Well, the aforementioned Freeview box has arrived and there it sits, under the telly, gathering dust.
And why? Because, as so accurately predicted, we haven’t got a bloody clue how to make it work.
There are, of course, no instructions whatsoever, it being a mate’s cast-off, and all the casual talk down the pub about scart sockets, selection menus and all that stuff went straight over my head.
So me and the Head Gardener/Technician plugged things in where they appeared to fit and, although there is a faint pulse and the eyelids have flickered once or twice, the sodding thing remains stubbornly close to flatlining.
We have tried everything, from being sensible and using the remote control, to playing mellow music, stroking it and wooing it with gentle words of encouragement, none of which made it any more forthcoming. Even swearing and threatening mindless violence left it unblinkingly unconcerned.
And so we remain a four-and-a-half-TV-channel family, doomed to watch repeats of George Gently and the slowly dying embers of Ashes To Ashes which, come to think of it, apart from Have I Got News For You, is pretty much all we watch anyway.
So that begs the question, why do we need a digibox unless, of course, some bright spark has decided to turn off the normal signal from that big pole I can see atop the Mendips and replace it with some digital doobry-firkin.
And that’ll never happen.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Wednesday 3 June 2009
It's in the box
We, mes amis, are going digital, ho yus!
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
Thursday 28 May 2009
Mother of all trips
YOUR heart just had to go out to the poor lad who is taking a year out to travel across Thailand and Australia – watched every inch of the way by his mother.
She’s tracking his every move via one of them there clever little satellite thingummy-jobbies that sends a signal back to good old mum’s computer.
Apart from wondering why a baby boomer generation mother has a computer in the first place, wouldn’t it be better for a19-year-old’s independence if his mother cut those apron strings – and cut the boy a bit of slack at the same time?
Good grief, woman, why do you think he’s going to the other side of the world in the first place? Could it be he’s sending you a not-too-subtle message to get off his back?
OK, back in the black-and-white days the only gap years were the periods between losing your two front teeth and waiting for the next pair to grow.
So this got us talking at Arkwright Towers and The Head Gardener was of the opinion that the world was a safer place 40 years ago and that she, too, would worry if one of ours was globetrotting. Even if they are 26 and 29.
I distinctly remember when I was about eight or nine, being packed off for the day to pick wimberries on what we knew as the Wimberry Moors but which are perhaps better known as the Pennines, nor far from the Saddleworth Moors of Brady and Hindley infamy (no, no, I refuse to do that joke).
The eldest of our little bunch of waifs and strays would be about 11, so we were obviously in safe hands, and we would tramp off carrying duffel bags containing a bit of lunch and a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock pop.
We would straggle back hours later, knackered, dusty, sunburned and with purple lips and tongues, clutching a polythene bag containing half-a-dozen squished little berries from which, miraculously, various mums created wimberry pies.
Never figured that one out.
There were no people, no traffic, no tracking devices, no mobile phones, no personal alarms, no neurotic parents – and absolutely no cares in the world.
She’s tracking his every move via one of them there clever little satellite thingummy-jobbies that sends a signal back to good old mum’s computer.
Apart from wondering why a baby boomer generation mother has a computer in the first place, wouldn’t it be better for a19-year-old’s independence if his mother cut those apron strings – and cut the boy a bit of slack at the same time?
Good grief, woman, why do you think he’s going to the other side of the world in the first place? Could it be he’s sending you a not-too-subtle message to get off his back?
OK, back in the black-and-white days the only gap years were the periods between losing your two front teeth and waiting for the next pair to grow.
So this got us talking at Arkwright Towers and The Head Gardener was of the opinion that the world was a safer place 40 years ago and that she, too, would worry if one of ours was globetrotting. Even if they are 26 and 29.
I distinctly remember when I was about eight or nine, being packed off for the day to pick wimberries on what we knew as the Wimberry Moors but which are perhaps better known as the Pennines, nor far from the Saddleworth Moors of Brady and Hindley infamy (no, no, I refuse to do that joke).
The eldest of our little bunch of waifs and strays would be about 11, so we were obviously in safe hands, and we would tramp off carrying duffel bags containing a bit of lunch and a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock pop.
We would straggle back hours later, knackered, dusty, sunburned and with purple lips and tongues, clutching a polythene bag containing half-a-dozen squished little berries from which, miraculously, various mums created wimberry pies.
Never figured that one out.
There were no people, no traffic, no tracking devices, no mobile phones, no personal alarms, no neurotic parents – and absolutely no cares in the world.
