Essential Snobbery 101: The Etiquette of Getting Caught

The Art of Discretion

If one were to court controversy, one could say that infidelity is congenital or consanguineous, but rarely learnt or taught. The debate around that is for another forum.

However, the tendency to stray must surely come with the essential common sense of, first and foremost, not rubbing your partner's nose in it. This means according those liaisons the respect of keeping them at a distance, and being as discreet as you possibly can in order to avoid getting caught.

History, as I have read it, would suggest that the Victorians and Edwardians who kept mistresses made sure their spouses were not disadvantaged in dignity, position, attention, or latitude. It was usually a case of knowing without feeling threatened.

A Cautionary Commotion

What I cannot abide are those who break the rules in wholly unforgivable ways, such as placing their matrimonial bed at the very centre of the travesty whilst hoping not to get caught. What on earth are you thinking? The follow-up question is unprintable.

I was once privy to a narrative relayed to me of a commotion that brought the police to a home, the cacophony having included the shattering of glass, and whatever else might have been flung, in both words and objects, when a hapless fool was caught in the act.

His wife had gone away and was not expected back until the weekend; she returned the previous night, however, only to find her husband canoodling with another woman. There is no need for a graphic replay, at the risk of sensationalising the matter with the aplomb of a village rag.

A Failure to Plan

There must be a reason why she did not telephone ahead to forestall what might have been her suspicions of something untoward. Some people spare themselves the possibility of such situations by making allowances, in the spirit of "out of sight is out of trouble".

He, however, in his careless and carefree manner, played the oily mouse whilst the cat was away. He should have planned his rendezvous for a motel, or somewhere far from home, yet he did not.

Stepping back to view this from an objective angle, the effrontery and audacity required to bring someone else home should always have come with the forward planning of a number of things. First, an alert system that detects proximity, so as to avoid an encounter. Then, easy sequestration, should your spouse enter the house when there is no chance of escape.

Hiding the Evidence

You cannot put the interloper on the window ledge outside if you are on the tenth floor, especially if that was not intended as a final goodbye. Slipping them under the bed, behind the curtain, or into the wardrobe are far too common as places to hide, and so to be found. Just roll a bottle under the bed; if it does not come out the other end, take a look.

Someone suggested the oven or the fridge, which left me thinking of the double-jointed contortionist who performs at the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront in Cape Town, doing such unimaginable things with his body that the spectacle is too suggestive for a polite audience, and yet impossible to look away from.

Perhaps the clothes basket could help, and what you would need next is a snake charmer to play the pungi as your quarry wriggles to the swaying hypnotism of the sound, lifting the lid of the basket and unleashing the scandal that would ensue. You may not be prepared for the confessions.

If you do not have a number of well-planned escape routes, no amount of explaining would extricate you from a complex situation that would serve as entertainment for your neighbours, and inspiration for this very piece. You got caught, pants down, and the only thing you might ever salvage is your dear life, by the skin of your teeth.

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Men's things XXXIV: Saving the life, and saving some lifestyle

The Shadow of Mortality

The pall of mortality hovers like a dark cloud at certain times, but you cannot dwell on that feeling at all. Every time you escape the dread it portends, you are grounded by the good fortune of survival and by the uncertainty that reliving it might present.

Above all other questions, it did occur to me whether I had it in me to face another cancer diagnosis. As much as I presented as stoic two years ago, my concerns and anxieties were a rumbling thunderstorm in my mind. I reached for comfort in sermons and in the faith that things, no matter how bad, would be fine.

A Diagnosis Already Known

However, when I saw the consultant at the Christie Hospital in mid-June 2024, it was not to discover anything new. I had already known for a week that adenocarcinoma of the prostate had been diagnosed, because my medical notes from another consultation had been merged with the findings from a biopsy taken three weeks before.

The doctor who made the mistake offered to redact the notes, but how do you unsee the facts as they were presented? The damage of letting the information slip through, without the essential conversation in a controlled setting, had been done.

I was reviewing the consultant's notes yesterday, and I wondered whether there had not been a haste to act, considering the stage at which the cancer was found, given their recommendation of active treatment as opposed to active surveillance.

