Corporate Blawg UK

Call it mid-life crises, call it what you will

Love makes you fat. Corporate Blawg loves his wife, but not his chub, so Corporate Blawg is trying to lose a little of his extra girth before it appears like he's about to give birth. 

This new momentim was prompted by Corporate Blawg registering with his local GP surgery last week, not because anything is wrong, but in case he has an uncontrollable burst of shits or giggles.  Part of the process/problem with registering with your GP is that your blood pressure, weight and height must all be measured.  Corporate Blawg was told by the pretty asian nurse that he was 99kg, and the ideal for his height was 80kg, hence he was, ahem, overweight.

Corporate Blawg was thrown by this (but not very far because he is too heavy).  The realisation of being 1kg away from a tenth of a ton, or a 30th of an average sized elephant, was enough to make him start counting the calories.  Corporate Blawg doesn't look overweight because he is 188cm tall and has well-made shirts.  However, for piece of mind, and to avoid an overbearing overhang, Corporate Blawg is now all over healthy food and exercise.

Accordingly, most of Saturday was spent in York Hall swimming pool.  One of the deepest, bluest, most Art Deco swimming pools in East London.  There he swam back and forth like a horizontal yo-yo until he was almost sick.  Conscious of the faux pas of throwing up in a swimming pool, Corporate Blawg exited and went to buy dinner at a fatty supermarket.

In the cornicopia to capaciousness, Corporate Blawg began reading the fat content of his favourite foods.  Falaffel was 28% fat! But Lamb Kofte was only 16%!  The apparently healthy alternative to a kebab was a lie!  For dinner that evening, as his wife was away and he had 2 action films to get through and a playstation game, Corporate Blawg purchased a healthy-eating ready-made Chicken Tikka Masala meal (and a healthy-eating ready-made Shepherds Pie in case he got peckish later on).

Sunday followed Saturday, as is usual, and Corporate Blawg went to extraordinary lengths to do press ups whilst playing poker on the playstation.  This was followed by a sprint to Dixons, and the realisation that he would have to sprint back as he did not want to stop in Whitechapel with a bag full of expensive electrical goods.

Since meat tends to be more fatty than vegetables, on Sunday evening Corporate Blawg treated his wife to his famous Chilli Con Quorny.  Corporate Blawg's wife was most impressed and has been gassing off about how good it was for the last two days.  Corporate Blawg long ago got wind of how good his Chilli Con Quorny was.

Having two "Completions" in the next two weeks has meant that Corporate Blawg has had to work late, but this evening, Corporate Blawg did the unthinkable.  He ran home from work, kind off.  He ran for 200 yards then walked 50 yards, wheezing like a broken kettle.  Then he would run 180 yards, and walk for 60, panting like a dog with asthma.  Then he would run 160 yards, and walk for 80m, coughing and spluttering like an underwater volcanic vent with benthic fauna clambering at his neck.

Now Corporate Blawg still weighs 99kg, but his lunchtime peri peri chicken and chips that were a second on the lips, won't be adding to his hips.  So this is the future, and if you see a 188cm, 99kg corporate guru miserably sipping gin and slim-line tonic in a City pub over the next five months, take a chance and ask him "are you Corporate Blawg?".

Sensible is as sensible does

Like a bee collecting nectar, or a KFC carton underfoot, so the natural process of life continues, driven forward by necessity and love of dirty chicken.   Likewise the less than wise but immensely likeable Corporate Blawg is propelled through space in a rapidly-aging time machine made of flesh, bone, a speck of grit, and the severed head of a lego man who died in 1982.  It is the summer solstace on Thursday, when the year turns and starts to age like a tasty Romanee Conti.  So also Corporate Blawg, that undiscovered element, that benign but ridiculous fuse of a muse of nature and techology, that weapon of gas and suction, yes, so Corporate Blawg is contemplating growing older, growing up, and growing man-breasts.

Wherefrom did this motion strike him?  It was a flash of realisation, a bolt from the heavens when in response to a plan to meet in a bar Corporate Blawg found himself uttering those now immortal words: "Yes - that seems sensible".

Take a moment.  Pause.  Reflect.  "Yes - that seems sensible".  What Corporate Blawg should have said was "Cool", "Mega" or "Great" (at least imaginative).  But no, "sensible" had become a word for good, and cool was off the radar. 

