, or blighted by prevarication when action is due, might benefit from the imperative, presuming it was delivered by an appropriate source. Another – a better – man is really the only acceptable giver of the exhortation to ‘man up’, and it is an exhortation to be used sparingly.

It’s not difficult, bearing this in mind, to see what’s so wrong with the latest Miller Lite commercial. For starters, all light beer should be stricken from the earth. There is really no point in claiming that one light beer is more masculine than another, for it is all abominable. If you are watching your weight, don’t drink beer. It’s that simple. Don’t doubly emasculate yourself by publicly announcing that you diet as you order your calorie-controlled weasel urine.



Second, this man clearly has no need of diet, so his choices are reducible to his general lack of taste. It is quite audacious here to have portrayed the righteous barmaid without a shred of irony. She knows taste. She knows the right light beer for real men. But she does not, I aver, for it does not exist.

The man is justly criticised for his choice in bag, but the issue is surely its cheap vinyl quality, not its denomination. Men carry stuff. There’s no getting around it. But it is possible to choose a bag of some distinction, made of leather; something that will wear and, with you, garner its own biography. This man is cheap and tasteless. His critic operates within the same sphere of cheap tastelessness. The ad overall can be reduced to the same assessment. The next time some company tells us to ‘man up’, it had better be a call to arms.

Time and A Place; or, Get A Room.

I am all for the romantic arts. ‘Courtship’, whenever that word gets wheeled out, seems unable to escape its epithet: ‘old-fashioned’. Since I care not for fashion, nor for passing fads, I think we ought to put period to this unfair appellation. The outward form of courtship may change with the times, but at its heart is a respectable romance and a foundation of politeness. It takes place in two settings, one public and one private. To observe a courtship in public is never to be outraged, never offended. The intentions of the lover are manifested subtly, through kindnesses and attentions. The responsiveness of the beloved is likewise demure, modest. The courtship is suggestive only insofar as eye contact, or the occasional kiss of the hand, lingers, barely perceptively, a little longer than it might otherwise. In private we may dispense with some of the formality, but to put too fine a point on it would be to undo it. It is private, after all.

I was sitting in my usual spot, working in the library. I have often thought that libraries are sexually charged places, but this has something to do with the impossibility of even verbal, let alone physical interaction. As I have said before, if one desires a frisson of excitement, it is to be found in restraint, in covering up, in patience. The mind must not be deprived of its imaginative work by feasts of the eye! Yet even the hushed halls of places of learning crumble against the pressure of an uncouth culture, beating its walls from within and without.

The Place Where I Sit. Almost.

Immediately to my right, with her back to me, a woman was working away. At first, I only noticed the ear plugs: sad testimony to the inevitable noise. Well, thought I, at least I won’t have any trouble from her. Until the man arrived. As she plucked out her earplugs, I noticed the rest of her, entirely clad in black, tight work-out gear. Her nether woman was barely covered, and in the gap between the top of her sweat pants and the bottom of her t-shirt (about ten inches), her rather skimpy underwear made an unwelcome appearance. She smiled a come-to-bed hello at this unexpected visitor, who kissed her on the mouth – somewhere between friendly and obscene. She pulled the pins out of her raven hair and shook like a wet dog in a shampoo ad. He sat beside her, much preening and many eyes being made. They then proceeded to ‘talk about work’, each with one hand pointing at respective computer screens; academic and intellectual interest being feigned. His other hand made a bid for her shoulder, thereafter sliding down her back and lingering on the aforementioned lingerie. Looping his fingers around the thong, he brushed her naked skin with his thumb.

Enough. Concentration cast to the wind, I simply exited the room. I cannot help feeling it should not have been me seeking alternative shelter. In their little bubble of loveliness, no doubt thrilling to them, was something ghastly. Time and a place, dear readers, time and a place.

Being Boring

Mother always used to say ‘there’s nothing more boring than the bored’. Indeed, having to endure the ennui of another is insufferably dull, and best avoided. At least, however, the bored can be ignored. They can languish in their lack of imagination for all I care. I shall pay them no heed. You will find me out doing (not to mention outdoing), getting, living, being. One mustn’t forget that being manly is inherently active. It needs constantly to be brought about, vigilantly recapitulated, vigorously upheld. This ‘blog’ would perhaps have found a more appropriate title in ‘becoming manly’.

