A lighter on the news

I love holidays, I really do. I am not very keen on flying though. Not the actual sitting on a long haul flight doing absolutely nothing, being served drinks and food (I never complain when I have not cooked it - I am big on gratitude), reading, listening to music, watching films - what's not to like? 

It's the queuing at the airport, the endless security checks (which is a catch 22 situation because I worry if there aren't enough security checks) and the inevitable jet lag, that robs me of at least two precious days.

Well, now I don't need to worry. Thank you James Bond actress Naomi Harris (I told you that I was big on gratitude). Naomi has discovered and has kindly and generously shared her discovery, that the best way to get rid of jet lag is to walk barefoot after you land in the country of your destination.

So, the next time I touch down in Goa, I will recklessly kick my shoes off and race to my taxi. I say recklessly because, besides dodging taxis, rickshaws, buses, cars and cyclists, I may also have to sidestep and jump over the odd bit of contributions from cows and inconsiderate 'paan' chewers. 

If you are dubious of N's remedy, rest assured that it is fool proof. How do I know this? Well, that great medical genius that is Gywnie Paltrow is a proponent of this remedy as well. On second thoughts, I think I will keep my shoes on and leave the barefoot prancing to the likes of Naomi and Gwynie.

The BBC got into hot water this week. Not that I sympathise. They had eleven months to right their wrong where their employees' salaries are concerned. But did they bother? I ask rhetorically. 

Sometime back, they were forced to publish the salaries of employees earning over £450,000/-. Teresa May lowered it to £150,000/-and it turns out, they are quite the leaders in the gender pay gap. In their list of top ten highest earners, just one woman was fortunate enough to make the list.

John McEnroe gets around £250,000/- for his Wimbledon commentary, whereas the legend that is Martina Navratilova did not even make the list! Tut, tut BBC.

I was always under the impression that the Corporation was in favour of equal opportunities, since it seems to have a lot of black and ethnic background people on its programmes at any given time.

Now I realise why. They are under paid compared to their white counterparts of both genders, so obviously they can afford more ethnic presenters. Not to be cynical but it's almost a two for the price of one scenario. I can't remember the last time I tut tutted this much.

Wimbledon Ladies' Champion, Garbine Muguruza was so looking forward to having a dance with Roger Federer at the Champions' Ball. She tweeted him asking if he was ready to dance and he replied, 'Bring it on Champ' (bless).

Unfortunately,  that did not happen because apparently there wasn't even a dance floor! If I was Muguruza, I would return my trophy in protest. Well, I am not her (more chance of the entire population of pigs flying), so the replica trophy is safe.

There is no spice in the White House anymore. The Sean and the Don have parted ways. Will the world be a better place for it? Time will tell. 

I did wonder if Trump would replace him with a long lost uncle but Spicer's replacement, Anthony Scaramucci (sounds like a name from a Godfather movie) appears to be no relative. He also appears to have done a good job on his first time at the podium with the White House press. As I said, time will tell.

Until next time, try and keep it light!

A lighter take on the weekly news

What is it about Donald Trump and his hands?  A couple of months ago, on his visit to the Middle East, Melania swatted his hand away with the panache of Serena Williams hitting an ace on Championship point at Wimbledon. Irish reporter Catriona Perry surely felt like doing the same when he beckoned her towards him while on the phone to her Prime Minister Leo Varadkar.

Now, in another ‘hand’ incident, the Polish First Lady, Agata Kornhauser-Duda, chose to ignore DT’s outstretched hand and warmly clasped Melania’s instead. I know that his hands are reportedly small but I didn’t realise they were small to the point of being invisible. Or maybe, considering his previous misogynistic comments on what his hands got up to in the presence of women, this is the Universe’s way of telling him to keep his hands to himself.

Apparently, Ed Sheeran has come off Twitter because of the abuse he has received on it. Most of it appears to be people calling him a ‘ginger busker’. I think someone is being a bit thin skinned and precious.  I am sure there will be thousands of buskers, irrespective of their hair colour, willing to chop off their guitar strumming hand, be it right or left, to trade places with him.

Now, it is not often that my blood boils. But Goa’s Tourism Minister has managed to do that. ‘Why?’ I hear you ask. Well, the man has had the temerity to say  that Goans’ favourite cuisine is fish, hence the ban on beef does not affect Goans or its tourism. Someone slap the man with a wet fish. Maybe that will make him understand the principle of freedom of choice in a democratic country. It is akin to saying that Britain’s favourite brew is tea, so no one will mind if coffee gets banned.