Following that second at a distance, like suited men in a 4x4, Corporate Blawg looked to his feet in moribund horror of his inherent change.  Injury compounded insult as Corporate Blawg noted after three months of wearing them, that he had on sensible shoes.  Not trainers to look mega in, not trainers to ride skateboards or sprint from sweetshops, but mountain walking sports trainers for sensible walking to work on concrete floors and cemented walkways. 

Then in his head he heard a voice, and remembered his Grandad's brown cardigans... It happens to us all, my son.  Resist for as long as possible, but when it hits you, embrace it.  Perhaps it is a side-effect of marriage.  Clothes are for comfort, and love makes you fat.  Ah well, happiness is where the heart is.

On that note Corporate Blawg is going to hand over to Corporate Papawg to write about something more sensible.

On Saturday night/Sunday morning Corporate Papawg stumbled home from his friend's 30th birthday party.  There he switched on the TV to see a movie about Bob Dylan (playing a rising folk singer), also starring Val Kilmer and Christian Slater.  Corporate Papawg only watched 15 minutes before another East Londer stuck his fingers in the mains and caused a power cut.  However, in those final 15 minutes of electricity Corporate Papawg read on subtitles a rant from Val Kilmer, clearly drafted by the great Bob himself.  The conclusion of this rant was that "the only thing that separates man from the animals is the knowledge of death". 

At the time Corporate Papawg thought this was f*cking genius. But, whilst getting himself a sensible haircut the next day, Corporate Papawg thought about it again and realised it was utter bollox.

Elephants mourn their dead.  Magpies only ever have one mate, even if one dies.  Dolphins push sick dolphins to the surface to help them breathe.  Of course animals know about death, because otherwise they would not learn from fear.  The instinct of fearing harm and death and seeing harm and death creates knowledge.  In fact, the knowledge that comes from instinct is one of the few sources of knowledge where we can be sure of its truth.

Ditfurth (1976) says that "our brain is a tool for thinking, but not its cause. Our brain has not invented thinking, the thinking invented the brain."

Still quite poetic but less pithy than Bob I'm sure you'll agree.

Similarly, Corporate Papawg recently watched Apocalypto, the Mel Gibson movie about Mayan people.  Good movie, but Corporate Papawg was disturbed by the violence.  Once upon a time in the East Corporate Papawg loved his horror films and action movies but not now...  Now the last thing Corporate Papawg wants is to see any sort of realism connected with mutilated limbs and spraying blood.    Anyway, Corporate Papawg should have known it was going to be an odd film.  Any movie that has a tag-line of "No one can outrun their destiny" is an absurd non-sequitur that causes Corporate Papawg to break the offending DVD with a hammer and chisel because he's watched too many violent movies and thinks that violence solves problems.

Corporate Blueg believes that navy blue is the best corporate colour.

Back from holiday...

Corporate Blawg is back and proud because he's brown.  Not because it was particularly sunny, but because in-between the rain Corporate Blawg didn't use any sun-cream lotion.  This careful planning is a bit like catching a train to a bus stop to speed up your journey, or adding flour to gravy to make it more filling.  Nevertheless the results are the same.

From the misty hills of the amazing Amalfi coast, to the sun-washed cliffs of capricious Capri, Corporate Blawg has danced and jumped and shouted "FACEBOOK" at the top of his voice to famous footballers and actors alike... 

The marriage of a Premiership goalkeeper to a Doctor of fashion in Ravello was a blinding 4 day party.  The 40 wedding guests consisted of legends, megadons, diamond-geezers, heros, models, funk-chicks, oldies and one or two uber-geeks like Corporate Blawg and his wife.  We fitted in by teaching the footballers how to smoke cigars, the actors how to drink, and the celebrity wags taught us that in order to get the right camera pout you didn't say "cheese" you said "prune". This reveleation in Ravello has ruined all subsequent holiday snaps.  You try it and see.

Then on from Ravello, Corporate Blawg and his wife went to Athens, to see his niece and her parents...

Corporate Papawg was much perturbed by how much he took to his 2-and-a-half year old niece.  This little bundle of loveliness completed melted his heart.  The highlight was when Corporate Papawg pretended to be Charlie Chaplin and made her laugh so much she wet herself.  But enough of that sentimental claptrap... Corporate Papawg does not want one of his own, yet.