What mother did not mention was what to do with the actively boring. For it transpires that some people are perfectly happy to share the day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute experiences of their mundane lives, as well as anything and everything that has ever happened to them, with anyone within earshot. This can be so utterly mind-numbing that there is serious risk of them turning their listeners into the bored. These people are reprehensible because they begin a vicious circle of decline in others. They bore you, you become bored; you become boring, others are bored, etc. The actively boring violently assault the lives of interesting people by having no notion of when is enough. One is tempted to pierce one’s own skin with needles just to make sure one is alive.



If you are wont to drone on – if you’re not sure, solicit the honesty of someone you trust – ask yourself occasionally when it was that you last heard someone else’s voice. Gauge your audience: if you’re a particle physicist and you happen to be conversing with philatelists, chances are you are going to need a third subject in order to find common ground. In certain parts, there may be class distinctions to bear in mind. The local costermonger support group (i.e. the pub) is not likely to want to hear about your most recent skiing holiday. Likewise, the costermonger probably doesn’t care for the professor’s continual irritation with the former’s use of punctuation. In short, it’s important to be rounded. A one dimensional life isn’t likely to gain dynamism in conversation.

There’s nothing more boring than the bored. There’s nothing more irritating than the actively boring.

A Manly Wine? A Manly Whine

A friend of mine recently made use of my apartment in Montreal, which has seen a succession of temporary sub-lessees over the last seven months or so. As a thank you for her couple of nights repose, she left Mrs. VB and me a bottle of wine in the place, ready for our eventual return. Knowing my penchant for things manly, said friend asked the expert in the local Société des alcools du Québec (SAQ – provincially run liquor store) for a recommendation on manly wines. Blank looks ensued.

Naturally, there will be divergences on such a subject. If, for example, a manly wine is supposed to reflect the character of manliness, then we should need a clear definition of manliness in order to proceed. Unfortunately, judging by the myriad groups and societies out there in the ethereal world, no such common ground exists. It may be that my own definition (provisional) would have foxed the sommelier: robust but refined; sophisticated but blunt where necessary; polite but candid; traditional, with one eye cast to men of great vintage, but also forward looking; fun, jaunty, even eccentric if judged by popular tastes, but solid, reliable, distinguished and, above all, grounded. If anyone can recommend me a wine that sounds like this man, please waste no time in letting me know.

I thought this was a fairly unique problem I was having, but then yesterday I saw this (click to enlarge):

Apologies for picture quality. The only way to get it was to photograph my screen.

Personally I have no problem with oak. What better symbol of strength, endurance and stickability is there than the oak tree? But regardless, I found this faux campaign entirely distasteful, precisely because it failed on point of politeness, sophistication and distinction. A man does not need to point out who is a wimp. It gives the impression that he is somewhat self-conscious of his own status as a man. Self-worth and self-assurance lead us to accentuate the positive, not to point fingers and sneer; certainly not to get up meaningless petitions. The conspicuous failure, however, is the absence of substance in its definition of the opposite to the thing it protests. One cannot laud ‘authenticity’ while practicing gimmickry. One cannot appeal to the ‘interesting’ without demonstrating what on earth that empty label might mean (the word ‘interesting’ always gets crossed out of student essays). One cannot celebrate ‘complexity’ while denigrating the word ‘cause’ by applying it to a shallow marketing campaign.

So I ask you again, dear Readers, for your recommendations. Please, nobody say Ravenswood.

An Elegant Weapon for a more Civilised Age

Yesterday I was almost decapitated by an umbrella, twice. In truth, the second occasion was more of a narrow escape from having my eye skewered. The first incident caused me to limbo in the most ungainly fashion, and it really wasn’t the weather for limbo. Both assailants were cursed, roundly and loudly. Neither paid the slightest attention.

