Energy Crisis Hits Home
I now know what that newspaper headline meant when it said, UK Paralysed By Worst Winter For Years. It wasn't referring to snow or ice or the lack of true British grit. It was talking about the shock everyone felt upon receiving their winter fuel bill.
Our gas and electricity bill arrived today. A whopping six hundred and fifty three pounds and seventy four pence! I wouldn't have minded if it was for the whole year, but it wasn't. It was for a quarter, and that's on top of the hundred quid a month I pay by direct debit - which really does add up to a grand total!
I blame the kids. Between all those presents Christian received that didn't include batteries, my daughter's inability to switch off except when I'm talking to her, and the need to boil wash their sports kit after they left them in their school bags to grow mushrooms over the holiday period, they've lit up our Christmas like never before. When I phoned British Gas to complain, they recommended I change to their Las Vegas tariff for high usage customers. That, or install an EnergySmart meter to track when and where we use most fuel. Not that they claim it will help us save energy - in fact it's another thing to plug in - but they do say it forewarns customers how much the bill will smart before it arrives.
I know what you're thinking, 'It can't have been that unexpected as the Met Office have been telling everyone about the bad weather for over a month.' True, but that's where the real problem lies for me. Let me take you back a few years to explain.
When I was at secondary school during the seventies, I was friends for a while with a lad called Martin Spencer (his real name was Martin Davies, but I've changed it here for legal reasons). Martin was one of those boys who proved unbeatable in the boasting stakes. It didn't matter what subject you raised, he always went one better. He never told outright lies, but he did bend the truth to such an extent that everyone was convinced he would grow up to become a politician, or an estate agent, or Paul McCartney's wife.
Me: 'My dad got one of those new LED watches for Christmas. It's brilliant, you press a button and red digits flash up with the time. And it runs off a battery so it never needs winding.'
Martin: 'I would have had one myself, but my dad said to wait a few months until all the problems were ironed out.'
Me: 'What problems?'
Martin: 'Exploding batteries mostly. The straps tend to break too.'
Me: 'But it's got a metal strap.'
Martin: 'Is it expandable?'
Me: 'No.'
Martin: 'Ah. You need an expandable strap see, so it can give under pressure. Put a bit of strain on your average fixed strap, and it'll twang loose and be on the floor faster than Deborah Coney's bra in basketball practice. You'll be lucky to see flashing red digits after that.'
Me: 'Oh.'
Martin: 'So what did your parents get you for Christmas?'
Me: 'A chemistry set. It's great! It has twenty four experiments and comes with a real burner that runs on meths.'
Martin: 'I could use my paper round money if I wanted one of those. Only I'd go for the thirty six experiment set.'
Me: 'If you do, we could make stink bombs together. It tells you how in the kit'
Martin 'That's if I don't decide to go for a Rayleigh Chopper o' course'
Me: 'Wow! I'd love one of those. Would you let me have a go on it?'
Martin: 'Nah, too dangerous. You're not tall enough. One slip on the pedals and you and your nadgers would be parted before you could say third gear. Why do you think they call it a Chopper?'
Me: 'Oh.'
I never did see Martin wear a watch, or cycle to school on a Rayleigh Chopper, and the only experiments he was spotted doing were with Deborah Coney behind the bike sheds. Somehow he always got away with his outlandish unfounded claims. Probably because he always sounded so plausible and knowledgeable.
Which is why I'm convinced he now works for the Met Office as their Chief Statistician.
Even with a £33m IBM computer that can make 1,000,000,000,000,000* calculations a second the Met Office have made some pretty major gaffs in their time. No wonder their headquarters are sited in Exeter not Oneoaks. It was after one stormy night too many several years ago that they came to the conclusion they needed more than probability and trend analyses to rely on. That's when they recruited Martin Spencer. It's Martin's job to come up with all those sensational weather claims that don't actually mean anything.
Ever since he joined them, regardless of how many snow days the schools have had each year, the Met Office have been releasing statements about it being the coldest, mildest, wettest, dullest, snowiest, windiest winter ever! That's all Martin's work. He's the only person at the Met Office who doesn't need to gaze out of the window to do his job.
This winter, he's excelled himself in the weather one-upmanship stakes. The national press can't get enough of his work and run with everything he produces. Here are a few genuine Martinisms that the Met Office has released recently along with what they really mean.
The country is experiencing the coldest winter for up to 25 years - up to 25 years translates as one year. It's similar to those 'up to 50% off selected items' sales where shops discount customers by trying to flog them half a sweater marketed as a tank top.
The current chill could be as long and as drawn out as the Winter of Discontent in 1979 - could and might were always Martin's favourite words. And he was only discontented that year because I'd got a chemistry set and he hadn't.
Wettest Christmas on record - this is Martin's rage against Rage Against The Machine for beating Quo's 'Christmas In The Sun' to the number one spot this year. He used to be their biggest fan until they learned too many chords.
Worst snow for thirty years - someone must have pushed a pile of it down his neck recently; like I did thirty years ago on the playground after he chucked my scarf in the slush.
Some places have had eight inches of snow - almost enough to cover a pizza. If it doesn't say deep pan on the box, then it's not deep.
All of this explains why I didn't really treat the bad weather seriously until I received my fuel bill. With Martin at the helm, the Met Office can't be trusted. I hear there might be a vacancy on the UN Climate Committee soon. Martin would be an ideal candidate - provided the Himalayan glaciers don't all melt before he gets there.
In the meantime, I suggest we bring back the weather forecasters of old. You always knew where you were with the likes of David Icke, Ulrika Johnson and Michael Fish - wearing a purple shell suit whilst driving a 4x4 through a hurricane mostly. But at least you never had an unexpected fuel bill when they were in charge of the weather.
Saying that, I'm glad I don't live in the East Midlands, as their regional BBC weather presenter is called Sara Blizzard. Not even Martin could get away with that!
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*That's either a marillion or quadrillion depending if you like Fish** (back)
**Look it up!