In the haze of the moment, you do not see everything your medical results indicate; you grasp at the headline and let the detail blur. Looking at the same notes two years on brings a new realisation, a clarity that was simply not available to me then. Yet what can one do now? The decision has been made, the treatment taken, and hindsight, however sharp, cannot rewind the clock.

Registered Without Consent

I attended the consultation with a friend, but what shocked me still more was that, once cancer was diagnosed, I was immediately added to the National Disease Registration Service (NDRS), which comprises cancer diagnosis and analysis along with congenital anomaly and rare disease registration. No one told me I could opt out.

Then, on the matter of cancer, I have always felt that all who have encountered it are treated on the basis of the body of knowledge acquired from survivors and non-survivors alike. We are rarely pioneers of this unfortunate human condition.

Brian, because of his exposure to the medical field, would have been aware of what was developing, but I wanted to tell him when we met up in Cape Town, and that was just over a week away.

Weighing the Options

Meanwhile, between the visible and painful skin cancer of 2009 and the invisible, seemingly benign prostate cancer of 2024, I was totally conflicted. I was hoping that chemotherapy, of which I already had some experience from the last time, was an option, but I soon learnt that the only options were surgery or radiotherapy.

The treatment I eventually had was hypofractionated radiotherapy, effectively External Beam Radiotherapy (EBRT), over 20 weekdays in September and October 2024.

This week, NHS England will begin to offer a more targeted radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer called Stereotactic Ablative Radiotherapy (SABR). This was first proposed in 2021; it's only five years late.

This focused treatment is down to five doses over a fortnight and lends itself to fewer side effects. [Sky News: 'Cutting-edge' prostate cancer treatment to be rolled out by NHS from next week]

Proposed Patient Pathway
Stereotactic ablative radiotherapy (SABR)
for patients with previously irradiated, 
locally recurrent primary pelvic tumours [PDF]

Progress and Its Price

More recently, the website of Elekta, the company that supplied the radiotherapy equipment for my treatment, features equipment that could offer the same radiotherapy in two fractions. MR-guided adaptive radiotherapy even promises minimal side effects compared with other interventions.

The selling points are that it lowers acute Gastrointestinal (GI) and Genitourinary (GU) side effects while better protecting erectile function. That is the elephant in the room that rarely gets talked about, where cancer treatment saves the life yet does little to preserve the lifestyle.

Then, one must acknowledge that these advancements in technology are welcome progress in tackling these issues. One cannot live in the regret of not holding off on essential treatment to wait for better options to select from. You work with what is available, and you study the changes that come along.

The Elephant in the Room

Even as I insisted on not being co-opted into a form of chemical sex to ease the issue of sexual dysfunction, I was invited to take a prescription of sildenafil citrate, typically at half the normal strength. I feel like the boy of fifteen whose first job was in a brewery, working in the laboratory, where the first wort was said to be an aphrodisiac.

Hey! Medicine expects that, if you can get it up, you already have the sexual confidence for everything else to follow. I beg to differ, as the package gathers dust in my bedside cabinet.

Blog - Men's things XXXIII: Prostate Cancer Screening and UK Black Men

Blog - Photons on the Prostate: Three Things I Wish I'd Known

Blog - Men's things: Prostate Cancer blogs

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When Are You Going to Sit Down?

An Unexpected Enquiry

Just over two years ago, a man whose history in journalism stretches back more than 45 years contacted me for a copy of my CV. He had held top editorial positions at four of the most prominent Nigerian newspapers and magazines, and he still writes syndicated copy today.

He had come across my blog and, from a link on the page, requested access to my CV. To satisfy his curiosity, he wanted to determine whether I had a journalism background that might explain how I had sustained a blog for 20 years. On reading my CV, he expressed both shock and surprise that I held no formal qualifications in the humanities; I am an engineer who has broadly pursued a career in IT.

Recognition and Striving

Acknowledgement and recognition come from many places, and I hope I am able to take a compliment with grace whenever it is offered.

However, even as one strives for excellence, there are others who observe what you do and for whom you are not yet performing at your best. There is always that feeling that you could do better, and that in itself overrides every other concern.

Why I Began

When I started my blog in 2003, I saw it as an outlet for my views, and I had no intention of turning it into a commercial venture. I did everything at my own pace and wrote as I was inspired, usually hoping to bring a fresh perspective to matters that others tended to cover with a common view.

