Poor Ivan Clark; recently he was called into
the headmaster's study
to explain his extremely bad end-of-term report; the cash is low, the governors are grumbling and a caning is in order. Whilst stuffing the abysmal annual report down his trousers, Ivan did his best to explain that he's a model pupil, and that it was the nasty playground bully IVS who gobbled up his pocket money which explained the deficit. Most of the Unicorn ships sunk in his bath and now Ivan is running around trying to impress teacher by making friends with his new German classmate, Ršhlig. He then attempts to curry favour by telling everyone he's made Chris Magagula of Eyethu Ships Agency a member of his gang. Having said this, I'm personally fond of Unicorn and appreciate what they did for me in the past and I have no doubt Ivan will eventually come out at the top of the class......
Somebody went mad in last week's FTW and printed an article, the gist of which said that the lines believed that shippers should not worry about the freight rate they pay but focus more on the quality of service they receive. Luckily the writer of such rubbish had the sense to remain anonymous, as did the lines involved, otherwise they would no doubt be torn limb from limb, if anyone had the energy. I say this, because shippers are by now bored catatonic by promises of JIT and pledges of (and I quote, so don't throw up) giving us a neatly tailored, high-speed guaranteed transit time distribution package. Do me a favour - there's hardly a line that can get out of bed, answer a phone by 9 am, and send a rep around that's got an IQ above that of a boiled potato, let alone pronounce or even spell (and again I quote) door-to-door conception of logistics. The day a line can get a booking right, get the rate right, get the box/cargo on the right vessel going to the right port; get the bills right, not short ship, not lose the cargo, not stuff up anything else remotely connected to their existence on planet Earth - that is when you can talk to me about higher rates....
Another St Patrick's Day has come and gone; normally the idea of spending the afternoon in the company of a bunch of red-faced, pig-eyed Micks is enough to make me lock and load, but this year was somewhat unusual. Firstly, I wasn't disturbed mid-afternoon with unintelligible burbling phone calls from drunken Irish morons, mainly because Fred Harrison is also on the wagon and Simon was lunching elsewhere, but secondly it fell on a Friday and, try as I did, I couldn't find anyone prepared to go out and splice the shamrock. Even Spanner Eyes was not available, having decided to make the most of the long weekend in the Cape. She tells me she loves my use of the English language, so I end my sentence with a proposition...
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