Thursday 21 May 2009
We're all doomed
Isn’t that just bloody typical of women?
Give them an inch and they take mile upon mile.
Not satisfied with getting the vote; not satisfied with equal rights; not satisfied with ending sex discrimination or becoming Prime Minister, now they want to take over the planet and do away with men altogether.
And the bad news, guys, is that Mother Nature is on their side, which I suppose SHE would be. Where the hell is Father Nature when you need him?
The problem that blokes face is that the male Y chromosome is apparently dying out. I say apparently because the claim is made by Professor Jenny Graves, whom I suspect is not the proud owner of testicles and, we might as well get racist as well as sexist here, also happens to be Australian. (it’s an Ashes summer, all is fair).
According to this testosterone-challenged Sheila, this Y bit of giblet had 1,400 genes on it 300 million years ago but is now scratching around on its last 45, so will run out of reasons to exist fairly soon – well, in five million years, give or take a week or two.
This process means that men will gradually become less and less masculine and will eventually morph into females and, witnessing Graham Norton, it seems the change has already begun.
But there is a glimmer of hope for male survival.
One species in Japan has plenty of healthy males running about despite a complete lack of the Y widgety thing.
Sadly, it’s a rat.
Give them an inch and they take mile upon mile.
Not satisfied with getting the vote; not satisfied with equal rights; not satisfied with ending sex discrimination or becoming Prime Minister, now they want to take over the planet and do away with men altogether.
And the bad news, guys, is that Mother Nature is on their side, which I suppose SHE would be. Where the hell is Father Nature when you need him?
The problem that blokes face is that the male Y chromosome is apparently dying out. I say apparently because the claim is made by Professor Jenny Graves, whom I suspect is not the proud owner of testicles and, we might as well get racist as well as sexist here, also happens to be Australian. (it’s an Ashes summer, all is fair).
According to this testosterone-challenged Sheila, this Y bit of giblet had 1,400 genes on it 300 million years ago but is now scratching around on its last 45, so will run out of reasons to exist fairly soon – well, in five million years, give or take a week or two.
This process means that men will gradually become less and less masculine and will eventually morph into females and, witnessing Graham Norton, it seems the change has already begun.
But there is a glimmer of hope for male survival.
One species in Japan has plenty of healthy males running about despite a complete lack of the Y widgety thing.
Sadly, it’s a rat.
Friday 15 May 2009
The gravy train now crashing...
“…an utterly lost and daft system
Which gives a few at fancy prices their fancy lives
While 99 from a hundred who never attend the banquet
Must wash the grease of ages from the knives.”
Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal, 1938.
WHEN a gravy train crashes off the rails we should really have expected the brown stuff to cover everyone on board.
So it is that our MPs find themselves knee deep in the soft and sticky and the air is thick with the rotten stench of hypocrisy.
OK, so the MPs caught with their fingers in the public till are queuing up to buy hair shirts (probably on expenses).
OK, so they are all wringing their hands in contrition and self-flagellating.
OK, so they are all lining up to drop cheques into the box marked ‘Returns’.
And why would that be, do you think?
Are they really that sorry that the rules they made for themselves are open to abuse?
Do they truly feel shamefaced that they are able to freeload it at our expense?
Or might it be that they are simply highly embarrassed that their lucrative little lucre secret is out in the open and now they are scrambling to salvage any last shred of respect they may once have had.
What they need is the lass who casts a suspicious eye over our exes claims and, believe me, we would be glad to see the back of her, or rather, we would all love her to reach such heights in her career at such an important place as Westminster.
But what a joy it has been to watch first, David Cameron, then Gordon Brown, trying to inhabit the high moral ground – if there is any such thing in all this mullarkey – to win some political kudos.
As one famous bloke once nearly put it, “Never have so few owed so much to so many” – or something of that ilk.
No doubt we will all remember this national disgrace when the parties want our votes in next month’s European elections.
Now there IS a gravy train.
Which gives a few at fancy prices their fancy lives
While 99 from a hundred who never attend the banquet
Must wash the grease of ages from the knives.”
Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal, 1938.
WHEN a gravy train crashes off the rails we should really have expected the brown stuff to cover everyone on board.
So it is that our MPs find themselves knee deep in the soft and sticky and the air is thick with the rotten stench of hypocrisy.
OK, so the MPs caught with their fingers in the public till are queuing up to buy hair shirts (probably on expenses).
OK, so they are all wringing their hands in contrition and self-flagellating.
OK, so they are all lining up to drop cheques into the box marked ‘Returns’.
And why would that be, do you think?
