When is a petrol station not a petrol station?

Sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? And it very nearly is – except it’s not funny.

A garage is not a garage – when it’s a shop. Of course, I understand that petrol stations have to turn a profit. But, come on. These days the sale of fuel has become secondary, which is a real pain for those who just want to drive in, fill up, pay, then zoom away and get on with their daily business.

Increasingly, you go to pay for your fuel, only to find yourself at the back of a mile-long queue of people clutching shopping baskets overflowing with groceries. There you stand, for what seems like hours, while their baskets are unloaded and scanned: toilet roll, cat food, soft drinks, bread, sweets, milk…

But there’s more. While you stand there waiting to hand over your £20 note for fuel, the clot at the front decides he wants to place his lottery numbers – for the whole street. And pay by debit card. Perhaps even redeem his loyalty card.

It’s a petrol station, for Pete’s sake!

Want to top up your gas credit? No problem. Want to top up your electricity? No problem. Want to top up your tank? Go to the back of the queue, and then wait. And wait.

Here’s a thought. Those old enough to remember will have driven onto petrol garage forecourts and run over a long black cable that rang a bell somewhere. A wee man in overalls would sidle up to your window, and ask how much fuel you wanted. He would then fill your tank, take your cash and come back with the change.

If you’re younger than 50-years of age, you won’t believe it.

So, if garages want to turn a bigger profit, try this: engage the services of several young lads whose job is to offer that wonderful old-fashioned service. Rather than regard the cars on your forecourt as a secondary source of revenue, start seeing them as customers. Customers you can attract to return on a regular basis.

I, for one, would drive miles out of my way for that level of service.

Anything to avoid the snaking queue of people who see the petrol station as a grocery store.

Drew McAdam

Take a wander around any bookshop and you are certain to stumble upon a section dedicated to “Popular Science”. There are thousands of these books available online, too. Now, yes, some are bought because people are genuinely interested in a particular subject. But let’s be brutally honest here: these books are read by many just so they can impress their non-nerd friends.

Pathetic, that is.

Many individuals devoid of interpersonal skills use the smattering of knowledge gleamed from such books in the same way they used to blow milk out their nose at school; to impress the “in crowd” and perhaps find acceptance.

Titles of such books include “30-second Theories” which attempts to cover all of science in 50 snippets. Useful for nerds to learn factoids they can introduce into conversations to make themselves look bright. Well, brighter than you at any rate.

Or how about a “See Spot Run” explanation of Quantum Mechanics, or the Beano exploration of “Hidden Reality” which looks at parallel universes. Or there is “Deep Simplicity” which covers Chaos Theory in 156 pages of big type.

Know what this reminds me of? Do you remember the “Bluff Your Way” series of books?

For example “Bluffers Guide to Opera” and “Bluff Your Way in Wine”, which was a way of learning a lot in 30-minutes and then screwing with the opera and wine snobs. Perhaps today’s publishers should be more honest and give the books appropriate titles. “Bluff Your Way in Quantum Mechanics and make your friends look stupid.” Or “The Bluffers Guide to String Theory – impress your family”.

Yes, it seems that Popular Science is the new Rock ‘n’ Roll. And that’s depressing, because Rock ‘n’ Roll was about fun. Popular Science is about misfits impressing their friends and making themselves look hyper-intelligent, while making everybody else look like chumps.

However, if you want a factoid about quantum weirdness, here’s my gift to you. The Big Bang theory suggests that there was a moment in time when every atom in the universe was condensed into a singularity. This, in turn, means everything in the entire universe is entangled at a quantum level. There is even a school of scientific thought claiming that quantum entanglement proves there is no such thing as space – rather, it is an illusion created by our flawed perceptions. We are all one… and the hippies were right.

Now, just memorise the above information, and go impress your friends. (But, no, you’re not that much of a saddo, are you?)

Drew McAdam

The possibilities are endless. And then I realised the one thing I would definitely do is take great care when crossing the road.

Let’s face it, being invisible and wandering around on a busy road would be – to put it mildly – stupid.

So, just how concrete-wall-thick does that make the increasing number of Ninja Cyclists on our streets? What I’m talking about are the black-clad lunatics you see – or more accurately don’t see – who weave and crisscross through nighttime traffic on black bicycles with no lights. I mean, they must have a death wish to do that.