FACEBOOK!  How good is facebook? We, the first generation to barely remember a world without email and the internet, even we have become saturated by Facebook, and it's great.  Corporate Blawg has got in contact with old schoolfriends, lots of holiday buddies, and an estranged tablecloth. FACEBOOK! yeah.

Corporate Blueg has recently learnt some very interesting things about LLPs, but since he's working quite hard at the moment, he doesn't want to talk about it. 

Tasting the waters

Corporate Blawg was in Bath last week, to taste the waters and recover from the LawBlog conference 2007 on the Friday before.  And what a great conference that was!

Corporate Blawg felt honoured for spending the evening in the great company of Charon QC, Geeklawyer, Ruthie, Pupilblog, Head of Legal, Liadnan, Squaremile et al. 

Never one to miss a profound opportunity Corporate Blawg was surprised that his blogging chums were not all the spitting image of Corporate Blawg!  Only Charon was familiar (having posted his picture all over the net if you know where to look and don't have a firewall).  For instance, who would have thought that LibelBlog was a short, green, tri-footed Mekon from the planet Thaarg?  All this time Corporate Blawg thought that LawBlawgUnited was a white middle-class nonce from the home-counties, whereas actually she's 8ft tall, has grey suckers on the end of her fingers and communicates by telepathic odours. Anyways, it's been a great revelation to all.

In order to dispell any myths of Corporate Blawg's appearance, he has exposed himself in the following picture as the one on the podium. 

For the avoidance of doubt, Corporate Blawg always wears a suit and at the weekends and disguises himself in spectacticles.

Bristol Birds

Bang go the braincells, the liver shivers, and the skin starts to shrivel like a dehydrated prune. Another weekend of intoxication subsides like a cliffside cottage tumbling into the sea. 

All day Sunday, vodka-in-the-neck returned on me as if a putrid dog was p**sing down my hairy throat. I'd recommend it.  Vodka-in-the neck that is. First you swig the neck of a Smirnoff Ice, then you fill the neck up with a double vodka.  Four of these and Bob's your uncle, your aunt and a comedy game with a porcelain bowl. 

This celebration was prompted by visiting Jez, an excellent friend from University.  Jez has put a bun in his wife's oven, and we had to spend our bread on toasting his success.

Fred (short for Frederica) is showing a bump that represents 12 weeks of nervousness.  The impregnation has come as a great relief to them both, particularly Jez.  It is a worry for every man, to some extent.  My personal experience is that rugby boots make soft work of unprotected gonads, and slipping on electric fences makes pubic hair stand on end.  Despite similar accidental tortures, Jez's tadpoles have proved that they can swim vigorously, vigorously enough to reach the spherical gamete of womanness and turn it into a prawn.

Jubilent at seeing each other again, Jez and I left Fred with the washing up and a lime cordial. On Fred's suggestion we headed into town to chat mano-a-mano, and read birds' names from an Eye-spy paperback - such as Shag, Shoveller, Spoonbill, Little Tern, Woodcock, Swallow, Mistel Thrush, Great Tit, Raven, Great Skua, Horned Lark, Northern Flicker, Ruff etc. 

Jez wore a pink cardigan so come 3a.m. every bouncer directed us to gay bars,which weren't on the agenda for us.  After 3 vodka-in-the-necks and 4 jugs of Star we found a place with titties and beer in a seedy backstreet of Bristol.  Unfortunately, this wasn't the kind of bar where the girls take off their clothes for money, but it was the kind of place to hang out with Gracey and her sister, Memphis. 

Gracey was 17 in age and stone.  Twice as wide as me, and when she talked her cleavage leant into my beer as if her nipples would suck up the alcohol and spray it across the room. 

In a thick West-Country accent, Gracey told me that she has a one-year-old at home, and her sister who is 19 also has a baby.  I asked her, politely, how she spends her free time, she told me: "Oi loike foitin' men.  Oi dun loike foitin' wimmin, bah oi loike foitin' men".  It was a wise decision not to ask her about the father of her child.  When this scary creature from Viz started threatening to flick cigarettes at ethnic minorities Jez and I politely asked her not to (which she did to our surprise), and then we moved away from this unpleasant elephant. Clearly motherhood does not have a calming and maturing influence on all women, we discussed, back on piste.

We started to recover from this ordeal over a kebab and an irn bru.  As Corporate Blawg chewed the garlic sauce, Jez told me he wanted me to be one of the three Godfathers to his barn.  Congealed chicken fat escaped his nose.  Me?  A godfather?  Had he lost his mind?  Apparently not.  He said that I was the one to take his sprog to Glastonbury and hear funky jazz musicians in the West End.  I decided to park this idea for another day.