I do not believe I ever came to any agreement with anyone that my blog would become a platform for other activities, such as publishing a book. The idea of writing my story only took hold after my first bout with cancer and the period following treatment in 2010. Things developed from there, and I also battled prostate cancer in 2024; today marks two years to the day since I received the diagnosis of adenocarcinoma of the prostate.

A Loaded Comment

Imagine my surprise, then, when a comment was left on one of my recent blogs to the following effect: “When are you going to sit down and assemble relevant topics of your writings into books for future generations, particularly in Africa, to benefit? Your use of the English language and construction is superb. Some of your writings could come under, for example, tourism, based on your experience in South Africa and Amsterdam, or business management.”

You could take a good deal from that comment; the commendation and the suggestion were both gratifying and informative. Yet you could just as easily miss the criticism buried within it, and I heard it in the voice of the writer, as I have many times before, whenever their expectations were not met by my application, rigour, or initiative.

Refusing to Please

One thing I learnt a long while ago was to jump off the bandwagon of trying to please people. I do my work to the best of my ability and constantly strive to do better. That is my conviction, and it is the energy I bring to every endeavour.

It is the phrase “When are you going to sit down…?” that does the heavy lifting here, implying that you are not directing your abilities and faculties towards the essential.

In this case, that means writing books for which I have so far received no commissions. I have no obligation to write either another blog or a book, but I do have the desire to, at a time of my own choosing, if and when I convince myself of that need.

Parents and Approval

I still have my parents, who are octogenarians. I receive the occasional expression of pride in me, but that can easily be a speck in a bowl of displeasure at one thing or another. The fact that I am totally estranged from one and barely in communication with the other is the sum of the difficult relationship we have had since my childhood.

I was a difficult child and adolescent; I had my own issues, just as they had theirs. However, I am so completely past seeking their approbation that the desire fizzled out at twenty, and, as far as possible, I resolved that their influence on me would be as minimal as it could be, just as my dear uncle, around that time, shielded me so that I could flourish in my own way.

Words That Matter

What could it have cost to word that comment another way? “Your use of the English language and construction is superb. I can see elements that might lend themselves to books on your travels to South Africa and Amsterdam. Other topics, such as business management, I have seen in your recent writings, show that you could benefit future generations, especially in Africa.”

Imagine how warmly I would have received that version, responding with gratitude and grace whilst taking the ideas into consideration. The manner and tone of a conversation, along with the order of the words, do matter. Instead, I am riled, annoyed, and spitting tacks. It might have been well-intentioned, but it failed to hit the mark.

I might just have lost the desire to write a book. The medal for royally pissing off your child must surely have been awarded in the King’s birthday honours list, released on Friday.

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The Author I Have Not Yet Become

From Bricks to Code

Just imagine you had a Lego set, and a spurt of inspiration allowed you to build interesting structures consistently. Taken together, someone might think you had the makings of an architect; providence, or perhaps persuasion, might spur you in that direction.

If you did eventually become an architect, and a successful one at that, you might think your earlier Lego experience was the genesis of your talent, and indicative of it.

My exposure to computer programming and code goes back almost forty years, if I can remember clearly anymore, because dates can become fuzzy. Yet what I got to do and what could be realised were completely different things.

The Elusive Slipstream

I can write code to do utilitarian things, such as administrative activity, converting complex repetitive tasks into structured automation with logging and reporting. However, I have not broken the mould by writing a productivity tool like Microsoft Office, a game, or an app.

The ability to do this is probably there somewhere, but I have not caught the slipstream that eases me into the knowledge that it can be done. I find myself hoping for a Eureka moment that makes the scales fall from my eyes and puts my mental capacity in gear, allowing me to do something that feels extraordinary to me, yet is quite perfunctory to others.

Doubt and the Page

Everyone harbours a modicum of self-doubt in areas where others have seen a scintilla of skill and assumed it is the crack in the doorway to the expression of amazing talent. Indeed, looking at my compendium of almost twenty-three years of blogging, you could conclude that I am a good writer; I am, however, nowhere near where I would consider myself an author.