Are they really that sorry that the rules they made for themselves are open to abuse?
Do they truly feel shamefaced that they are able to freeload it at our expense?
Or might it be that they are simply highly embarrassed that their lucrative little lucre secret is out in the open and now they are scrambling to salvage any last shred of respect they may once have had.
What they need is the lass who casts a suspicious eye over our exes claims and, believe me, we would be glad to see the back of her, or rather, we would all love her to reach such heights in her career at such an important place as Westminster.
But what a joy it has been to watch first, David Cameron, then Gordon Brown, trying to inhabit the high moral ground – if there is any such thing in all this mullarkey – to win some political kudos.
As one famous bloke once nearly put it, “Never have so few owed so much to so many” – or something of that ilk.
No doubt we will all remember this national disgrace when the parties want our votes in next month’s European elections.
Now there IS a gravy train.
Thursday 7 May 2009
It's only words
You can say what you want about swine flu but it appears to have put an end to the recession - as far as the national papers and TV news are concerned, at least.
It must be over anyway, as Barclay’s Bank has increased its pre-tax profits by 15 per cent, which means my overdraft is safe and won’t have to be nationalised by the Government – and, given its size (my overdraft, not the Government) that will no doubt come as a huge relief to the Treasury.
So now that my immediate financial future is secure, we can turn our attentions to the English language and ponder which word will be the one millionth officially recorded.
According to the Global Language Monitor website, English throws up a new word every 98 minutes and is due to pass the Million Word Mark at 10.22am on June 10. And in case you were wondering where this website is based, it adds “Stratford-on-Avon Time” – so that’ll be across the water, then.
Point is, what will that word be? And how do they know there are already 999,456 words, at the time of writing? Who is going to check? And why?
I was going to suggest that we all have a guess at what the word might be, but that would mean the word would then exist, and so wouldn’t be the millionth.
No doubt The Word will be the latest computer-geek speak invention of the moment but if you are interested in words it’s quite a nail-biter. And yes, I do intend to get out more.
Meanwhile, back to this Monitor website. And a word of warning, don’t go there unless you have, ooooh, a couple of hours to spare at least.
To save you all a few minutes, the following examples were extracted from its Chinglish section, many surfacing during the Beijing Olympics:
No noising (translated as quiet please).
Jumping umbrella (Hang glider).
Airline Pulp (Food served aboard jets, hmmm).
The slippery are very crafty (Slippery when wet).
If you are stolen, call the police (None given, none really needed).
Deformed Man Toilet (Disabled toilets).
Get used to it, the way populations are going, we’ll all be speaking it by the middle of the century.
It must be over anyway, as Barclay’s Bank has increased its pre-tax profits by 15 per cent, which means my overdraft is safe and won’t have to be nationalised by the Government – and, given its size (my overdraft, not the Government) that will no doubt come as a huge relief to the Treasury.
So now that my immediate financial future is secure, we can turn our attentions to the English language and ponder which word will be the one millionth officially recorded.
According to the Global Language Monitor website, English throws up a new word every 98 minutes and is due to pass the Million Word Mark at 10.22am on June 10. And in case you were wondering where this website is based, it adds “Stratford-on-Avon Time” – so that’ll be across the water, then.
Point is, what will that word be? And how do they know there are already 999,456 words, at the time of writing? Who is going to check? And why?
I was going to suggest that we all have a guess at what the word might be, but that would mean the word would then exist, and so wouldn’t be the millionth.
No doubt The Word will be the latest computer-geek speak invention of the moment but if you are interested in words it’s quite a nail-biter. And yes, I do intend to get out more.
Meanwhile, back to this Monitor website. And a word of warning, don’t go there unless you have, ooooh, a couple of hours to spare at least.
To save you all a few minutes, the following examples were extracted from its Chinglish section, many surfacing during the Beijing Olympics:
No noising (translated as quiet please).
Jumping umbrella (Hang glider).
Airline Pulp (Food served aboard jets, hmmm).
The slippery are very crafty (Slippery when wet).
If you are stolen, call the police (None given, none really needed).
Deformed Man Toilet (Disabled toilets).
Get used to it, the way populations are going, we’ll all be speaking it by the middle of the century.
Friday 1 May 2009
Now that's what I call TV heaven
I don’t watch much telly these days because, like millions of others who have switched off, I get easily bored. What we need is some blue skies thinking on revamping the repetitive and tedious dross served up on a regular basis.