And now, back at work, all that seems quite far away.  At least two hours on the motorway. Haven't told the wife about the godfather thaing yet, in case she thinks I'm ready for responsiblity.

Corporate Blawg has discovered the fear of fatherhood (approximately 2years and 6 months as agreed with the wife), the fear of fatherhood and losing all that's known and good.  So Corporate Blawg has ditched his other blog and will also record here (in green) all that there is to lose before it's gone - craziness of youth, adventures of adolescent proportions, and mis-spent hours between the playstation and the pub.

Corporate Blueg is temporarily on holiday in Rogersnogfairy, for at least another fortnight, maybe.

Directionless chit-chat of a contented lawyer

Corporate Blawg has returned from his hols in Norway.  There, he used cross-country skis to cross at least 2 km of country to a sheltered spot overlooking a frozen Fjord.  At this spectacular site he burnt some logs with his brother-in-law and further fed the fire with fallen frankfurters and melted marshmallows.  Fortunately the snow kept the beer cool so all was not lost to their ashened faces.

Throughout this Scandinavian sally, it was of great amusement to Corporate Blawg that in Norwegian a "bash" means dropping the kids off at the pool.  There will come a day when Corporate Blawg invites you to his Birthday Bash, where he will Bish-Bash-Bosh his drinks until he bashes into a door and slips over. Corporate Blawg had just as much fun last year, when choosing a cheesy crepe on a Parisian menu and eating his wife's crepe with extra chocolate sauce.  For the avoidance of doubt, Corporate Blawg does not regard himself as childish.

A high-brow Norwegian day was spent in the Munch museum.  Corporate Blawg has a particular interest in Edvard Munch having some years ago written a play in the german expressionist style (Ibsen-esque) about Munch, the father of expressionism.  This play covers the 4 most important years of Munch's life (1898-1902), where he falls in love with Tulla Larson, then he wants to break up with her, but she wants to stay with him, so she stages her own suicide to surprise him at her death bed and to make him realise he loves her, but he ends up shooting through his index finger in his left hand.  Much drama here.  Anyway, to make this play even more unreadable everything Munch says in the play is a direct quote from one of his letters or recorded conversations (albeit removed from context).  Anyone interested in attempting to read this work of painstaking genius should send Corporate Blawg an email and a promise to feed back nice compliments to warm Corporate Blawg's delicate ego.

Demonstrating an iota more of success in creativity, Corporate Blawg was happy to see BabyBarista in the Times Online.  Since Corporate Blawg usually only reads the ever optimistic Independent, Corporate Blawg will now have to go against his principles and delve into the Times for his next fix of this hugely enjoyable blog. 

Even more pleasing is that Nearly Legal has a training contract.  This delights Corporate Blawg immensly and Corporate Blawg wishes Nearly Legal many Congratu-hyper-con-maxi-mega-inter-uber-lations!

Also, in this itty-bitty kind of a post, Corporate Blawg has become aware that Gary McKinnon has lost his appeal to stay in the U.K.  His extradition to the U.S. for breaking into the U.S. mliitary computers will now be appealed in the House of Lords.  Gary has always claimed that he was looking for U.F.O's.  Corporate Blawg thinks this is a great story and, as long as Gary was not really trying to start World War 3 or anything dark like that, Gary has Corporate Blawg's full support. Corporate Blawg particularly likes the title of his support website: "Free Gary - or at least give him a fair trial in the U.K."

Followers of this blog will note that Corporate Blueg has been looking for comedy case names, but with no support, interest or encouragement from any other bloggers.  Imagine the sheer glee and ribulous thrill when on his daily legal update Corporate Blawg discovered T Comedy (UK) Ltd v Easy Managed Transport Ltd [2007] EWHC 611 (Comm).  Here we have the ultimate in comedy case names.  For anyone at all who is even vaguely interested, this case related to the Convention on the Contract for the International Carriage of Goods by Road.

For many, the thrill may somewhat subside at this point.

However, on reading the detail-from-dullwich case, Corporate Blawg discovered that a Turkish factory from which garments of clothes are made is called "Bates Istanbul Tekstil Sanayi Ticaret ve Pazarlama Limited Sirketi" What a great name!  In his judgment, the judge wisely shortened it to "Bates".