What is to be done? I regret that I was not carrying my own umbrella at the time, for this would surely have acted as my force field. But I am having umbrella difficulties at present, exacerbated by my having to keep on crossing international borders. The gentleman’s umbrella, for all its dignity and refinement, has a pointy metal bit at the end and looks too much like an offensive weapon for most carriers. This is a gross prejudice. As I have discovered, the crass and wholly unpleasant common-or-garden umbrella, in pastel shades and pretty patterns, destined to blow out and crumple at the slightest puff of wind, is also a lethal weapon! And for all its look-at-me-I’m-compact-and-modern glibness, this is a brute of a device. When closed, it is more akin to a police baton than to a rapier; when open, it bespeaks Medieval torture device, rather than rain shield. With their short shafts and inadequate canopies, they obscure the vision of their carriers, who lead with spokes primed, ready to assail the unsuspecting eyeball. And really, nobody looks where he is going anymore. Walking is just one big imperialist adventure, with territory conceded only at a high price.

I must make a plea for a return to gentlemanly standards of rain protection (and ladies, for you too there really are preferable options to the aforementioned unfurling truncheons). A proper umbrella will last a long time; it will be too big to forget in every taxi, pub, restaurant, etc.; it will not be so big that walking down the street is an impossibility (golf umbrella wielders take note: you belong on a golf course); it will allow you to see while you walk; it will allow you a companion, with a reasonable expectation of staying dry. Back when we knew how to be civilised, a man would not be without such a device in periods of inclemency. And if the need arose – let’s say, a young oik threatened to encumber your way with his inadequate brolly – when properly furled this instrument served very nicely as an idiot deterrent. The next time I am assailed by walking imperialists with no style and much less manners, I shall give them cause to say touché.

Seasonal Misgivings

It is March. Still. Between Friday night and Monday night it rained continually (and I mean it just didn’t stop at all), and temperatures stayed alarmingly in single figures. But then, it is still March. What do we expect? After the storm, the sun came out, and so did the people. Were it September, and similarly sunny, and similarly warmish, people would be wearing coats and scarves, donning hats and brandishing gloves. Umbrellas would be held at the ready, and boots would replace sandals. We would be rushing headlong into Winter, missing our opportunity to embrace the autumnal in our appearances, and exhorting the season to grow-up like we do to children of the internet generation. Likewise, we skip Spring and jump two-footed into Summer. On Tuesday this week it was about 12 degrees (54 to those still on Imperial time), and yet I saw undergraduates ‘sun-bathing’ on the steps of their residences, wearing bikinis. I saw men in tight white trousers, wearing boat shoes sans socks. I’ve seen flip-flops, summer prints, too many pairs of shorts to mention, skirts up to too high, and tops down to too low. And then there are the ubiquitous men who insist on jogging in practically nothing (but perhaps that is not pertinent, since they do that all year round). What, I ask in all seriousness, is wrong with Spring? If trees went straight to fruit and skipped the blossom we would call those trees ridiculous. What should we say of people who do the same?

Ad Nauseam: Old Spice

Time was when Old Spice only needed a man on a surfboard and a chorus from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana to let the world know that this was a smell for seriously rugged men. I’m not sure there was ever any truth in that, but I had no objection to the way it was being pitched. Things have taken a crass turn.

The latest ad, aimed jointly at women who have complete control over the grooming of their men and at men who quiver at the sight of a superior musculature, demands that women make frequent comparisons to the men in their lives and the loosely towelled jock on the screen. Assuring women that they may justifiably give up hope that reality will ever compare favourably to his robust frame, the actor suggests that at least a real man does not have to smell like a woman, or worse. I have previously stated my opinions about the importance of the olfactory sense (Firing up the Ol’ Factory), but I don’t much care for it being sold in this way.

For starters, the appeal to women relies on an extension of the derisory stereotype put forward by the good people at Dodge (Ad Nauseum: Dodge Charger). Women will be wowed by such simple fripperies as tickets to a show (exactly what show is irrelevant because men don’t care about such things, as long as you’re happy and prepared to have sex afterward), diamonds, strutting about on the deck of a yacht, and the sexual connotations of horses. There is no substance in any of this, to the point that women are supposed not to notice that the man here is portrayed as arrogant, narcissistic and conceited. A pleasant aroma will take care of any and all the defects of character, it seems.

