Annabel vs the Internet

by Annabel Port

  Things are not going well, but I have a third option. There is a section on the Kremlin website where it says you can send a letter to Putin, but over the Internet. So an email, really.

  I send him this:

  Dear Vladimir Putin,

  I’m writing in the hope that we’ll become friends. I plan to send you a tank of piranhas as a token of my affection (not a bribe), so could you let me have your home address and I’ll check the eBay seller delivers to Russia?

  I’ve also organised a bonding activity for us. To go hang-gliding in the West Midlands (UK). I’ve already checked that it’s all right for you to do it topless and that there’s a good chance of discovering a brand-new type of cloud so it should be a great day.

  I don’t know how many friends you’ve got already. If it’s not many, it might be because you’re quite hard to get hold of. Like when I googled the words “contact Putin”, I just got a lot of sites instructing me how to put in contact lenses. Which was a bit annoying.

  Regarding our communication as friends, I’m afraid I can’t speak Russian. But I do know how to say “my knickers are red” in Polish, if that helps.

  One big thing is I can’t be friends with you if you’re homophobic. I know you’ve said recently you’ve befriended some gay people. But the way you said this felt a bit like the time my grandma (RIP) said to me, “The doctor who saw me was black, but he was very good,” and didn’t realise that the “but” in this sentence was problematic.

  We’ve got to sort this out properly. Maybe you could publicly French kiss Gorbachev. Or whatever the Russian version of French kissing is. This would send out a positive message.

  Well, I do think we could be good friends. I know you’re former KGB, but that doesn’t faze me as my sister once tied me up and tickled me until I couldn’t feel ticklish any more and I’m still not ticklish to this day.

  So do get back to me.

  SWALK

  Annabel

  I go to press send and suddenly get nervous as I really want to visit Russia one day. What if my name goes on a file now and when I enter the country I get thrown in a gulag?

  I dismiss this fear and press send. Nothing happens. I keep pressing it again and again. What’s worrying me more than it not sending is that it has been sending around about thirty times, and I’ll look weird and obsessive. I’m not sure I could be friends with someone who sent their first email to me thirty times. If this doesn’t work, if Putin and I don’t become friends, at least now I know that this is the only reason.

  27

  The Challenge:

  To get an English Heritage blue plaque erected

  I’d love a blue plaque on my house. Mainly as it would add value. You’re not allowed to make any big changes once you’ve got this listed status, but I’ve not changed the horrible blinds that came with my house when I bought it three years ago, so I don’t think any major alterations are going to happen. However, I’m pretty sure nobody famous has ever lived at my house, so I’ll have to look elsewhere for the plaque.

  When setting this challenge, Geoff suggested Guy Goma. I don’t need any more encouragement. It was the eight-year anniversary last week of when Guy Goma was the wrong man interviewed on BBC News 24. Never forget. If you have forgotten or just have no idea who I mean, I urge you to immediately google him and watch the video. Then marvel at his chain of wonderful facial expressions.

  He’d be perfect. I just need to do a bit of research to check he’s a suitable candidate. English Heritage run the scheme and I learn on their website that in May 2010, after holding a two-day conference, they produced a guidance document. That sounds massively like an excuse for a drunken weekend away. I click on the document; it’s 160 pages long. Even if the blue plaque was in my honour, I’m not sure I’d have the will to read it all. So I don’t. I already feel like I know the important stuff.

  I know they only pay for it if it’s in London. That’s fine. No problem there. There’s a slight problem in that the subject of the plaque has to have been dead for a minimum of twenty years. But this is ridiculous. How can they get to enjoy it if they’re not around? It’s the same with saints. What’s the point of becoming one when you’re dead? When you can’t use it to get restaurant reservations and plane upgrades?

  This has to change. It would also be much more interesting if it’s modern people. As soon as any celebrity moves out, they should put a plaque straight up and I feel that Guy Goma is the man to spearhead this change.