So keep your eyes peeled for the new channel, Arkwright TV, which will be showcasing the following proggies and accepting money in brown envelopes from anyone for any reason, as usual:
Naked Celebrity Monocycling on Ice: Remember topless darts? Old hat, brother. This is the future. Watch Terry Wogan, Johnny Vegas, Peter Kay, Fern Britton, Vanessa Feltz, John Sergeant, Dara O’Brien, Russell Grant and Ann Widdecombe whip their kit off and bring tears to your eyes (and theirs, I shouldn’t wonder) as they show off their little foibles atop a one-wheeled scaffolding pole.
Big Bad Brother: The housemates are all psychopaths and homicidal maniacs who are a drain on the taxpayers and the house has a gun in a padlocked case on a wall. The gun contains one bullet. The case is unlocked for only five minutes a day, and nobody knows when, but whoever finds it open must shoot somebody, anybody, even themselves. The winner is the last one standing.
Strictly ER Holby: Each week, one lucky contestant gets to operate on a real patient to remove vitals organs. The two “surgeons” who garner the most votes go head to head against the clock in the grand final, each performing a triple heart bypass operation, one on Bruce Forsyth and one on Robert Powell
Apprentice Reversal: Each week, contestants are given a successful computer company to run, in tandem with a Premiership football club in London who play in white shirts bearing a cockerel on the badge. They are spurred on to make a success of one without screwing up the other, while Sir Alan Sugar tries to run a sushi and Bollinger champagne café outside Hull Kingston Rovers’ rugby league ground on a match day. Which leads us neatly on to …
Hull’s Kitchen: Celebrity chefs are parachuted in to the less-than-salubrious areas of the city to make poncy lunchboxes and nouvelle cuisine evening meals for families of six without using chips, pies or anything fried. Anybody who lasts a week wins a mobile burger bar in a layby on the A38 near Bristol Aiport.
Britain’s Got Swine Flu: Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden are incarcerated in separate bare rooms and hold face-to-face interviews with six people each to try and discover who has the flu and who is hiding the Tamiflu tablets. What they don’t know is that all the contestants have the virus, and only Ant and Dec have the pills. Face masks are not allowed.
I’m A Gardener, Get Me Out Of Here: Alan Titchmarsh is reunited with Charlie and Tommy in the Australian jungle and we watch across 13 astonishing weeks as they set out to obliterate every living thing in their way to produce a decking and gravel area covering 763 square miles, plus a large water feature roughly where Adelaide used to be.
So keep your eyes peeled for the new channel, Arkwright TV, which will be showcasing the following proggies and accepting money in brown envelopes from anyone for any reason, as usual:
Naked Celebrity Monocycling on Ice: Remember topless darts? Old hat, brother. This is the future. Watch Terry Wogan, Johnny Vegas, Peter Kay, Fern Britton, Vanessa Feltz, John Sergeant, Dara O’Brien, Russell Grant and Ann Widdecombe whip their kit off and bring tears to your eyes (and theirs, I shouldn’t wonder) as they show off their little foibles atop a one-wheeled scaffolding pole.
Big Bad Brother: The housemates are all psychopaths and homicidal maniacs who are a drain on the taxpayers and the house has a gun in a padlocked case on a wall. The gun contains one bullet. The case is unlocked for only five minutes a day, and nobody knows when, but whoever finds it open must shoot somebody, anybody, even themselves. The winner is the last one standing.
Strictly ER Holby: Each week, one lucky contestant gets to operate on a real patient to remove vitals organs. The two “surgeons” who garner the most votes go head to head against the clock in the grand final, each performing a triple heart bypass operation, one on Bruce Forsyth and one on Robert Powell
Apprentice Reversal: Each week, contestants are given a successful computer company to run, in tandem with a Premiership football club in London who play in white shirts bearing a cockerel on the badge. They are spurred on to make a success of one without screwing up the other, while Sir Alan Sugar tries to run a sushi and Bollinger champagne café outside Hull Kingston Rovers’ rugby league ground on a match day. Which leads us neatly on to …
Hull’s Kitchen: Celebrity chefs are parachuted in to the less-than-salubrious areas of the city to make poncy lunchboxes and nouvelle cuisine evening meals for families of six without using chips, pies or anything fried. Anybody who lasts a week wins a mobile burger bar in a layby on the A38 near Bristol Aiport.
Britain’s Got Swine Flu: Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden are incarcerated in separate bare rooms and hold face-to-face interviews with six people each to try and discover who has the flu and who is hiding the Tamiflu tablets. What they don’t know is that all the contestants have the virus, and only Ant and Dec have the pills. Face masks are not allowed.
I’m A Gardener, Get Me Out Of Here: Alan Titchmarsh is reunited with Charlie and Tommy in the Australian jungle and we watch across 13 astonishing weeks as they set out to obliterate every living thing in their way to produce a decking and gravel area covering 763 square miles, plus a large water feature roughly where Adelaide used to be.
Thursday 23 April 2009
Praise the Lord and pass the salt
And so it came to pass that the people were sore afraid as their credit was crunched.
So did they turneth their eyes towards the Heavens in supplication and, with much wailing and waving of arms, did cryeth with one voice: “Sort out this bloody recession, will you?”
Then lo, across the horizon, the dark sky began to lighten, and a tumultuous noise was heard approaching. And as the light grew lighter, so the noise grew noisier, until a cavalcade of black limos screeched to a halt.
And thus did arrive the Angel of the Economy and did speaketh thus: “Fear not, for thy salvation is nigh. Believe in me, for I shall taketh thou to the Promised Land.”
So did the people listen as the white haired, white eyebrowed saviour told them to tighten their belts, for he would tax the rich to give to the poor, but keep a big chunk for himself.
And then did he call down the wrath of the gods on the deadly sins of fags, booze and petrol, but threw out a few bits of bread and omega-3-rich fish to appease the masses.
But lo, the people were not a happy lot, and did they raiseth their voices as one, saying: “Is that it? What about the workers? Me pint’s gone up. Pass us a bit of that bread. We want Gene Hunt. There’s only one United,” and the like.
But the Angel of the Economy spoke back, saying: “Lo, the world is consumed in sickness that devours the very souls of those who do not believe; a corruption that blackens good hearts and destroys all that is held dear.”
And the people replied: “Do what? Rubbish! Buggerroff.”
So he did.
And the moral of this story is that if you start a blog with a good idea, make sure you have a decent ending lined up.
So did they turneth their eyes towards the Heavens in supplication and, with much wailing and waving of arms, did cryeth with one voice: “Sort out this bloody recession, will you?”
Then lo, across the horizon, the dark sky began to lighten, and a tumultuous noise was heard approaching. And as the light grew lighter, so the noise grew noisier, until a cavalcade of black limos screeched to a halt.
And thus did arrive the Angel of the Economy and did speaketh thus: “Fear not, for thy salvation is nigh. Believe in me, for I shall taketh thou to the Promised Land.”
So did the people listen as the white haired, white eyebrowed saviour told them to tighten their belts, for he would tax the rich to give to the poor, but keep a big chunk for himself.
And then did he call down the wrath of the gods on the deadly sins of fags, booze and petrol, but threw out a few bits of bread and omega-3-rich fish to appease the masses.
But lo, the people were not a happy lot, and did they raiseth their voices as one, saying: “Is that it? What about the workers? Me pint’s gone up. Pass us a bit of that bread. We want Gene Hunt. There’s only one United,” and the like.
But the Angel of the Economy spoke back, saying: “Lo, the world is consumed in sickness that devours the very souls of those who do not believe; a corruption that blackens good hearts and destroys all that is held dear.”
And the people replied: “Do what? Rubbish! Buggerroff.”
So he did.
And the moral of this story is that if you start a blog with a good idea, make sure you have a decent ending lined up.
Thursday 16 April 2009
Suspicious minds
We are now recruiting trainees for the Los Angeles Sherriff's Department. If you are big, strong, and stupid, we want you!
(Sic ‘em Pigs, by Canned Heat)
With a hey-nonny and a fol-de-rol!
What a joy it is to live in merrie olde Englande, where men are men and the women are grateful.
What a delight it is skip gaily along the spring-flowered greenswards.
How pleasant to hear the sound of leather on willow, or police baton on human bone and flesh.
How the heart lifts and sings as the birds nest and scores of people are arrested “on suspicion” that they are about to launch a political protest.
The smell of newly-mown grass lingers on the senses, assaulted only by the stench of something rotten in the state.
And how we laugh at the very thought that we once lived in a land of free speech and freedom of expression.
How we now applaud as those who dare to object are battered and bruised by our boys in blue.
What joy that dissent has been dissolved and intent resolved by those who promote the creeping paralysis that is slowly enveloping us.
How grateful we are that intentions can be read, thoughts analysed, dreams and aspirations firmly nipped in the bud, resistance crushed, democracy deflowered.
And are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Only if I can get through the armed roadblock, snarling Alsatians, barbed wire, ID checks, CCTV cameras, intimate body searches, metal detectors, police in full riot gear, pompous stewards, officious health and safety inspectors and that curmudgeonly old git on the gate.