One of my Facebook friends wrote that she had come within inches of KO’ing three of these twits in the space of one dark Edinburgh night. Although, how she knew it was three different ones, and not just the same bloke, I’m not sure. I mean, they all look the same. Shadows. Black cats lost in coal mines on a dark night. Invisible.

Becoming a Ninja Cyclist is easy. Black trackie bottoms and a black hooded top. Then perch yourself on a bike with no illumination whatsoever, and push yourself out into the main traffic stream. Doesn’t take a lot of skill, really.

But who’s going to get into a whole world of trouble if you actually run one of these clowns down? Well, you, of course.

Maybe they should bring in a law allowing anybody who happens across a Ninja Cyclist to spray them with aviation fuel, set them on fire, and shove them on their way.

Not just lights, but noise too… We would certainly know exactly where they were.

Drew McAdam

I have to admit: I enjoy writing my weekly column. It offers the opportunity to vent my spleen about things that annoy me. And, hopefully, things that annoy you, too.

However, I have a confession. I’m not really a grumpy git. In fact, most of my columns are written with my tongue firmly in my cheek.

But not this time. I’m deadly serious here.

The recent ice, wind and rain really brings out all the negative emotions in people. Everywhere I went, people were complaining about the weather. It seems that rain combined with wind and the cold turn us all into moaners and whiners.

But you know what? I have a favourite saying, and whenever somebody starts mumping about something I suggest that: “Every day spent above ground is a good one.”

Think about that.

And that’s why I offer this: one day I will be lying on my death bed. That day is coming, and there is nothing I can do about it. But you know what? I bet when it happens I will be lying there, probably in a warm room, and there will be something I will desperately want to experience – with every part of my being – just one last time.

The feeling of rain on my face.

I’ll be lying there, unable to go anywhere – except the great beyond. And the one thing I will be trying to recall as vividly as possible is the delight of clear drizzle as it runs down my cheeks. The invigorating caress of life-giving water.

So, if you’ll excuse me, it’s raining outside. I’m off to the garden, to turn my face skywards. Just to lock that memory in place.

And I might just jump in a puddle or two.

Drew McAdam

NOVEMBER 2: We were told to prepare for more travel chaos. We were about to be hit by Siberian temperatures. According to experts, temperatures “…will drop to below zero within a fortnight – and could be down to Siberian levels of -20C by December.

So everybody rushed out and bought salt and spades. A chum of mine spotted somebody in Livingston Centre with seven – yes, seven – snow shovels.

Another expert reported “…signs of a significant change in the mild weather in mid-November.” Another warned of “frequent and widespread heavy snowfalls during November… with below-average temperatures.”

Now the rush was really on: snow tyres and anti-freeze. Nobody was going to get caught out this time.

NOVEMBER 9: The same expert alerted us to “… snowfalls during November to January” Really? Snow in December and January? This guy is good. Mind you, that’s probably based on the weather patterns of the last 8,000 years. Pretty much a sure thing, eh?

By now we were feeling smug, because we were ready for it. We had stocked up on everything to last us through an Ice Age of Holywood proportions. However…

NOVEMBER 19: And the headline reads “UK Heatwave a Month Before Christmas.”

Just to put you in the picture. Despite the experts’ warnings that Arctic conditions would freeze us into blocks of ice then bury us forever under tons of snow, it was warmer here than in Istanbul and Ankara. In Otterbourne, in Hants, the mercury reached a level higher than the average June peak temperatures.

NOVEMBER 28:  Met Office figures show the average for the month so far is 9.4C – almost double the November average.

We were now using the snow shovels to fan ourselves. The sledges were being used as barbecues, and the anti-freeze had been exchanged for suntan lotion.

DECEMBER 3: It is officially announced that this has been the “Warmest November in 100 years, since records began.”

The Met Office stopped providing long range forecasts a while back, because they got them wrong so often. Quite simply, nobody can predict the weather weeks in advance, any more than you can predict the lottery. But that hasn’t stopped the one-man weather wizards – internet “experts” – from trying. Their forecasts are based on sea patterns and sunspot activity rather than science, satellite imagery and years of academic training.

They might as well have used tarot cards. Or phoned Wanda, the 4-quid-a-minute psychic.

So, don’t blame the Met Office. It’s the “expert” wet-seaweed brigade who came out with all that twaddle. And it’s thanks to them you have a shed filled with snow shovels and rock salt.