  The only obstacle remaining is the question of where the plaque goes. My first thought is on the BBC building where the “Wrong Man” interview took place. I do slightly worry that maybe some fractionally more noteworthy things have happened at the BBC that might take precedence.

  It could be Guy Goma’s birthplace, but that’s in the Republic of the Congo, which is outside of London so I’d have to pay for it myself. I next consider where he was living at the time of the interview. This would probably have been in London. It’s impossible to find out where, though. It’s impossible to find out anything about him as he’s disappeared. Which explains why his biopic has not been made yet. They probably need him to sign some forms.

  Then I remember that the reason Guy Goma was at the BBC was because he had a job interview. In fact, twenty minutes after being live on air, he went off and had the interview. He didn’t get the job, unsurprisingly, as he’d found himself being interviewed on live television about something he knew nothing about TWENTY MINUTES beforehand. I’d love to see a video of this job interview. Anyway, this has given me an idea.

  I call up the BBC’s HR department and say, “I’m calling from English Heritage’s blue plaques department and we’re looking to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of Guy Goma’s appearance on BBC News 24 with a plaque on the house he lived in at the time. Obviously, we need his address from back then, though, so could you look it up for me?”

  I get my pen ready to write down the details. However, the man says he can’t give that information out over the phone because of data protection and that I have to email.

  This is great. They can give me the address, just not over the phone.

  He then says he’ll speak to his line manager just to clarify the situation. I don’t stop him as while I’m on hold I have a nice time imagining that conversation.

  “Boss, I’ve got someone on the line who wants Guy Goma’s address.”

  “Who’s Guy Goma?”

  “The wrong man on BBC News 24.”

  “What does she want his address for?”

  “Um, she’s from English Heritage and they’re going to put a blue plaque on his house.”

  He comes back on the line and confirms that I need to email in. I do. It’s a bit unfortunate at this stage that I’ve said I’m from English Heritage as I don’t have an English Heritage email address, but I manage to get round this by writing that I’m a freelancer working for English Heritage. I’m sure they have lots of freelancers doing all their dirty work.

  I don’t have to wait long for an email back from HR. It’s just an automated one giving me my case reference number but I’m well on my way to getting a blue plaque up for Guy Goma.

  What I need now is support from significant others. When I read about recent blue plaques on the English Heritage website, one name keeps coming up. They are always saying, “The blue plaque scheme is generously supported by David Pearl.”

  David Pearl, I discover, is a property developer on the Sunday Times Rich List. He’s a real hotshot. I get straight on the phone to his company and ask to speak to him. Remarkably I get put through; I don’t even have to say who I am. Unfortunately, it goes to voicemail. But the voicemail gives out his mobile number.

  I’m very excited to have a hot-shot’s mobile phone number. I immediately dial it but I get an answerphone again, so I leave a message, telling him I’m calling from English Heritage. Annoyingly, I keep saying “plaque” wrong so that it rhymes with “dark” and not “hack”. I have to kee
p correcting myself, which I don’t think looks very professional.

  I don’t hear back from him straight away so I decide that now would be a good point to stop and reflect on my progress so far. I make a list of what I’ve not yet achieved.

  1. Any kind of address for Guy Goma to put the blue plaque up at.

  2. Any form of support.

  This is just two things, which is great. I make a list of what I have achieved.

  1. Nothing.

  This is not great, but there’s still time and I’ve not even been in contact with English Heritage yet. That is what I’m going to do now and I’ve got an excellent plan involving the hotshot benefactor David Pearl.

  The plan is, I go to the headquarters of English Heritage and get this Guy Goma plaque fast-tracked by pretending to be David Pearl’s new executive assistant. “Pretending” is a good word as it’s much nicer-sounding than “fraudulently imitating”.

  It’s probably going to seem a bit weird that this executive assistant hasn’t made an appointment, so I create an assistant who is very posh and brilliant but chaotic. A flawed genius. Her name is Angelica Princegood.

