School Nativity plays ? Pah!
It is shameful that teachers and parents put the fragile little egos of small children through the grinding mill of humiliation by:
1. Not picking him or her to be Joseph or Mary;
2. Not picking him or her to be a wise man or an angel;
3. Not picking him or her to be a shepherd or midwife (or whatever)
4. Not picking him or her. Full stop.
I speak hereof from painful experience, having fallen into category 4 on just about every occasion I can remember and still, today, suffer deep psychological damage which leaves me not responsible for my actions – that’s what my solicitor told the judge, anyway.
It was the same when we had what passed as music lessons – everybody got an instrument and played it on cue from the teacher, making a hell of a din
I always wanted to have a drum, a tambourine or anything to make a noise. And I always got the bloody triangle. Not much chance of creating mayhem with a small triangle and a little plastic triangle basher (what IS that thing called?)
Even while doing O-Level English, when classmates would act out scenes from Shakespeare’s soaps, the only part I got was as a corpse. Perhaps all these teachers were trying to tell me something.
My one and only big moment came in a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when I auditioned for the part of Puck – and finished up as Bottom.
So I still got a bum part.
•BY the by, did you see the research done by doctors in Slough which concluded that we sneeze if we think of sex.
The young woman who sits next to me in the office sneezes a lot and blames the air conditioning but now we know it is simply my animal magnetism.
But I’m a tad worried about the bloke who sits on the other side of me…
Monday 22 December 2008
Monday 15 December 2008
Whatever happened to Spangles?
Come on, then, a quick trip down Memory Lane, prompted by an inebriated argument in my local pub at the weekend.
Nobody from the south west can remember the bubble gum cards of the early 1960s (whoops, bit of an age giveaway) that were called Mars Attacks.
Everybody – except me – remembered a film by that name from about 10 years ago but the cards were a mystery.
In my little bit of Lancashire, and yes, ’twas ’neath dark, Satanic mills, as you ask, it was a huge craze.
The cards were horribly explicit, with flesh burning and melting off humans as the cruel and heartless, mad-eyed Martians destroyed the Earth. Great gory stuff and we kids absolutely loved it all. So the cards were banned.
At least, that is what I was told, although that could well have been a ploy by my parents, in cahoots with the owner of the corner shop, to stop me buying so much bubble gum.
And then we were off on a well-lubricated meander through sweets, ranging from the gob-destroying and indestructible Pineapple Chunks, through the tongue-burning Imps and the tooth-wrenching penny Arrowbars, to the one that always baffles southerners (i.e. everyone from about North Manchester downwards) – kaylie and spanish.
Apparently, the rest of the uneducated world calls it sherbet and liquorice.
Fruit Salad got a mixed reception in the loved it/hated it vote, sherbet lemons proved universally popular, Blackjacks were so-so, as were pear drops. Others you don’t see any more are Polo and Trebor mints, Fruit Polos and Refreshers.
Regionally we also had Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, so famous that Mike Harding – now big on radio but then a stand-up/troubadour type bloke - even wrote a song about them. And no jokes about sucking a Fisherman’s Friend, thank you.
But whatever DID happen to Spangles?
Nobody from the south west can remember the bubble gum cards of the early 1960s (whoops, bit of an age giveaway) that were called Mars Attacks.
Everybody – except me – remembered a film by that name from about 10 years ago but the cards were a mystery.
In my little bit of Lancashire, and yes, ’twas ’neath dark, Satanic mills, as you ask, it was a huge craze.
The cards were horribly explicit, with flesh burning and melting off humans as the cruel and heartless, mad-eyed Martians destroyed the Earth. Great gory stuff and we kids absolutely loved it all. So the cards were banned.
At least, that is what I was told, although that could well have been a ploy by my parents, in cahoots with the owner of the corner shop, to stop me buying so much bubble gum.
And then we were off on a well-lubricated meander through sweets, ranging from the gob-destroying and indestructible Pineapple Chunks, through the tongue-burning Imps and the tooth-wrenching penny Arrowbars, to the one that always baffles southerners (i.e. everyone from about North Manchester downwards) – kaylie and spanish.
Apparently, the rest of the uneducated world calls it sherbet and liquorice.
Fruit Salad got a mixed reception in the loved it/hated it vote, sherbet lemons proved universally popular, Blackjacks were so-so, as were pear drops. Others you don’t see any more are Polo and Trebor mints, Fruit Polos and Refreshers.
Regionally we also had Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, so famous that Mike Harding – now big on radio but then a stand-up/troubadour type bloke - even wrote a song about them. And no jokes about sucking a Fisherman’s Friend, thank you.
But whatever DID happen to Spangles?
Thursday 11 December 2008
Wind of change in economy
You have probably heard the one about the Government wanting to tax fresh air because it’s one of the few things the Treasury has not got its sticky little pinkies on yet.
Alas, my friends, fact is stranger than fiction, although to be truthful (well, now and again, it don’t hurt) it’s not exactly FRESH air that is being eyed up.
Oh no, that would seem a little harsh. No, it is the decidedly UNFRESH stuff they are thinking of taxing.
OK, so it is an idea from the USA, and it is only the exhaust gases from cows and pigs that they have in mind.
But give the bandits at HM Revenue and Customs the merest hint of an idea and, before you can “Ooops, pardon me” they’ll have it enshrined in law.
The whole concept does, however, throw up (sorry!) a variety of intriguing ideas.
For instance, who would measure the taxable output, and how?
Would we be taxed on volume – in both senses - essence (that was put nicely, I thought) or a mixture of both?
Would it work as it does with cars and mean we would have to go to a testing centre once a year to have our CO2 emissions tested?
How on earth would self-assessment work?
Do you claim a rebate for constipation?