On the other hand, India’s Supreme Court has stated that the ‘highways’ that pass through cities can be reclassified as Municipal roads and therefore, may not be subject to the alcohol ban. At last common sense prevails! Let’s raise a glass of feni to the Supreme Court of India. The voice of reason in the otherwise bewildering ‘non’sense that seems to be taking over this tolerant, multicultural, multi religious, much beloved Country.

I read somewhere that a drunk tourist in Goa was slapped for urinating in public, in front of a shop. All I can say is I hope they slapped him on both cheeks, twice over - above and below!

Wimbledon tennis has begun! I watched four matches today. Two men’s matches and two women’s.  The women’s matches were nail biting three set matches, won by Radwanska and Wozniacki and the men’s were bland, three set, straight forward matches, where Djokovic and Federer respectively wiped the grass with their opponents.

Now I do not wish to upset my Mum but does anyone else find Roger Federer a tad smug? I know it will make his army of fans furious but his army of fans do not read my blog unless you count his army of one - my Mum.

At the risk of incurring her wrath, I have to say, although I admire Federer’s  tennis, the smug demeanour of the man irritates me. And in the spirit of ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’, why does his wife always look like she’s forgotten to take her happy pills? Give me our dour Scotsman anyday. At least with him, what you see is what you get.

Until next week, try and keep it light!

Lighter take on the news

Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths, some are born under a lucky star and some are born to the Beckhams. I say this because their eldest son, 18 year old Brooklyn, has been granted (or should I say 'gifted') the opportunity to exhibit his photography book entitled 'What I see' at Christie's in London.

What I really see is struggling, professional photographers wanting to eat their own arms in envy and frustration. If you are one such photographer, take solace in the fact that he says that he is donating the proceeds to the families of those affected in the horrific Grenfill Tower fire. 

Is it just me, or does Brooklyn always look conflicted when posing for photographs? He has this, should I smile like Dad or pout like Mum look. 

Poor chap, as if the indecision of what facial expression to wear is not bad enough, he is now moving to New York and everyone keeps asking him if he is going to take up residence in Brooklyn. Some people can be so thoughtless!

He was conceived in Brooklyn, hence his name. Not that I bore witness or anything but Dave and Vic made no secret about the reason behind their choice of name for their first born (up until then I doubted their deep intellect and ability to be original).

Beautiful though they are, someone should have told them that no one wants to know the location of their procreating activities, least of all, I suspect, their children.

Anyway, he is moving, not because of the constant attention his parents generate (chance would be a fine thing) but because he is set to study photography in New York. Yes, I know, the irony of launching a photography book before studying photography - talk about putting the cart before the horse.


Now you would imagine that David B would be an inspiration to his son. And you would be right. You would also imagine that it would be along the lines of being a talented footballer or as Britain's unofficial goodwill Ambassador or even as an amazing underwear model. You would be wrong.

David has been an inspiration to his son because of his tattoos. Apparently in the myriad of tattoos that cover DB's body, the Native American one is BB's favourite. Not sure mum Posh will be happy, considering David has a tattoo of her name in Sanskrit, but please no one tell her, we may get even more intense sulky pouting.

Brooklyn says that the tattoo will be something he will share with his Dad forever. Rest assured Brooklyn, thirty years from now, your Native American will look quite different from your 72 year old Dad's.

He also claims that it took a long, long time for him to save enough money to have the tattoo done. I think he is missing  his calling as a writer of fiction. I can see the publishers lining up even as I type this. Now I am the one who wants to eat my arm in envy and frustration!


John McEnroe has decided to be a brat again. This time claiming that Serena Williams would be ranked 700th if she played in the Men's Tennis Circuit. I can't think of anything better to say to that other than, 'You can't be serious!'

Serena's response was just to remind him not to hypothesise and to let her have her baby in peace. 1-0 to Ms. Williams. Judging by that response, she certainly would be ranked higher than a certain has-been male tennis player. 

While on tennis, I can't believe the media are actually hassling Heather Watson about her weight. When I read that, I wanted to spit in anger. Fortunately for my laptop, I refrained. 

This young motivated woman, who won the mixed doubles at Wimbledon last year, is athletic and attractive, so when young girls read the thrash the media write, what on earth are they going to imagine passes for 'normal'.

In the words of our then strong and stable PM, 'enough is enough'.

Irish reporter Catriona Perry, had the misfortune of catching Donald Trump's eye. Not just anywhere or at anytime but in his office while he was on the phone to congratulate Ireland's new Prime Minister, Leo Varadkar.

He lifted his little hand and beckoned her to his desk (where is Melania the swatter when you need her). In a scene straight out of American TV series 'Mad Men' (the clue is in the title), set in the sixties, he proceeded to tell Mr. Varadkar that she had a nice smile and that he bet she treated him well.

Words fail me, so I will stop here.

Until next time, try and keep it light!