  I head off to the offices. As I’m walking in to the reception, I put my phone to my ear.

  “Yes, Mr Pearl, yes. Right, yes, of course,” I say in my poshest voice.

  There’s somebody talking to the receptionist so I have to keep it up as I’m not sure she heard the first bit. I’ve kind of run out of things to say though. I find myself saying, “Three times three,” “Yes, Zanzibar,” “Eight o’clock, right, right, okay, okay.”

  In my head, David Pearl is a very demanding boss. As the other person at reception walks away, I finish with, “Okay, Mr Pearl, I’m here now, okay, David, bye.”

  Then I give the receptionist a big smile and introduce myself.

  “Hi, I’m Angelica Princegood, David Pearl’s new executive assistant. I just thought I’d come and introduce myself.”

  Before I’d arrived, I’d looked up a name of someone that worked there. I mention that now and say how I’d love to say hi to them.

  It turns out this woman is on leave, but the receptionist, who is being really nice to me, says she’ll call her replacement.

  I take a seat and there’s soon a smiling lady shaking my hand. I introduce myself again and ask if she’s got a sec for me to tell her about something Mr Pearl is really keen on.

  “Of course,” she says.

  I tell her it’s about a blue plaque and Mr Pearl has got the suggestion of someone fabulous. She asks who.

  “Guy Goma,” I say.

  “Right,” she says. She sounds a little unsure.

  “Do you know who that is?” I ask.

  She doesn’t, which probably explains why she’s still sitting talking to me and smiling.

  “He was the wrong man on BBC News 24. Isn’t that fabulous?”

  “Oh yes!” she cries. “Oh perfect!”

  She is, without doubt, one of the politest people I’ve ever met. Or maybe funding at English Heritage is in a dire situation and if David Pearl suggested a blue plaque for that monkey in the sheepskin jacket in IKEA, they’d be equally enthused.

  She’s now asking questions about the house where the plaque would be put: “Does it have the original façade?” I have no idea, but I tell her it does and pray she doesn’t ask me where it is.

  She then tells me I’ve got to bear in mind it can take up to two years. This is probably as I’m getting a bit overexcited, which has the unfortunate side effect of my posh accent slipping a bit. But I tell her that’s perfect, as in two years it’s the ten-year anniversary of Guy being on BBC News 24.

  “Oh, it couldn’t be more perfect!” she agrees. She asks me a few more questions about Mr Pearl and whether he’d be involved in any publicity for this.

  I imagine there are many more questions going through her mind. Like, for example, why is the executive assistant of someone on the Sunday Times Rich List wearing jeans, trainers and a T-shirt.

  There are many questions going through my mind too. Like why am I pretending to be an executive assistant in order to get a blue plaque for Guy Goma?

  “Well, great to get that sorted,” I say. “I can’t wait for all this to happen. Do please call David’s office and keep us updated.”

  I leave them to find out Guy’s address and make a confusing phone call to David Pearl. If they can get him to answer his phone. It’s now surely just a matter of time before we’ll all be making a pilgrimage to the Guy Goma blue plaque house. I’ll be going all the way there on my knees.

  28

  The Challenge:

  To become the new CEO of Tesco

  The CEO of Tesco has been ousted and I see no reason at all why I can’t replace him. I’ve shopped there loads of times. I’ve also worked in supermarkets before, stacking shelves and on the till, so I know what a supermarket needs. Yes, I’ve never managed anyone at all ever or done a spreadsheet or even know the basics about finances, sales, marketing, etc. But I know what makes a supermarket good. It’s basically just food.

  I’ve already got a lot of very strong opinions and I’m hoping lots of my ideas will inject new life into Tesco as they’re doing pretty badly at the moment. I think only one in every seven pounds spent in the UK is being spent at Tesco.

  My first idea is to change the name of Tesco Express. I’ve been to a Tesco Express several times and there is no Express involved. It’s not in any way fast. You spend ages looking for some fairly basic products, limes or olives or pineapple juice, and they don’t have it. So you have to go somewhere else.