Would we pay a single flatulence rate or would there be a higher rate for big burners?
And if we were overcharged, would we be able to kick up a stink or would we just be left bellyaching?
The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind…..
Alas, my friends, fact is stranger than fiction, although to be truthful (well, now and again, it don’t hurt) it’s not exactly FRESH air that is being eyed up.
Oh no, that would seem a little harsh. No, it is the decidedly UNFRESH stuff they are thinking of taxing.
OK, so it is an idea from the USA, and it is only the exhaust gases from cows and pigs that they have in mind.
But give the bandits at HM Revenue and Customs the merest hint of an idea and, before you can “Ooops, pardon me” they’ll have it enshrined in law.
The whole concept does, however, throw up (sorry!) a variety of intriguing ideas.
For instance, who would measure the taxable output, and how?
Would we be taxed on volume – in both senses - essence (that was put nicely, I thought) or a mixture of both?
Would it work as it does with cars and mean we would have to go to a testing centre once a year to have our CO2 emissions tested?
How on earth would self-assessment work?
Do you claim a rebate for constipation?
Would we pay a single flatulence rate or would there be a higher rate for big burners?
And if we were overcharged, would we be able to kick up a stink or would we just be left bellyaching?
The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind…..
Sunday 30 November 2008
I spy with my little eye
What dreadful news about MFI closing down. What on earth are all those spies going to do now?
You can always tell we are in deep economic trouble when the Government starts shutting departments that are supposed to keep us safe from terrorists, and holding a fire-sale of poisoned fountain pens, pea shooters that fire real bullets, and innocent-looking paperweights that conceal sensitive eavesdropping equipment.
What is needed here is a programme designed to get these jobless spooks back or, some would say, just in to meaningful employment by matching their undercover skills with the work available, bearing in mind, of course, that there isn’t actually any work available anywhere at the mo (but stay with me).
Having spotted this niche in the market, I have set up Jim’s Employment and Recruitment Korner (JERK) and already the CVs have started flying in, usually delivered by a black-clad, balaclava-wearing geezer hanging from a bit of string tied to a helicopter hovering a few feet above the rooftops.
In the interests of ignoring confidentiality, and because the Data Protection Act deserves to be flouted within an inch of its life, here are some applications that are moving through the system and JERK’s suggestions as to the area each applicant should investigate:
Agent A: Deadly and expert shot with a Walther PPK and able to subdue hordes of terror insurgents by use of weapons, physical violence and psychological fear of torture.
New job: Any teaching post in any comprehensive school.
Agent B: Highly adept at following targets without their knowing and then surprising them by showing your credentials.
New job: Store detective in large supermarket, ensuring people keep their sticky little fingers off the chipolata special offers. Either that or professional flasher.
Agent C: Skilled in camouflage techniques and general demolition work.
New job: Following the sad demise of Fred Dibnah, there is an opening at the BBC for lovable, roguish, flat-vowelled Lancastrian with a penchant for reducing to rubble any large chunk of the Industrial Revolution, while taking enormous risks with their own safety merely for the amusement of TV viewers.
Agent D: Counter intelligence.
New job: Shop assistant.
Agent E: Economic destabilisation expert, vastly experienced in undermining the entire financial structures of sovereign states by manipulating markets and fiscal systems, thereby precipitating the total collapse of the entire national economy.
New job: All posts currently filled but for application form, write to HM Government, 10 Downing Street, London.
Agent F: As above, with experience of Third World.
New job: Could soon be a vacancy in Zimbabwe.
Ah well, could have been worse, I suppose, it could have been that furniture shop.
You can always tell we are in deep economic trouble when the Government starts shutting departments that are supposed to keep us safe from terrorists, and holding a fire-sale of poisoned fountain pens, pea shooters that fire real bullets, and innocent-looking paperweights that conceal sensitive eavesdropping equipment.
What is needed here is a programme designed to get these jobless spooks back or, some would say, just in to meaningful employment by matching their undercover skills with the work available, bearing in mind, of course, that there isn’t actually any work available anywhere at the mo (but stay with me).
Having spotted this niche in the market, I have set up Jim’s Employment and Recruitment Korner (JERK) and already the CVs have started flying in, usually delivered by a black-clad, balaclava-wearing geezer hanging from a bit of string tied to a helicopter hovering a few feet above the rooftops.
In the interests of ignoring confidentiality, and because the Data Protection Act deserves to be flouted within an inch of its life, here are some applications that are moving through the system and JERK’s suggestions as to the area each applicant should investigate:
Agent A: Deadly and expert shot with a Walther PPK and able to subdue hordes of terror insurgents by use of weapons, physical violence and psychological fear of torture.
New job: Any teaching post in any comprehensive school.
Agent B: Highly adept at following targets without their knowing and then surprising them by showing your credentials.
New job: Store detective in large supermarket, ensuring people keep their sticky little fingers off the chipolata special offers. Either that or professional flasher.
Agent C: Skilled in camouflage techniques and general demolition work.
New job: Following the sad demise of Fred Dibnah, there is an opening at the BBC for lovable, roguish, flat-vowelled Lancastrian with a penchant for reducing to rubble any large chunk of the Industrial Revolution, while taking enormous risks with their own safety merely for the amusement of TV viewers.
Agent D: Counter intelligence.
New job: Shop assistant.
Agent E: Economic destabilisation expert, vastly experienced in undermining the entire financial structures of sovereign states by manipulating markets and fiscal systems, thereby precipitating the total collapse of the entire national economy.
New job: All posts currently filled but for application form, write to HM Government, 10 Downing Street, London.
Agent F: As above, with experience of Third World.
New job: Could soon be a vacancy in Zimbabwe.
Ah well, could have been worse, I suppose, it could have been that furniture shop.
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