A new direction for Corporate Blawg

Corporate Blawg has returned safely from a two-day conference at the Hilton Hotel, which for three centuries was lost in a leafy industrial estate north of Glasgow.  One thing that Corporate Blawg learned on this valuable course was a quote by Lyndon B Johnson:

Making a speech on economics is a lot like pissing down your leg - It seems hot to you, but it never does to anyone else.

This quote, heard in a session on "Networking With Confidence" (which was, disappointingly, not about using the internet), set Corporate Blawg down a helter skelter of unravelling his blogging identity.  Having splashed into the mudpool of deconstruction, and fought against the bubbling daemon of despair, Corporate Blawg emerged victorious with the sword of realisation.  With this sword he found he should stop reading Golden Age fantasy comic books, and that his blog has occasion to be quite dull.

Reeling with excitement (transferred to his readers by a rainbow) Corporate Blawg decided that his blog should follow the way of other blogs and be largely devoid of Corporate Law.  So like Madonna, Corporate Blawg will change his style, his spots and his pointy bra.  This is not to say that Corporate Blawg will never talk of the Corporate loveliness again, merely that there is a new moon and a shift in the tide.

These new waters of identity, lead Corporate bBawg to assess a number of shapes and sizes to bring him safetly to the golden sands of soliloquy.  Corporate Blawg does not want to become embroiled in the intricacies of his office, or his colleagues or his clients, and will therefore definitely avoid becoming any of the following stereotypes:

1. The law student blog

Hi there, in my lecture today we were taught about something really outrageous.  It was like, well bad. I described my feelings to this fit summer student girl but she said I should talk to her about it when I become a partner at A&O.  What a funny name for a firm.  I wonder if anyone has thought... there's S&M, A&O...  Hilarious. Ah, well, enough for now.  Jeeves wants to go to the pub, gotta go... 

2. The overly creative soliticor blog

The moon crept up behing the double glazing as the air conditioning stopped throughout the building, leaving nothing but deathly silence, and overworked lawyers gasping that they had missed the last bus home.  With the first tap of a computer key other fingers lurched into action and the gentle hum of flesh on plastic on metal began to resurge from the corners of the open plan office...

3. The barrister's blog

When my pupilmaster, 007, a ginger fellow by all misfortune, stood before Barrymore QC in Chambers today he was cut to the quick by the QC's sly remark.  The remark was that 007's wig was like roadkill on an ancient woodland road.  Why an ancient woodland road, we laughed heartily, us pupils in his eye.  Because, the judge remarked, it is one of the few remaining habitats of Sciurus Vulgaris, the red squirrel, and as you can see by our dear fellow's head, he is red in the head which is made of wood.  It has been three days since Barrymore QC made this jest and we have only just stopped laughing...

4. The marketting blog

What do clients really want from their lawyers?  Me I expect. I am one of the best anonymous corporate lawyers in the U.K., with a little help from my boss, Corporate Counsel and a trainee who finds out the answers for me.  How did I get this good?  Because I care about clients.  I care about taking them out for lunch, being totally honest with them, and working out how we can help each other to advance both of our positions in our own companies.  Then we talk about other stuff, and never about pissing on ourselves...

If you ever catch me, dear reader, indulging in any of the above or any other blogging stereotype for that matter, please let me know, and I will promptly have a lobotomy or electric shock therapy.  In the meantime, Corporate Blawg is excited about what will happen hereon, and prays that Google will go with him. 

The City in photos

Here is a photo Corporate Blawg took at Bank a couple of days ago.  It's like, art, ok:

Here is a slightly out of focus picture, which is a good argument for why Corporate Blawg should buy a tripod for his digital camera, and employ a short but enthusiastic assistant to carry it around for him:

Corporate Beer on Wednesday?

Talent Imitates is hoping to meet some bloggers on Wednesday at 7pm in Shoreditch, London.  Corporate Blawg intends to check out the world of marketting bloggers around 8.30pm. 

"It's in the Commercial Tavern, on Commercial St. E1. from 7pm. Possibly upstairs, depends how busy it is. Apparently the Elephant Man used to live there."

Happy days.

No film crews allowed.

One legal maxim: for business

Busy times. Busy me.  Believe me.

"Every skilled person is to be believed with reference to his own art”

An appropriate legal maxim, before considering why we work so hard: