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Well, it’s certainly an Apple, but is it a watch?

The world’s gearheads were gathered around their laptops this evening as Apple unveiled their new Apple Watch. It’s a remarkable piece of kit. It’ll tell you if your heart’s beating (handy) and how fast. It’ll tell you where you are, how quickly you’re running and even the reason – an incoming email from your boss telling you to get her coffee.

It’s a pretty neat technological innovation. But it has a completely different function from the watches I write about here. OK, that’s not true – it actually has about fifty different functions. And that’s the point.


The face of the new Apple Watch

The new Apple Watch

Screen shot 2014-09-09 at 9.34.56 PM


The Apple Watch is wearable communication and monitoring technology that happens to tell the time, apparently accurate to within a few milliseconds. The sort of watches I’m concerned with just tell the time. That’s it. And that’s why I like them so much.

Paradoxically, it’s not the time they tell, it’s the way they do it. That very visible complexity of gears and springs, of hands and wheels. It’s the accessible face of engineering. You can understand it – at least, to a point. You can see, hear and sometimes even feel the movement – think Valjoux 7750. It’s a tiny engine that’s attractive because it’s simultaneously very clever indeed yet still accessible.

And accessibility is just what the Apple Watch doesn’t have. It’s about as accessible as the reactor on a nuclear submarine. You can’t see what makes it tick. It just works and does things that reach into almost every area of your life. That means it’s splendidly functional – just like a fridge. But have you ever met a fridge collector? Quite.

Finally, proper watches are self contained. They’re little universes of cogs and levers entirely unto themselves. The Apple Watch is their antithesis. It’s networked, connected, live, always on. It needs data to make it go and it’s a constant reminder that our time is not our own. All our watches need is us to shake a wrist or twist a crown. And they’ll never nag you to go for a run or get coffee.

Clever? Hell, yes. Something that will change the way we use technology? Quite probably. But a watch – in the sense of a self-contained machine with which we interact? No. Not at all.

The one watch I’ll never sell.

Gun to your head… which watch would you never sell?

Unless you have Harrison’s H5 marine chronometer or George Daniels’ Space Traveller stashed in your watchbox (and if you do, an invitation to tea would be splendid), every watch you own is utterly replaceable.  And if they’re all replaceable, it doesn’t actually matter a damn which one you keep.

That means the choice has to be a very personal one. The watch you choose needs to carry as many irreplaceable memories as minutes.  That’s a problem though.  Which one do I choose?  Most of my watches have memories ticking around the dial.  My first Rolex, an ‘89 GMTII, bought as a graduation present to myself 20-odd years after I’d picked up my degree.  My Breitling Aerospace has seen travel adventures and thousands of motorcycle miles.  My El Primero; that realised an ambition I’d had to own one since 1978, when I first cut out its picture from the Zenith catalogue and stuck it to my wrist.   Nearly every watch I own has a story and memories of some sort.

The watch I'll never sell.

The watch I’ll never sell.

But I’m being disingenuous.  I have a clear choice.  And, on the surface,  it’s about as horologically interesting as a Swatch.  It’s a very simple Seiko SNA141P1.

Dark green dial, three sub-dials, cal. 7T62 alarm/chrono movement.  The case is scratched from wear and hawking about inside old car and motorcycle engines. The strap is old, bashed about and well-worn cordovan leather, the original green NATO long gone.  The crystal has a selection of scars across it, some deep enough to feel with your fingernail.  This is not a prepossessing watch.  If you saw it in a watch dealer’s window you’d wonder if someone had left it there by mistake.

But it’s the only watch I’d never, ever sell and the only one I could never replace.

It was December 2002, and my (now) partner, Pip and I had been together just a matter of a few months.  My birthday was imminent and she asked me what I’d like.  I knew exactly what I wanted – a Seiko 7a28-7120 military spec.

I described it to Pip and left it there.  I didn’t realise that, as a junior BBC radio presenter, there were church mice with fatter payslips.  And she’d never even worn a watch, so a slightly wafty brief to find an obscure military, issued-only Seiko was like asking Mother Teresa to track down a Ferrari 250GTO and raid Sunday morning’s collection to pay for it.

What I didn’t bet on was Pip’s sheer damn determination to find me my watch.  I only learned later that she’d trekked round pretty much every jeweller in Oxfordshire to hunt it down.  She’d asked and hunted and asked.  Of course, the 7a28-7120 was a watch that had never even reached a high street window.  It was an impossible task – there was no way she could do it.

But, on my birthday, I unwraped a square, watchbox-shaped parcel and found my SNA141P1 inside.  It wasn’t a military-issue 7a28.  It was something far more precious.  It was my first birthday present from Pip. Twelve years later, it’s still on my wrist as I type this.  It’s my favourite watch and the only one I can never replace.  Memories beat money.  Every time.

The real irony? Despite all my faffing about with Rolex and Zenith and JLC, very quietly, the little Seiko Pip bought me has quietly become a bit of a classic.


Don’t vote. It just encourages them?

It’s the day after the European election results. Politicians are, depending on the colours of their allegiance, either weeping into their espresso or taking a pull on another celebratory pint of bitter. In France, Marine Le Pen’s Front National has topped a nationwide poll for the first time ever. The UK front pages nearly all carry photos of Nigel Farage with a grin as wide as the channel tunnel. The political establishment has had its arse very firmly kicked.



Is this what people really think?


David Cameron has said that voters are “disillusioned” with the EU. A Lib Dem commentator has said that Nick Clegg needs to quit because voters are no longer prepared to listen to him.

I fear they’re deluding themselves. This isn’t about the EU or Cleggy, this is about people’s view of politics and politicians. It’s also, fundamentally, about who’s talking and who’s listening.

Who’s talking? Who’s listening?

The 36% UK turnout tells its own story. People are giving up on conventional democracy because ticking a box once every few years doesn’t really constitute a conversation between equals. And that’s what they get in most other areas of their lives. Only the way they’re governed (and, less so, the way they’re employed) is still so autocratic.

Politicians aren’t talking about what voters are interested in and voters aren’t interested in what politicians are talking about. And when people do talk, politicians don’t listen. Letters get batted back with delegated, form answers and the real questions unanswered. The results of consultations seem pre-decided. Protests are increasingly ignored.



Traditional politicians are becoming an irrelevance

As a consequence, politicians are becoming an irrelevance. We don’t really need elected representatives. We are now better informed, educated and connected thanks to the internet. Direct local democracy is possible and indeed, becoming more common. People can contact their local representatives, take part in consultations and lobby as never before. But their participation is still very much for form’s sake and, because of that, only a minority take part. Worse, most politicians seem to either fear or ignore this participation.

We’ve moved on in so many other areas. We choose our own direct, fragmented media, the news we read, the subjects we engage with, the style of reporting we want. Why shouldn’t we do the same with politics? Labour, LibDems, Conservatives – even UKIP – are becoming as irrelevant and archaic as just four channels of terrestrial television.

Pre-internet politics in a post-internet world

Democracy still consists of a pre-internet model where a few groups of people give pre-determined answers to a set of vague, general questions and ask people to elect them on that basis. Doesn’t it make more sense to ask the people the real, live questions directly and let them answer?

If we don’t begin to do this and educate the electorate (that’s all of us) to do so, ‘four channel’ party politics will continue down its slope to irrelevance.

If people believed their vote might actually affect their lives, we’d start to see people becoming engaged in politics. Wouldn’t it be splendid to see Pericles’ quote turned around – “Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn’t mean politics won’t take an interest in you.”

Situation normal.

The more you ride an old bike, the more its quirks and wrinkles become normal. I realised this today after spending most of it tinkering with the Ural. Urals are possibly the exemplar of quirks and wrinkles.

It's Downton, dear, but not as we know it.

It’s Downton, dear, but not as we know it.