But have they hung their heads in shame and embarrassment? Have they wheech. No, they’re still running their pointless websites and making their equally pointless predictions, sound in the knowledge that sheer chance and probability means they must get it right some time.

Just not this time, eh?

Drew McAdam

Oh, the excitement. I can hardly wait for him to turn up.

A letter from Scottish Water “Always serving Scotland” was delivered to my office. It informs me that, according to their latest review, their records show “the above premises has a connection to the public water and is registered as being vacant.”

Wrong on both counts. And, anyway, why are they writing if it’s vacant? Some “review”, that.

An additional leaflet informs me that business customers can choose their water and sewerage supplier…. To be honest, I’m not sure I want a supply of sewerage. But maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, the letter continues that if I wish to put the proposed disconnection on hold, I can “…contact Scottish water… within the next two weeks.” If they don’t receive a reply within that time, then they “intend to proceed to disconnect the supply to the premises.”

Between you and I, their chance of getting a tinsel-wrapped camel as a Christmas gift is about the same as them getting a reply from me. Oh, what fun.

Now, I’m assuming that their records must be correct. If they say they are supplying the office with water, then there must be taps and a sink at the very least. I mean, they would know, wouldn’t they?

However, I have searched throughout my tiny office – looked behind the blinds and under the table. I even had a rake around in the filing cabinet – but, so far, I’ve found nothing. Not a tap, pipe or sink anywhere. The only water I have in my office is of the bottled variety. But I’m sure the water supplier knows best. After all, they have carried out a review and compiled their records.

And I’m sure the little man they send along with a big spanner to disconnect the supply will be able to show me exactly where the invisible taps and sinks are – maybe even an invisible toilet, too! And oh, what fun we’ll have searching for it.

Like I said, I can hardly wait. Bring it on!

Drew McAdam

But not when it comes to paying bills.

For example; I was recently invited to go “paperless” when receiving my bill from BT. I could “save money”, they said. Seemed fair – except it wasn’t, because actually they were going to start charging extra if I DIDN’T go paperless.

But let’s leave that little swindle aside for a moment.

When the latest bill came in by email, I simply opened the link, typed in my username, password and hit “enter”. Wrong username name or password. Well, it wasn’t the username that was wrong, because that was on the email BT had sent me. So I tired the password again. And again. And again.

Eventually I became so frustrated with it all I tried a flurry of random swear words, and pressing a jumble of keys. That didn’t work either.

This needed a more measured response. “Forgotten password?” Yes. A moment later, a message containing a pin number popped into my inbox. All I had to do was type that in, and select a new password. Easy.

Except it wasn’t, because the screen flashed red with the message: “An unexpected error has occurred please try again later.” So I did. Again and again and again. Each time, having to go through the whole rigmarole from the start. Over and over, continually getting the error message. Throughout the day.

Then I had a brainwave. There was an option to pay the bill without actually registering or logging in. All I had to do was to give them my account number – a 350-digit number. And where would I find this number? On the e-mail? Oh, no, that would be too simple.

According to the instructions, the only place you could find your account number… was at the top left corner of the paper bill. A paper bill which I didn’t have, because BT had forced me to go paperless!

It was nuts. All this nonsense, when I’m trying to give THEM money!

You know, there was a time when I could just take my bill to the Post Office and pay it there and then. Quick, painless and simple. No clerk telling you that an unexpected error had occurred and you would have to spend your entire day stuck in a loop, repeating the same tedious process.

And then I realised. All this palaver with account numbers and screen names and passwords, just so I could prove that I really was the bill holder. Crazy.

I mean, what is the worst that could have happened if somebody had impersonated me and hacked into my account? The only thing they would be able to do is pay my bill for me!

I live in hope.

Drew McAdam

Here we are, halfway through November. Many of the leaves are still on the trees. If you drive at night, you’ll have seen moths. And clouds of midgies are hovering around in the weak sunshine. Yet it feels like the Festive celebrations are already in full swing.

I like Christmas; but I like it near the end of December where it’s supposed to be. I have always ignored the festivities right up until the last moment – which explains why I’m often seen running from shop to shop on Christmas Eve trying to collect the items on my gift list.

And that’s why I found it all rather disconcerting this week when I was wrapped in tinsel, sporting cardboard Rudolph antlers, wearing a glass bauble on each ear, and singing Slade’s “So Here it is, Merry Christmas” at full tilt.