(Sic ‘em Pigs, by Canned Heat)
With a hey-nonny and a fol-de-rol!
What a joy it is to live in merrie olde Englande, where men are men and the women are grateful.
What a delight it is skip gaily along the spring-flowered greenswards.
How pleasant to hear the sound of leather on willow, or police baton on human bone and flesh.
How the heart lifts and sings as the birds nest and scores of people are arrested “on suspicion” that they are about to launch a political protest.
The smell of newly-mown grass lingers on the senses, assaulted only by the stench of something rotten in the state.
And how we laugh at the very thought that we once lived in a land of free speech and freedom of expression.
How we now applaud as those who dare to object are battered and bruised by our boys in blue.
What joy that dissent has been dissolved and intent resolved by those who promote the creeping paralysis that is slowly enveloping us.
How grateful we are that intentions can be read, thoughts analysed, dreams and aspirations firmly nipped in the bud, resistance crushed, democracy deflowered.
And are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Only if I can get through the armed roadblock, snarling Alsatians, barbed wire, ID checks, CCTV cameras, intimate body searches, metal detectors, police in full riot gear, pompous stewards, officious health and safety inspectors and that curmudgeonly old git on the gate.
Thursday 9 April 2009
I blame the parents
Having been born on a different planet and a couple of dozen decades ago, I can only look on with open-mouthed astonishment at the names with which celebrities burden their innocent offspring.
The latest newborn to be saddled with ridiculous monikers is Jame Oliver’s third daughter who, Gawd bless her, will have to grow up in the same house as the people who named her Petal Blossom Rainbow.
Petal Blossom Rainbow?
Which court in the land would find the poor lass guilty if, in her teenage years, she flipped and gunned down her parents in an act of stonkingly bonkers but cacklingly joyous revenge?
Mind you, Jamie and Jools have previous in this area. Already they have presented the planet with Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo.
Now I’m not privy to this couple’s private life, and what, if any, recreational drugs they like to indulge in, but surely alcohol – at the very least – must play a part in this.
Like eating a kebab, nobody would come up with those names when stone cold sober.
Unless, that is, they had been watching some of those films apparently so enjoyed by the husband of the Home Secretary
Not that really silly names are anything new. Some of a certain age will remember a geezer called Frank Zappa, who called his kids Moon Unit and Dweezil, and there have been dozens since.
My favourite in the Psychologically Damaged For Life category goes to the distressed little mite lumbered with Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii – true, every word.
But in a merciful act of sanity, a judge in New Zealand made her a ward of court so she could get shot of it. We are not told what new name she chose, which is a pity as we could have had even more fun.
Indeed, various countries ban parents from giving kids silly names, but all countries should have one strict no-no.
Under no circumstances whatsoever should a child be named after the place of conception (please note, Posh and Becks).
And if you don’t agree, I’d like to introduce you to Number 16 Bus Shelter.
Honestly, cross my heart and hope to die.
The latest newborn to be saddled with ridiculous monikers is Jame Oliver’s third daughter who, Gawd bless her, will have to grow up in the same house as the people who named her Petal Blossom Rainbow.
Petal Blossom Rainbow?
Which court in the land would find the poor lass guilty if, in her teenage years, she flipped and gunned down her parents in an act of stonkingly bonkers but cacklingly joyous revenge?
Mind you, Jamie and Jools have previous in this area. Already they have presented the planet with Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo.
Now I’m not privy to this couple’s private life, and what, if any, recreational drugs they like to indulge in, but surely alcohol – at the very least – must play a part in this.
Like eating a kebab, nobody would come up with those names when stone cold sober.
Unless, that is, they had been watching some of those films apparently so enjoyed by the husband of the Home Secretary
Not that really silly names are anything new. Some of a certain age will remember a geezer called Frank Zappa, who called his kids Moon Unit and Dweezil, and there have been dozens since.
My favourite in the Psychologically Damaged For Life category goes to the distressed little mite lumbered with Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii – true, every word.
But in a merciful act of sanity, a judge in New Zealand made her a ward of court so she could get shot of it. We are not told what new name she chose, which is a pity as we could have had even more fun.
Indeed, various countries ban parents from giving kids silly names, but all countries should have one strict no-no.
Under no circumstances whatsoever should a child be named after the place of conception (please note, Posh and Becks).
And if you don’t agree, I’d like to introduce you to Number 16 Bus Shelter.
Honestly, cross my heart and hope to die.
Thursday 2 April 2009
Watching With Mother
Like all the most articulate and well-informed discussions on sensitive and delicate topics, this one started in the pub.