I went to retrieve it from its new garage on the other side of the village and, of course, cleaned out the carb float bowls. That’s because they have a nasty habit of filling with water when the bike’s left outside for a while. Easy job. Takes less than five minutes now to have both bowls off, clean them out, replace the gaskets and nip up the screws.

Then, of course, it wouldn’t start. Turn key – click. Turn key again – click. Check the lights – yep, battery’s fine. Must be a stuck starter. Open boot, extract biggest spanner in the tool roll. This is the sort of spanner that Ural’s Russian makers would have nicked from one of the USSR’s tank regiments. I whack the starter casing, put the spanner back in the roll confidently and thumb the button again. Clacka-clacka-clacka – the wonderful, ‘biscuit tin full of old bolts’ sound that is a healthy Ural. Easy job.

Then I ride it home, realising that the left carb is over-fuelling. So I lean down and straighten the control cable. Engine happy again. More clacka-clacka-clacka. Easy job.

A few happy hours of cleaning, including removing the exhaust system (glad I copper-slipped the threads) and by the time it’s time to start again it’s dark. I start the bike and casually flick the light switch. Nothing. For behold, darkness shall cover the earth and gross darkness the people. Must be No.1 fuse. So, fusebox cover off, give the fuse a twiddle and replace the cover. Yep, lights working now. Easy job.

I remember when my pal Tarka rode down from Liverpool to teach me to ride a combo, four years ago now. We were out practicing when the bike suddenly started running rough and bogging down. Without a comment, he climbed off, toolkit out, and drained the carb float bowls – just as I did this morning. At the time I was terrified. I thought I’d spent a fortune on a lemon. To Tarks, a simple job like this was just part of owning a bike with a bit of character, so why comment when you can twirl a screwdriver and fix it?

The more you ride an old bike, the more its quirks and wrinkles become normal. I realised this today after spending most of it tinkering with the Ural. Urals are possibly the best example of quirks and wrinkles.
Now I realise that Urals just need a bit of love and care. And the sense of satisfaction from knowing all those little quirks and wrinkles is immense. You don’t get that on a Honda.

Epic Fail


I want to teach you how to fail.

And I want to suggest that you welcome – rather than fear – failure.  In fact, even more than that, I want you to learn to harness failure and make it work for you.  I’m going to explain the Three Rules of Intelligent Failure.

Notice I didn’t say you should BE a failure.  That’s because there’s no such thing – no matter what the media would have you believe – as a failure.  There is never a point in your life at which a celestial being drops from above and presents you with your Certificate of Failure, a Failure badge, your ceremonial tramp’s plastic bag and straggly beard.

But people – particularly if they’ve had a few failures sometimes start thinking they ARE failures.  If this is you – stop it.  You are no more a failure than you are a cat, a chair or a postbox.  You have huge potential – whether you’re in with the in-crowd or on the fringes.  Your past results – or lack of them – don’t indicate your potential to succeed in life.  They don’t matter.

You just need to fail intelligently.

There is a big difference between intelligent failure and just plain failing.  For example, if you get sacked because you couldn’t be bothered to do any work, that’s not intelligent failure.  That’s stupid.

Here’s how to fail intelligently…

Rule 1 – have a goal

Rule 1 of intelligent failure – have a goal.  Yup, you’ve heard it before. But without a goal you don’t know if you’ve succeeded.  Of course, not having a goal makes things easier.  No need to face up to failure, no embarrassing moments, no need for hard work.  Instead, just that nasty, nagging feeling of drifting and not really achieving much.  Nice scenery…

Setting goals is hard.  It’s difficult for most people to choose what they want in the first place, let alone start out to achieve it.  But without a goal you’ll do something worse than fail – you’ll never even try.  Life has a knack of keeping you very occupied and very busy – ‘occupied’ and ‘busy’ are not goals, they’re diversions.

So sit down, think what you want your obituary to say about your life and get on with it.  Have a goal.