All very odd. But it makes sense when I tell you that I was being interviewed at a hospital radio station. And we were recording the Christmas show. It’s going to take them several weeks to edit the recording so the listeners can make some sense of my ramblings, then it will be transmitted to the wards along with my three favourite Festive hits on Christmas day.

What makes it all so wonderful is that the radio station is run by volunteers. Not just the presenters, but the people who collect requests around the wards, the admin staff and the technical team. Volunteers, every one of them.

So how could I turn down the offer – even if it did mean I had to break the habit of a lifetime and get into the Christmas spirit weeks before the event?

All power to those who give up their free time – particularly over the holiday period. While the rest of us are having fun, stuffing our faces, opening presents and slumping in front of the TV, an army of volunteers are out there making sure Christmas still comes for those who are not as fortunate as the rest of us.

I take my jingly hat off to them, one and all.

Drew McAdam

It was an ordinary T-shirt, or so I thought – with a Mickey Mouse logo. Now, while the short-sleeved T-shirt might have been run of the mill, the price certainly wasn’t. Take a deep breath… Ready? One-hundred-and-forty-two-quid.

Yes. You read that right. For a T-shirt.

I thought there must be some mistake. But I rummaged through the other T-shirts that were bundled on the counter, and they all cost about the same.

Well, perhaps the red logo was printed in ink derived from the blood of sacrificed virgins? Or the material was hand-woven from special wool, gently plucked from the underbelly of a rare breed of goat only found high in the Himalayan Mountains?

But no. There is absolutely nothing special about this garment – except the price. According to the sales blurb: it has European sizing. It’s white and short-sleeved. It has a Mickey Mouse printed design, and a crew neck. Pure cotton. Machine wash.

That’s it.

It’s a flamin’ T-shirt! Just like one of the dozen T-shirts I have. Identical in every way – except for the price.

Well, as I wandered off I couldn’t help wondering what kind of idiots would actually spend that kind of money on a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. People with more money than sense, perhaps? If I’d bought it I would certainly leave the price tag showing when I wore it, just so my mates would know how much I’d paid.

And I would wander around all winter just in T-shirt and jeans. I mean, why cover it up with a jersey and duffel coat when I’ve paid that much?

Of course, maybe the shop is relying on passing trade that doesn’t understand UK currency. Tourists from distant shores where there are 23million kwingodollars to the pound. In that case, 142 somethings for a T-shirt might sound reasonable.

Or maybe it’s just that there are people out there with loads of money and bargain basement self-esteem who think that the rest of us will hold them in higher regard because they paid a week’s wages for something the rest of us would polish the furniture with.

It’s a mystery to me.

Drew McAdam

Times are hard at the moment; we all know that. And we are constantly told that the key to getting out of the financial mess is by encouraging and supporting our small businesses.

These Ma-and-Pa businesses are run by individuals who are working every hour they can, determined to make a success of their toils. All their hard work and commitment results in growth and profit that’s spent in the local area, and leads to employing more workers. It’s their effort that will lift us out of the financial pit.

So, with that in mind, let me share with you an example of the problems facing just one small West Lothian firm.

Imagine David and Goliath, where David is a small business-owner, and Goliath is a major corporation with a local branch, but with interests around the globe.

Goliath came to David in a panic. There was something they needed that he could supply. A small job, but critical to Goliath. They needed it to be right, and they needed it in a hurry.  David provided what they needed, and he provided it on time at a fair price.

But months later, David is still waiting for Goliath to pay him. He’s sent invoices, emails and letters. He’s made numerous phone calls, and even turned up in person. It’s only a paltry sum – nothing to Goliath. But to David, it represents just one payment of many he needs to keep his business growing.

The cash amount is less than a taxi trip for one of the Goliath directors; they could surely pay it out of petty cash.

But, no. Instead, David has been given the runaround by the big boy. They told him that they don’t actually deal with the invoices and payments here, in West Lothian. Being a multi-national conglomerate, they supply paperwork he has to fill out to apply for payment. His application is then dealt with by a department in Mexico. If he wants his money he has to jump through hoops, and then phone the folks in Latin America. Does that seem fair to you?

And remember, this is just one example of the sort of thing that is happening to small businesses throughout West Lothian. By making things as difficult and as convoluted as possible, this particular local Goliath is draining the very lifeblood from our West Lothian community.

That means they are also thwarting the effort of all those in West Lothian who are trying to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.

Shame on Goliath.

Drew McAdam