Second, are men thought so utterly hopeless that a direct appeal to them is futile? Surely a call to their self-respect and dignity would be better. As I mentioned previously, a man’s smell should be based on the reflection, ‘what does my smell say about me?’ If the answer to that question is simply ‘I do not make choices for myself’ then that is a shame.

Ad Nauseam: Dodge Charger

A few television commercials which purport to know something about manliness have been getting my goat recently. I hereby offer a transcript of the Dodge Charger effort, as well as the ad itself:

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30 a.m. I will eat fruit as part of my breakfast. I will shave; I will clean the sink after I shave. I will be at work by 8 a.m. I will sit through two-hour meetings. I will say ‘yes’ when you want me to say ‘yes’. I will be quiet when you don’t want to hear me say ‘no’. I will take your call. I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friends’ opinions of my friends. I will be civil to your mother. I will put the seat down. I will separate the recycling. I will carry your lip balm. I will watch your vampire T.V. shows with you. I will take my socks off before getting into bed. I will put my underwear in the basket. And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive. Dodge Charger: a man’s last stand.

I really thought we were beyond all this nonsense. If I were to nitpick, in a missing-the-point kind of way, I would observe that any man who really felt this whipped by his work and his wife would scarcely have the temerity to dig in his heels about a second-rate muscle car. And if this really were a man’s last stand, what a feeble whimper it would be to signal the end of masculinity! I have no life, no dignity, no self-respect, no courage, no volition, no conviction and no taste, but at least I have $26,000 worth of metal to hide in! To all the knuckleheads out there nodding along to this trash, allow me to enlighten you.

If your work is so benumbing that the best you can do is ‘sit through it’, I suggest you are in the wrong job. A little imagination will sort that out. Since you’re already in a job, a position of strength, getting another – a better – one shouldn’t be too daunting a task. If it’s broke, fix it. And if the person you claim to love is as absolutely horrible to you as the archetype of woman in this ad, might I suggest that you take matters in hand and bring the relationship to a conclusion. Of course, the real issue is with the advertiser’s notion of woman as a hen-pecking, nagging, domineering malignancy. Does it really need to be said that women are not actually like this? And if yours is, either take it on trust that you have not done well in the sexual selection stakes, and that you can do better, or take a long hard look at yourself. What are you doing to make her so miserable that she is after you all the time? No doubt being an absolute wimp who blows his salary on a Dodge Charger. Try a bit harder and you will find a pleasant change in her demeanour.

Footnote: at the point in the ad where the car appears, note the small print: ‘Do not attempt. Professional driver on a closed course’. If you’re looking for a domineering malignancy, look no further than the litigation averse political correctness of companies that do not actually have a shred of the conviction they purport to sell.

Something to Chew on for Travellers

Given the choice, I would not travel coach, let alone by coach. The powers that be have conspired against a civilised link between Montreal and Boston – flights prohibitively expensive, trains only via New York over two days – so there is little choice. The newer buses, with reliable temperature control, reading lights that work, and wireless connections, ought not to be too terrible. Unfortunately I find the selling points of even the most up-to-date Greyhounds to be defective. On the latest trip it was 80 degrees, my reading light didn’t work (putting paid to the objectionable book), and the wireless was patchy at best. These modern contrivances only add frustration to the general unpleasantness of travel when they do not work.

For all that, it is not so much the bus itself that gets my goat as the other people with whom I have to share space. Other people will always be objectionable, and it is just as well. If we went around instantly liking everyone the world would be unbearable. Still, I would like it very much if the following might actually be observed when in close proximity of strangers over the course of seven hours, with no possibility for escape:

1. When the driver says ‘turn off your cell phone ringer’, do it.
2. Select some food that tastes great but which you alone can smell.
3. Chewing gum over many hours is unsavoury enough. But with your mouth open? Please.
4. I will take it on trust that your music rocks. I do not need to hear it.
5. You are an inveterate snorer. Don’t go to sleep.

I might add, for those travelling across international borders, if your passport or credentials are remotely incredible, please don’t travel at all. Being on a bus that moves is bad enough. Being on one that is parked at the border while we wait for you, possibly not to be let in, is just too much to bear.

Happy travels.