But the spectacle of half-a-dozen middle-aged blokes arguing about who watched what with mother and when was, I can assure you, not an edifying one.
Now as I remember it – although I have been wrong before, once, in 1979 – the sequence was: Mondays – Picture Book; Tuesdays – Andy Pandy; Wednesdays – The Flower Pot Men; Thursdays – The Woodentops; Fridays – Rag, Tag and Bobtail.
This, however, was not quite how some others saw it, with Picture Book on Mondays just about the only point on which everyone agreed – which, of course, means it is probably wrong.
But I can tell you that it is rather difficult to take someone’s point of view seriously when they are expressing it while doing a Spotty Dog impersonation, accompanied by background “Flobba-dobble-ops,” “Arf-arf-arfs” and the occasional “Weeeeeeed” (as you can see, the verbal standards of children’s TV hasn’t changed much in the best part of 50 years).
Must have been a bit of a hoot for the rest of the pub punters, though, ’cos the landlord has booked us for the next two Saturday nights in place of the karaoke.
He’s calling it Live Male Menopause-aoke.
But the spectacle of half-a-dozen middle-aged blokes arguing about who watched what with mother and when was, I can assure you, not an edifying one.
Now as I remember it – although I have been wrong before, once, in 1979 – the sequence was: Mondays – Picture Book; Tuesdays – Andy Pandy; Wednesdays – The Flower Pot Men; Thursdays – The Woodentops; Fridays – Rag, Tag and Bobtail.
This, however, was not quite how some others saw it, with Picture Book on Mondays just about the only point on which everyone agreed – which, of course, means it is probably wrong.
But I can tell you that it is rather difficult to take someone’s point of view seriously when they are expressing it while doing a Spotty Dog impersonation, accompanied by background “Flobba-dobble-ops,” “Arf-arf-arfs” and the occasional “Weeeeeeed” (as you can see, the verbal standards of children’s TV hasn’t changed much in the best part of 50 years).
Must have been a bit of a hoot for the rest of the pub punters, though, ’cos the landlord has booked us for the next two Saturday nights in place of the karaoke.
He’s calling it Live Male Menopause-aoke.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Badgering the badgers
There are many things in this life which conjure up the most bizarre images, William Hague’s recent Parliamentary reference to Gordon Brown in his Speedos being one of the more unpalatable ones.
But the announcement that the Government is to tackle the spread of bovine TB by inoculating badgers is just a scream.
Presumably officials will retrieve, from a data base they have not yet lost, the names and addresses of every badger in the country and send each one of them a letter giving them a day, time and place for an appointment.
The badgers will then form a long, cute black and white stripy queue to see the nurse, who will ask them to roll up the fur on a front leg so she can administer the injection.
Ah, I hear you cry, but what about that hard core who ignore the letters, eschew the idea that they are carriers, or may have moved house?
The Government has a Plan B. They will set traps for these unwary types and give them a jab in the bum (flaws, there are a few, but then again, too many to mention).
And for those who shy away from needles or swoon at the very thought?
Why, Plan C, of course. Oral vaccination. Ha! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
So if you go down to the woods today and come across discarded syringes or little plastic cups scattered around, think not ill of our younger generation but rather smile knowingly and remember that we are paying these goons to dream up this garbage.
And if you meet a cow with TB, tell her it’s her own fault.
But the announcement that the Government is to tackle the spread of bovine TB by inoculating badgers is just a scream.
Presumably officials will retrieve, from a data base they have not yet lost, the names and addresses of every badger in the country and send each one of them a letter giving them a day, time and place for an appointment.
The badgers will then form a long, cute black and white stripy queue to see the nurse, who will ask them to roll up the fur on a front leg so she can administer the injection.
Ah, I hear you cry, but what about that hard core who ignore the letters, eschew the idea that they are carriers, or may have moved house?
The Government has a Plan B. They will set traps for these unwary types and give them a jab in the bum (flaws, there are a few, but then again, too many to mention).
And for those who shy away from needles or swoon at the very thought?
Why, Plan C, of course. Oral vaccination. Ha! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
So if you go down to the woods today and come across discarded syringes or little plastic cups scattered around, think not ill of our younger generation but rather smile knowingly and remember that we are paying these goons to dream up this garbage.
And if you meet a cow with TB, tell her it’s her own fault.
Friday 13 March 2009
WARNING: Do not read this
This blog may be short. It may even never appear. In fact, I may well have wasted my time writing it.
In another fact, if you cannot see or read this, let me know at once and I shall alert some technical type.