Rule 2 – if it doesn’t work, change something

Rule 2 of intelligent failure – if it doesn’t work, change something.  Oh it’s sooo easy to keep doing the same thing.  That’s because, even though it gets you nowhere, it’s comfortable.  You know how to do it, you can probably do it quickly and you get a sense of satisfaction from actually, well, Doing.  Even if you’re failing.

“Doing” is not determination

You might even dress up Doing as ‘determination’.  You have grit and can stick at it – yeah, look at you.  But determinedly doing something that keeps failing is stupid.  And banging your head against a brick wall hurts and won’t move the wall.  So don’t keep doing exactly the same thing if it keeps failing.  Change things.  Change a little at a time and find out what works – what gets you a better result.  And about that wall?  Try dynamite, not your head.

Rule 3 – keep going

Rule 3 of intelligent failure – keep going.  Keep going when everything is against you, when your friends are laughing, when people (even including your mother) are telling you to do something else.  If you’ve started a business, ignore those kind friends who waft the lovely smell of regular salaried income, paid holidays and a company car at you.  Stick. At. It.

Dealing with the emotional mugging

Now, all that sounds like Rule 3 is a complete contradiction of Rule 2.  But it’s not.  And that’s why success is so bloody hard.  Because you have to constantly endure the emotional mugging of failing, changing something, believing it’ll succeed and then watching it fall out of the sky like a brick.  Again.  And then picking up the brick and wondering how the hell you’re going to get it to stay up there.

It’s not like the movies.  You KNOW the hero will win in the end.  In life, you don’t.  You simply have to keep at it and believe.

Sir James Dyson sums it up a lot better than I can:

“A lot of people give up when the world seems to be against them, but that’s the point when you should push a little harder. I use the analogy of running a race. It seems as though you can’t carry on, but if you just get through the pain barrier, you’ll see the end and be okay. Often, just around the corner is where the solution will happen.”

Ignore those false friends ‘passion’ and ‘wanting’.  “I’ve got so much passion – I want to succeed so much!”  Wanting gets you precisely nowhere – no matter how much you want. It’s action you need – and a lot of it.  Success has a lot of failures in its way – you need to get over all of them. It doesn’t matter whether you leap or crawl or get helped over – it’s getting over each one that matters.

Thomas Edison – the man who invented the lightbulb after just 3,000 failures – knew a bit about what happens if you just want something but aren’t prepared to take any action and then keep going:

“Failure is really a matter of conceit. People don’t work hard because, in their conceit, they imagine they’ll succeed without ever making an effort. Most people believe that they’ll wake up some day and find themselves rich. Actually, they’ve got it half right, because eventually they do wake up.”

And that’s all there is to it.  Three basic rules.  It’s simple, isn’t it?  But just because something is simple, that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m not saying that intelligent failure is easy – not for one minute.  It’s tough.

Worthwhile things tend to be new, unexplored, untried – at least by you if not by others.  That means you’re learning as you’re going.  That means success often won’t be instant.  You will probably fail – a lot.  And it’s OK – as long as you fail intelligently you’re moving forward and learning.

So, the three rules for one last time:

1. Have a goal. Without it you’re drifting.

2. If something doesn’t work after you’ve given it your best shot – change it.

3. Keep going.  Keep going when people laugh, tell you you’re wrong – just keep going.

You may not be academic – doesn’t matter.  You may have a dead end job – doesn’t matter.  You may be the shy one in the corner who people barely notice – doesn’t matter.  You still have huge potential to succeed.  And now you know how to fail intelligently, you know how to succeed too.

So what are you waiting for? Get out there and start failing.  But do it intelligently.

None of the gear…


I was lucky enough to be 550 meters up, at the top of Bozburun Tepesi. It was just before sunset and the resin from the pine forests mixed with the Land Rover’s diesely, oily, metallic tang. The old thing had had a tough climb up the gravel track, dotted with rocks big enough to take out a diff if you got it wrong. A low ratio second gear, tooth-rattling crawl for much of it.