In considering a return to school, this is one area where I am ready to be taught how to put my thoughts on paper. Not for the blogs, which alone are hard enough, carrying a train of thought through three pages of verbiage with a sense of coherence, but for taking that to a book of 300 pages or more, which looks like comparing a swim to a voyage.

Both are journeys of a kind on water, but the preparation and mode of travel are so totally different that they are not the same. There is writing blogs and there is writing books; I probably have enough material in my blogs to write many books, but I feel overwhelmed at the prospect. I think there is a slipstream of authoring somewhere that I need to catch.

Stories Worth Telling

Over a decade ago, I began writing the elements of a biography, and I would be the first to suggest that we all have stories to tell. I could probably tell the most fascinating story, or the most soporific yarn, of my life, but in either case you would sense the gratitude of privilege, blessing, and hope as the substrate of everything told. None of the first four chapters look like what my blogging prowess would suggest I do so well.

Could I have this story ghostwritten? The idea alone of using another mouthpiece to give my own life story in a second-hand narrative weakens me to total impotence. Where I have not found the impetus to get ahead by myself, I suppose that means I need the education and tutelage to bring that ability and facility to the fore.

If this were to be achieved by pep talk, daring, acknowledgement, or the recognition of what others see as my talents and gifts, I promise you, it would already have been done.

There is the truth and there is reality: even men of great renown have their fears, their misgivings, and their doubts, all part of what makes each of us human and, hopefully, part of the appreciation by others that we are all still a work in progress.

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A World Cup Letdown: From Golden Boys to the Ugly Game

A Listed Building's Walls

My office sits in a Grade II listed building with uniquely fascinating décor: wallpaper made from a collage of newspaper front pages marking world events.

The Kennedy assassination, the birth of the first test-tube baby, the moon landing, the Beatles arriving in America, the birth of Prince George, the murder of John Lennon, the death of Elvis Presley, Usain Bolt breaking the 100m world record at the 2012 Olympics, and now, crucially, England winning the World Cup.

The Sunday Mirror, 31st July 1966. The morning after the only World Cup that ever truly mattered to me, and I was barely old enough to know it.

It is the little things, the unfairness and the distrust, that have exacerbated my disinterest in global events. The minor infraction of the Formula 1 rules by a race steward, the one that robbed Lewis Hamilton of an eighth world championship, means I have never watched another race since.

Three Flags, One Cup

I was just a few months old when England lifted the trophy against West Germany in 1966, the Sunday Mirror crowing "Golden Boys!" the morning after. To have seen them win it in my lifetime, even if I cannot remember a moment of it, is perhaps why I am no longer troubled by whether they excel or falter in this edition.

My allegiances have wandered as my life has. I have supported England, where I was born; Nigeria, my country of heritage; and the Netherlands, where I lived for twelve years. Each has handed me its own disappointment.

I watched Nigeria play Bulgaria at the Parc des Princes during the 1998 World Cup, and I donned the orange of the Netherlands for the 2010 final, hosted in South Africa, though I watched it on holiday in Spain. Walking back to my hotel in Dutch colours after Spain's victory remains one of the worst sporting indignities I have endured.

Festivals Losing Their Shine

We used to gather in May for Eurovision, but the controversy around Israel's participation, which led to a boycott by five countries, meant I felt it was no longer a contest. Though it produced a new winning country, I refused to watch anything, including the highlights. In 2026, we had Euroblindness, and I do not know what might make it exciting again.

Yesterday, the FIFA World Cup began in Mexico, hosted this time by three countries, including Canada and the United States. The United States is at a war of its own choosing with Iran, a participating nation. Iran has moved its base to Mexico. A FIFA referee from Somalia was denied entry to the US, and FIFA simply shrugged.

Politics Invades the Pitch

The US Immigration and Customs Enforcement is threatening to raid World Cup venues to apprehend and arrest supposed illegal immigrants. President Donald Trump is quite cosy with Gianni Infantino, the FIFA President, who conferred a FIFA World Peace Prize on Donald Trump in a farcical imitation of the Nobel Peace Prize.

With players and officials alike suffering indignities at the behest of the policies prevailing in the US, it is no wonder that interest in this World Cup is not showing up in record hotel bookings. The somewhat exorbitant match tickets will now have to depend on local fans to fill the stadiums, as the prices fall to more reasonable levels.