It's Snow, Not the Blitz

9 a.m. Departmental email informs everyone to leave by 3 p.m. because of the impending Great Storm. I’m bravely heading downtown. Total snow accumulation: 0.

10 a.m. After an entirely precipitation-free commute, I arrive downtown, only to be informed that the building is closing at 1 p.m. because of the Great Storm. Total snow accumulation: 0.

Noon: Daycare centres close as a precautionary measure, causing anxious parents further worry. Total snow accumulation: 0.

12.30 p.m. Forced out early, I consume a beery lunch, where I chat with a Canadian about the mysterious extent of the Great Storm. On the way to the pub, I notice several gigantic snow ploughs touring the streets, assured that the white stuff is there, somewhere. Total snow accumulation: 0. Some drizzle.

2 p.m. Bussed back to Cambridge in remarkably English rain. Streets eerily quiet. Stores emptied by panic buyers. Total snow accumulation: 0.

3 p.m. Light snow! Melting into the puddles. Am assured by great authorities that the Great Storm is still pending. Weather forecasters are predicting something like 4 inches in the night. The horror! Total snow accumulation: 0.

5.15 p.m. I give up for the day. As I leave the library, I see that Harvard Yard is barely visible under an immense white carpet that has completely obscured the footpaths. Or rather:

Total snow accumulation: a dusting.

7.30 p.m. Everyone is no doubt safely at home, having left four to six hours previously. Snow turned to sleet and washed away the dusting. Total snow accumulation: 0.

I know everyone has been watching the scenes from D.C. recently, but the hysteria over the weather here is in poor taste. It is true that even Londoners are slowed down by an inch of snow, but at least they do not stop in advance of its occurrence. I hear in D.C. that it costs $100 million per day when government offices are closed. I wonder how much has been lost today for no good reason? All of this complaining, scare-mongering and, frankly, workshy malingering, makes me wonder about the resolve of Bostonians. It is, after all, winter. Snow is to be expected. Why all the fuss? For God’s sake, put your wellies on and get back to work.

Class Act

On my way home today I observed a street scene that might have come straight from the pages of Henry Mayhew. A somewhat dishevelled man wearing an eye patch was engaging in toothless japes with a hunched, walking-stick wielding man wearing rudimentary ear muffs. I expected to see a mudlark and a crossing sweeper at any minute, as our omnibus swerved to avoid the itinerant costermongers. But then I remembered that everyone in America is middle class. And then I thought of England, where society is supposed not to exist. Silly me.

In the introduction to Arthur Marwick’s The Sixties, the author reluctantly confessed that his education, the fact of his professorial status, had made him upper-middle class. Marwick assumed that the democratization of social opportunity had nevertheless left the old social framework intact, but following contours of intellect rather than wealth. His was a class system based on merit, but a class system nonetheless. His reality no doubt gave him good reason to think this, for he was among the first generation of modern levellers, and assumed a place that assuredly looked, felt, and smelled very much like the upper-middle class of yore. Yet the idea was becoming unpalatable. Those scholars who followed him might have expected to be ridiculed, if not stoned, for asserting their implicit social superiority, however reluctantly. In fact, they actively cast off the mantle and quickly swapped white for blue collars. Marks of distinction disappeared among the distinctly Marxian. Elitist aspirations, including those founded on intellect, became an outmoded embarrassment. Now we find it appropriate only to be ordinary – such an unpalatable collective – or else ‘public opinion’, like a Leviathan Bounderby, will point a chubby finger and accuse us of wanting to be fed turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. Hard Times indeed. Intellectuals should know their place: a dark, underpaid corner of unimportance, diminutively apologizing for not being of the ‘real world’.

Actually, the haute cuisine and lustrous utensils sound rather appealing, taken metaphorically. The truth is that we still sort ourselves out, even though social deference is dead, and humility is an endangered species. As I sat watching the Victorian apparition today I knew that for all the world I was not of that scene, and to a like degree those characters were not of my intellectual commute. This does not signify any sense of entitlement on my part, nor any social chagrin on theirs; merely that worlds apart are not wont to meet. Were not these distinct orbits more inclined to overlap in days before our undoubtedly noble motives led us to deny that difference exists?

I pose the question sincerely: how does one be a gentleman in an age that looks poorly on distinction?