  It’s not fast, it’s small. They should never have got the two confused. I come up with a list of some new, more suitable names:

  Tesco Mini

  Tesco Diddy

  Tesco Streamlined

  Tesco Titchy

  Tesco Okay If You Just Want Bread and Milk

  To be honest, I’m not even sure about the Tesco bit when I learn how the name came about. Jack Cohen started the company on a market stall in the East End in 1919, which is how all supermarkets started, apart from Waitrose. I think. He sold a tea by T. E. Stockwell and took the TES then added the first two letters from his surname and got Tesco.

  This is terrible. What if the tea had been by C. H. Irving? He’d have had to call his supermarket Chico. Or if the tea had been by D. I. Smith, it would’ve been Disco. Actually, that would’ve been brilliant.

  I decide to leave the Tesco bit for now, though, as there are probably more important things. Like the most annoying thing about supermarkets of today: the self-service checkouts with their “unexpected item in bagging area”. There’s nothing I can do about this happening, as the technology is just not quite there yet. But I can make it less annoying. For example:

  “Are you trying to steal something?”

  “Are you trying to do an Antony Worrall Thompson?”

  “UH-UH”, like the Family Fortunes incorrect buzzer.

  “The technology’s not quite there yet, sorry.”

  Any of these are better.

  Another area I want to get involved in is trollies and baskets. Using a trolley is one of the few times in life that I feel like a grown-up. The only other times are when I’m writing on a whiteboard and writing a cheque. I feel masterful and in charge when I’m pushing a trolley. But I’m often not buying enough to warrant using one. So I use a basket. But what if there was a hybrid of the trolley and basket? A trasket. A mini-trolley, similar to what they sometimes have for kids to push around, but adult-sized.

  Also, as I quite often leave my basket somewhere and wander off and then can’t find it again, I suggest a remote-controlled flare on the trasket, which you activate when lost.

  Next, the Clubcard. I’ve got nothing against something that saves you money. Even though I know it’s really to keep tabs on you and they probably sell the information to the FBI. But I want the card to be exciting, like the American Express Centurion card, Nandos black card or yo
ur National Insurance card when you get it at sixteen.

  The answer is obvious. You start with a Tesco Value card, then move up to an ordinary Tesco card. Then for the elite customer, the Tesco Finest card, which will be silver. It doesn’t exist yet and it’s already the thing I want most in the world. Apart from a trasket.

  It won’t just be for rich people, though, which is good as then I’d never get it. It won’t just reward money spent, it will reward loyalty. So every time you shop you get points but if you go to Sainsbury’s, you’d get some deducted. I’m not sure how this will work but I’ll leave the logistics to someone else.

  There will be great rewards for the Finest card as well, not just money-off vouchers. There’ll be benefits similar to the Blue Peter badge. Like free visits to the Imperial Leather soap factory. And the front seats on the top deck of a bus will be reserved for Tesco Finest Clubcard holders.

  I’m pretty much finished now, just a few more small things to add, which are: bring back display pyramids of stuff like baked beans, games of hide and seek in store that you can join in with, everyone’s allowed to lick the cake-mix bowl in the bakery bit and write on all the banana skins. And they should stock some random items from other supermarkets, like Sainsbury’s tinned tomatoes, to confuse shoppers.

  If only the outgoing CEO had had all these ideas. It might have been very different for him. Retail glory awaits me now though. Right after I’ve gone out in the field to test my ideas.

  I go to a Tesco. A Tesco Metro. I think these are just a slightly bigger Tesco Express, but I don’t know as nobody really knows. As soon as I get there, I know what I want to test first. The trasket. The basket/trolley hybrid. I do notice that they have those baskets you drag along behind you like wheelie suitcases. I can’t stress enough that this is not what I mean and does not in any way fulfil my requirements. I like the feeling of pushing a trolley. I don’t want to do dragging and bending down to put stuff in the basket.