No Enthusiasm Here

No, I have garnered no enthusiasm for this fiesta at all, apart from snippets that fall into sight from partly obscured social media statuses, informing us why South Africa lost their match against Mexico. This was a reference to the largest number of red cards ever issued in a World Cup match, which left South Africa down to nine men by the end.

Yes, there was one video of Burna Boy being lauded by his mother after his performance at the opening of the tournament, yet I have not turned on my television to watch any clips or updates. I am neither playing nor engaged, and I hope the month slithers away into insignificance whilst we find other joys of living beyond this enterprise of chicanery that pretends to unite the world in the pursuit of a leather ball.

What Is the Point?

Heck, there are 48 teams playing, and yet Nigeria, Italy, India, and China cannot find a minimum of 23 men to fly the flag. What is the point? The way things are going, all countries might as well be invited to a three-month World Cup to cure the world of boredom, and we might enjoy one long holiday from its troubles.

No one could ever have thought that the US, being the main host of a FIFA World Cup, would portend less eagerness than the ones in Qatar or Russia before. But if this ends up being the least entertaining ever, the record alone would leave a big smile on our faces. I can assure you, it would be just deserts.

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Memento Mori in the Modern Workplace

The Two-Headed Fear

I usually say that I am only scared of a person with two heads, and thankfully, I have never met one. Yet in my working life, I have had many encounters with colleagues, juniors, seniors, and C-suite personnel.

In the main, they have been nice, respectful, considerate, and courteous. It is the workplace that brought us together; our backgrounds can be radically different, just as our outlooks on the world might never be the same. If we are human, humane, and accommodating of each other, it makes for a pleasant working environment.

Frustration Is No Excuse

There have been exceptions, people who think their positions give them room to misbehave and be discourteous. Usually, they get away with it, and the behaviour becomes compounded and accepted by many. Once, I was offering support to a caller at work when he began hurling expletives out of frustration.

We all get frustrated, but frustration is no excuse for abuse. I calmly told him that I did not get paid enough to take abuse at work, and informed him that I was going to put the phone down.

When he was ready to discuss the matter calmly, he could call me again. We ended that conversation, and a few minutes later, he called back, apologised, and I resolved the matter.

The Gracious Senior VP

On another occasion, a deployment for which I had provided statistics showing a high success rate just happened to brick the Senior VP’s device. His secretary was implacable, and other senior staff were running around like headless chickens. I was instructed to call the SVP to explain my actions.

I had never met him before, but he immediately acknowledged me, then said he had seen the statistics and understood that, on occasion, something might fail; it just happened to be his device. He closed with, “Take your time, I appreciate what you do.”

There have probably been other technical personnel elsewhere, in the very same position, marched out of the office simply because the screen on a manager’s computer flickered.

Things can be that brutal. I learnt early in my career that keeping users honestly informed reaped more dividends than leaving them ignorant of what might affect what they do or how they work. To inform is to liberate.

The Master of the Universe

Bring in the esteemed fellow, the one to whom no one says no. He has the ear of the CEO, and anything he says is gospel and unquestioned. To have attained that status is commendable; but unlike the generals of ancient times, who at their victory parades had a man whisper memento mori into the ear of the celebrant, this master of the universe, for all that they have achieved, yet so lacking in character, thinks they own the world and that everyone answers to them.

They seek exemption and exception in the demands they make. Aggression and coarseness are their raison d'être; nothing is ever a request. They hold Aladdin’s lamp, incessantly summoning the genie to grant any wish, and should the wish be denied, truculence becomes them.

Any resistance, even a reasonable challenge to their requirements, is met with forceful tales of woe about how they cannot get anything done because the system, the design, or the personnel are lazy, wasting time, and derelict in their duties.

The thrust of the conversation leans towards disparaging you, your work, your team, and anything else you have done professionally and diligently.

Winning the War for Peace

It is tempting to assume nothing can be done when management indulges its favoured figure. Yet such attitudes can be named and challenged, and I have done so many times, with success. The behaviour is not untouchable; it simply relies on everyone presuming that it is.

