Friday 24th March, 2012

I have to confess my enthusiasm for the Kindle is slightly on the wane as I am struggling with an absolutely rubbish book by some twit called Alan Judd, so I have started to watch Mad Men on my iPad. Hooked. It's brilliant. Got me to thinking this afternoon about advertising and branding. It still grates on me to be met, on arriving at Cambridge station, by posters proclaiming the city as "The Home of Anglia Ruskin University". What about Peterhouse College which was founded in 1284, Pembroke (1347 ), Magdalene (1428) or even new ones such Kings (1441) or Trinity (1546)? Any of those venerable institutions could have been chosen. But Anglia Ruskin University which was only given university status when work began on their campus in Chelmsford, as it happens, in 1992? What a joke. The sad truth is the rarified atmosphere that drew me to Cambridge, albeit I only eventually managed to live there aged 42 having earlier become the first headboy at Glenalmond who sat for a place at Cambridge to fail to pass the entrance exam, has gradually dissipated. And, for me, Cambridge hit rock bottom on Monday morning this week. There I was at 5.40am, lining up to buy a cup of tea on the station platform to brace me for my train journey which these days annoyingly stops to pick up undesirables at Royston and Letchworth Garden City having previously been non-stop, when I became the subject of a torrent of vile and vitriolic abuse from a wretched yob, probably drugged or boozed up. For close on 5 minutes he ranted and raved at the four of us in the AMT queue haranguing us for wearing suits, being bankers, contributing nothing to society and spending money on latte's whilst his "brothers" were dying. I am under strict instructions from Sophie these days, since once nearly being thrown off a cross channel ferry by Liverpudlian football fans and, on another occasion when I tried to assert my rights, assaulted at Tottenham Hale Station, not to react to provocation. So, to my shame, I just stood there and soaked it all up. It is not good for the soul. The postscript to this silly story - apart from the fact that when emerging from Hyde Park Corner an hour and twenty minutes later I found myself alongside someone who looked uncannily like my earlier assailant I did summon up the courage to have a polite word with him ( it turned out to be a case of mistaken identity on my part ) - is that when I got home that evening the phone rang. It was 8.35pm and the letters INTERNATIONAL flashed up on the handset which you know means its a cold call from someone in Bangalore trying to sell you a miracle cure for the bugs on your computer. My usual tactic for such calls ( handing the phone to Hen ) was not available so I picked it up and without waiting for the caller to introduce themselves said "Sorry. Not interested. Thank you So much " and put the phone down. Immediately and persistently the phone rang again. I had to answer it again and it was magnificent actually. "You ignorant ****" the guy shouted at me. "You are so ******** stupid. You didn't even wait to hear what I was calling about. **** you. **** you." - to paraphrase. And then he slammed the phone down on me. Hand on heart I was going to apologise if he had rung again. But he didn't. Oh well. Abuse at 5.40am and then 8.35pm. Thank goodness I have you lot in between times. Talking about in between times, I got a text message from a friend yesterday, just after lunch. I spotted your wife in Sloane Street from my car earlier. She could hardly walk being laden down with expensive looking shopping bags!! No budget day worries in your household! He was spot on. Sophie was in town. Now there's someone who really could do with a quiet word in her ear from that man on the station platform.