The view from Bozburun takes in the whole of the Köyceğiz-Dalyan delta, and it looks small enough to be a train set. Look across the Read more…

Dalyan Dolmus station

A Formica-wood topped table, a plastic chair and one of the worst cups of coffee I’ve had in my life. But a view of the local dolmus station across the road from the bakery-cafe. Ancient white Renault 12s rattle past full of families, the back seats wedged with bodies. The short cough and whir of a moped starter motor and putt-putt-putt as it comes to life.

A sleek, black BMW cruises up, seal like, and stops. The local big man, I think. Instead, two flour-covered bakers climb out, grinning, and brandishing green plastic baskets of still fragrantly hot bread they carry to the cafe.

The reliable, regular chatter and loose clatter of a white diesel dolmus – a local minibus and the way almost everyone travels here. A white plastic plate in its windscreen, fixed with suction cups, says “Dalyan”. It slowly unloads its cargo of people, bags and parcels. Countryside commuters, two lost-looking tourists with hats and wheelie cases. Someone has hammered the end of the exhaust to attach a new, unrusted, end section. It just adds to the rattle.

A sun-faded red PX200 – Italian scooter aristocracy in the sea of Chinese urility mopeds – heels over as the rider flicks a turn. He smiles at my recognition as he catches the bike on the throttle and powers it upright.


The tourists scan the whiteboard, covered in marker pen destinations, still puzzled.

My coffee arrives, the young waiter apologising that most of it is in the saucer. “I’m sorry… Coffee…” And he mimes a fountain spraying and smiles broadly. He places a filo pastry tart, specked with black poppy seeds, beside the cup. He apologises again, pats me warmly on the shoulder with another grin and resumes propping up the counter and chatting up the local girls.

A British couple, their Lancashire accents as out of place in the sunshine as his grey socks, tuck their newly-bought loaf into a hessian Tesco bag. “We’ll be alright now, love,” she says as they walk off holding hands.

Another moped rasps past, its pilot tanned, tight white t-shirted and topped with a gold braided captain’s hat. John-Paul Gaultier on a Mobylette.


A disreputable white Fiat parks carefully aross the “no parking” sign that gives the dolmuses space to wheel and turn. Its owner scurries in and out of the baker’s between buses as a grey-moustached man on another moped smilingly weaves his way past.

The two flour-covered bakers have stopped for tea and are holding court. The laughter is rich and warm in the sunlight, their work for today over.

Another family-filled Fiat stops, the young boy’s nose pressed against the glass as he watches the bikes flick past. A young couple, maybe 18 or 19, kiss goodbye. The boy makes a face.

Although all white and all carefully polished, no two dolmuses are alike. One pulls in, its bonnet emblazoned with the blue and red Ortaca Minibus Cooperative shield. Another older bus sports a cartoon Sylvester the cat in one of its side windows. Nearly all have q’uranic verses in Arabic script swinging from their driving mirrors. Each advertises its destination on a coloured, plastic board suckered to the windscreen. Dalyan-Ortaca-Iztuzu. Doors are open in the heat and the nasal thread of shawms underscored by drums, comes from each radio and blends with moped exhausts and horns.

The drivers lean against their buses, alternatively joshing each other and shouting their destinations to likely passengers. There is barely space for three buses on the hard standing, so others jostle and wheel, half on and off the pavement, for space.

At the centre of the chaos, marshalling, conducting and answering queries from locals and tourists as easily, is a white-haired man in his 70s. The drivers wear faded t-shirts, long trousers and well-used sandals. He wears a two-piece, immaculate pinstripe suit with a wide yellow tie and crowned with a sunbleached beaten leather cowboy hat. The suit is so shiny with age that it reflects the light and it is easily three sizes too large, but the air of authority it adds is unmistakeable. The man’s grin is easy and almost suggests that he realises his suit is of place, but he is enjoying the joke too.

A waiter from another cafe easily weaves his way through dolmuses, mopeds and bicycles, four glasses of apple tea poised on his tray. The suited Controller takes one, his grin even broader, and turns to answer another bus question from the gaggle of tourists that have appeared at his elbow. A man who clearly enjoys his job.


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