Each encounter is weighed on its own merits; sometimes you yield, and sometimes you hold firm. Where there is no point in holding the fort, and they are used to having their way, you make that allowance too, for the peace of mankind.

Yet even in those bruising encounters, you can own facts that clearly prove their position wrong, leaving them with no option but to concede the point, even if they remain unrelenting in pursuit of their self-aggrandising goals.

We do not have to win every battle when the war is for peace, for respect, for dignity, and for the recognition that in every endeavour, no matter the position, the esteem, or the remuneration, no one of us is better than another.

We are equal as human beings, deserving of the same courtesy, respect, and dignity. It is in our efforts together that we all make the organisations we work for successful.

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Brick on Brick, Without a Plan

The Art of Communication

The art of communication is one that should never be left without nurture. It is a skill I have honed since childhood, when making myself heard, and hopefully understood, mattered.

I know the many times in my working life when being articulate, honest, truthful, clear, and detailed about ideas, events, or situations has been the difference between staying put and being walked out of the door with alacrity.

Conflict and the Power of Words

Conflict leers around the office or the workplace, where genuine engagement can easily slide into belittlement and being patronised. Both could be mistaken for compliments, only to be turned into something backhanded or used to upbraid you.

Besides that, there are the power plays and egos, where choosing your words carefully can significantly change the tone of an exchange. Drawing on a wealth of vocabulary with studied deployment is hardly putting the quality of your education to waste.

Finding the Right Analogy

When the going gets tough, and it usually does, finding the correct analogy to depict a situation becomes the best tool to deploy.

Consider a scenario where a user expected us to exhaust every avenue to determine why his anticipated long-running script terminated after two hours, even though nothing on the system had changed.

I posited that when a washing machine does not complete a wash cycle, you explore issues with the device, the water supply, or the connection to the mains; you do not ask for a building inspection.

That thought came to me as I finished taking a shower.

A Managerial and Political Issue

This afternoon, I was met with a complex managerial and political issue. For all my protestations about the guidelines, framework, and structure needed to govern a process that I felt left us exposed, all management wanted was for us to do something, anything, first, before addressing concerns that would fill reams of paper dating back to July last year.

After I had answered a series of questions, the activity was cherry-picked out of a larger case for correct procedure and directed towards a decision to be enforced.

In what I could only term a dare to challenge authority and face the consequences of stepping out of line, the manager, now assuming control where earlier they had failed to provide support, asked on the Microsoft Teams group chat:

The Challenge on Teams

"Everyone, anyone here unhappy with the approach?"

He might as well have said, "Anyone up for a fight? I'm here to bludgeon you."

I was dissatisfied, but this required tact, and there came the inspiration for another analogy.

The Bricklayer Analogy

"To put it another way, we are the bricklayers, and you want a house for which no architect has been engaged to design and no structural engineer has assessed. We are just putting brick on brick and hoping we end up with a shelter everyone can use."

As bricklayers, we know what houses should look like, but without a plan, a lot can go wrong. My job is to paint the picture; how you appreciate that work of art is beyond my ability to dictate, but the work has been done.

It will sink in somehow, and the message will not be lost in the morass of politicking and power plays.

Eloquence as Construction, Not Evasion

Let me be clear about one thing: eloquence here is not a tool of evasiveness. It is the means by which I explain and construct a clear narrative of the risk profile of an activity, one that could lead to penalties, the loss of professional reputation, or a negative impact on business operations and the user community.

Knowledge shared through such communication exposes the blind spots and pitfalls that are usually not taken into consideration.

Nor is this a matter of perfecting a process. There is no process. What we have is a range of assumptions that have not been properly tested or validated, yet are forced into implementation by expediency.

There is a further purpose to all this. By communicating in this way, one is also documenting the issues, so that when the matter of responsibility for any action arises, the points made earlier will show that management was informed and chose to act against the identified risks they had been asked to appreciate.

Experience Speaks for Itself

Many of us might hold junior roles in the multilayered hierarchy of the organisation, but never confuse our positions with a lack of maturity.

After 40 years in this business, where this is probably one of the least significant roles I have held in 30 years, I think I know a fair amount about management, and about being managed, and about getting a point across without equivocation.

We didn't just start at this yesterday.

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