A couple of months ago, or probably more, I cadged a copy of Sathnam Sanghera's If You Don't Know Me By Now off Penguin, claiming that I wanted to review it on my blog. You might think that since I read the book at a single sitting this would qualify it for immediate and enthusiastic review; you might think that laughing out loud would improve its chances; you might think that, since the book also raised important questions about identity, immigration, mental health and the nature of language it would have been impossible not to sit down and dash off a review to bring it to readers' attention. If I remember correctly, though, I was dealing with a difficult journalist (not Mr Sanghera) and unable to do more than halfheartedly post random links and the odd plot from R on pp. The review did not even make it as far as the drafts folder.
I wanted to take advantage of the blog form, though, by first introducing readers to Sanghera's style, which I first came across a couple of years ago in the Financial Times. If You Don't Know Me By Now came as a revelation precisely because I had been following Sanghera's column, with its finely tuned comic persona, for months, without (as so often) knowing anything about how it had come into being.
Sanghera took a sabbatical to write his book and is now back, writing for the Times. And today I find that Sanghera has explored an issue raised some time ago on paperpools - that of mad British copycat branding.
Those who've been following the blog may remember the feud between Britannia Pizza and Pasta and Britannia Pizza and Chicken, treasured flyer posted here. This is, it turns out, no isolated incident. SS:
They say that Britain has become a second-rate nation. They say our greatest brands are controlled by foreigners, that the last half-decent singer-songwriter we produced was Phil Collins, that we're run by a man who can't pronounce “al-Qaeda” properly.
It was hugely encouraging, therefore, to read last week that (i) the Newcott Chef restaurant on the A30 in Devon was being threatened with legal action from Little Chef over its lookalike appearance; and that (ii) the easyCurry Indian restaurant in Northampton was being threatened with legal action from Sir Stelios Haji-Ioannou's easyGroup over its trading name.
My rent is 411 euros a month, but the cost of living goes up when there are too many things in my head. I am thinking about the book that needs a publisher and the agent who is looking for a publisher and the book I put aside a year ago and the book I am starting from scratch and I walk out the door without my keys.
The Schlusseldienst charges 50 euros to open the door. So walking out the door just once a month without my keys raises the cost of the apartment to 461 euros a month. Or more.
I go to the Schlusseldienst and tell him I am locked out and he tells me he can meet me at the apartment at siebzehn Uhr, 1700 and I say fine. It's 4.30. The mind which is taken up with the three books and the agent seizes on the 7 and thinks 7 o'clock, a long time to wait but it has to be done. I go to Yorckschlosschen, the jazz café on my corner, and order a Jever and Smoky Bacon Walker's Crisps. I read the café's copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine, I think about the three books, time goes by, it's only 5 pm, it's 5.30 pm, I order another Jever, it's 6 pm, it's 6.30 pm, I pay, I leave. As I walk down the street to my house "siebzehn Uhr" goes through my mind and I think: 1700. 1700. 1700. Which is 5 o'clock. And now, of course, the Schlusseldienst is closed. What can I do? Where can I go?
My friend Ingrid Kerma is a painter who lives in London but has an apartment in Berlin near Kotbusser Tor. The key is kept by Barbara Colosseus, the web diva who designed my website and lives two floors up from Ingrid. I don't have Barbara's number. I take the U1 to Kotbusser Tor, go to Ingrid's place in Naunynstraße, ring Barbara's bell. She's there.
I let myself into Ingrid's apartment, call her to tell her I'm spending the night there. It feels pretty good.
In the morning I go to the bank for more cash. I think of the locksmith turning up at my apartment at 5pm, waiting for me, wondering what to do; I feel terrible. I need to apologise, I need to grovel, I need to offer more money, I need to atone. I pass a flower stall and buy 30 tulips for 12 euros. I go back to the Schlusseldienst, I explain in broken German about the 24-hour clock and the confusion this causes those who have not grown up with it, I give him 30 tulips, I apologise. This time the Schlusseldienst takes me to the apartment in his car. I offer more money but he says No, no that's fine.
In a separate but unrelated incident I am thinking about the three books and my agent and put water on to boil for pasta and go back to my laptop to work on one of the books or perhaps write to my agent. It's late. I go to bed. In the morning I go to the kitchen and the gas is still on under a dry pan with a blackened bottom.
Sometimes I lose things in the apartment. Every surface is covered with papers. I know the keys are here somewhere because I could not be in the apartment if I had not had the keys. So I can't leave the apartment without looking under all the papers until I find the keys.
Sometimes I put things in a safe place. I put my driver's licence, which I seldom use, in a safe place. I put my passport in a safe place. Later I remember that I put these documents in a safe place, but I can't remember what I thought would be a safe place.
Find One Find All is a device that can be attached to various things that get lost (key rings, wallet, remote control). Each object has a code. The device has a keypad. If you have located one of the objects, you can key in the code of a missing object on the keypad and the FOFA of the missing object will emit a signal enabling you to track it down.
It will not help you remember that you put water on to boil. It will not stop you walking out the door without your keys. But perhaps you've had this experience. You need a phone number. It's in your mobile phone. You can't find the phone. There are papers everywhere; you ransack the place but you can't find the phone. You call it on your landline; the William Tell overture burbles merrily from your pocket. You can't use your landline to contact your keys, your wallet, your driver's licence, your passport. FOFA might do the trick.