Yep, as you may have guessed, its new software (or something) time at Chronicle Towers, although we were assured that it was only a minor upgrade.
There is a word to describe “minor upgrade” but because children under 12 may be reading this I am apparently not allowed to say “bo**ocks” so I’ll have to stick with cobblers. (That could become a slogan for saving shoemakers: Stick With Cobblers: Make Them Last – last, geddit? Not to worry).
So, minor upgrade. That’s minor as in everything you used to do has been abolished and nobody is telling you how to do it the new way.
But are we downhearted? Are we depressed? Bloody right we are.
That’s why I’m swanning off to Cornwall for me hols (times are hard).
No doubt it will all be fixed and sorted by the time I get back.
In another fact, if you cannot see or read this, let me know at once and I shall alert some technical type.
Yep, as you may have guessed, its new software (or something) time at Chronicle Towers, although we were assured that it was only a minor upgrade.
There is a word to describe “minor upgrade” but because children under 12 may be reading this I am apparently not allowed to say “bo**ocks” so I’ll have to stick with cobblers. (That could become a slogan for saving shoemakers: Stick With Cobblers: Make Them Last – last, geddit? Not to worry).
So, minor upgrade. That’s minor as in everything you used to do has been abolished and nobody is telling you how to do it the new way.
But are we downhearted? Are we depressed? Bloody right we are.
That’s why I’m swanning off to Cornwall for me hols (times are hard).
No doubt it will all be fixed and sorted by the time I get back.
Friday 6 March 2009
That just takes the biscuit
They just don’t get it, do they? Amateurs who dunk are like ladies who lunch – superfluous to the real world.
The tough dog-eat-dog biscuit world of professional dunking was rocked this week by the news that some geek of a professor has concluded that the chocolate digestive is the best biscuit for dunking because the melting chocolate helps to bind the biscuit together for longer.
No, no, no no!
Fools! Idiots! Incompetents (OK, that’s quite enough exclamation marks for one blog!).
Does this bloke not realise that the Society Of Dunkers’ Institute of Technology (SODIT), which runs all competitive dunking, from local leagues to the biennial World Championships, banned chocolate coverings from all dunking years ago because it gave an artificial and unfair advantage.
Why, it was only five years ago that the Greek dunker Theo Slopadopollop was thrown out of the competition for coating his little dunkee in a thin film of almost invisible white chocolate which enabled him to set what, briefly, was a new world record in the Morning Coffee event of 23 seconds before break-up.
As this was 20 seconds longer than the previous record it was regarded with some suspicion. As Slopadopollop had promptly eaten the evidence he seemed to be in the clear but a sliver of dunkee was found in his saucer and subsequent lab tests led to his downfall.
Now we get some boffin praising choccy coverings without any thought for the ramifications (I love that word – might use it again in a minute) for the sport.
Simply encouraging youngsters to dunk choccy bikkies could rob the whole dunking world of its youth policy, with no promising youngsters coming through the ranks for the Ginger Nut Tremble, Rich Tea Shake or Plain Digestive Wobble.
Ramifications.
There, I feel better for that.
(By the way, a recent survey said McVitie’s chocolate digestive was the most popular dunkee among the hoi-polloi. I wonder which biscuit brand commissioned the survey? Answers on a postcard to the Do They Really Think We Are That Stupid Department).
The tough dog-eat-dog biscuit world of professional dunking was rocked this week by the news that some geek of a professor has concluded that the chocolate digestive is the best biscuit for dunking because the melting chocolate helps to bind the biscuit together for longer.
No, no, no no!
Fools! Idiots! Incompetents (OK, that’s quite enough exclamation marks for one blog!).
Does this bloke not realise that the Society Of Dunkers’ Institute of Technology (SODIT), which runs all competitive dunking, from local leagues to the biennial World Championships, banned chocolate coverings from all dunking years ago because it gave an artificial and unfair advantage.
Why, it was only five years ago that the Greek dunker Theo Slopadopollop was thrown out of the competition for coating his little dunkee in a thin film of almost invisible white chocolate which enabled him to set what, briefly, was a new world record in the Morning Coffee event of 23 seconds before break-up.
As this was 20 seconds longer than the previous record it was regarded with some suspicion. As Slopadopollop had promptly eaten the evidence he seemed to be in the clear but a sliver of dunkee was found in his saucer and subsequent lab tests led to his downfall.
Now we get some boffin praising choccy coverings without any thought for the ramifications (I love that word – might use it again in a minute) for the sport.
Simply encouraging youngsters to dunk choccy bikkies could rob the whole dunking world of its youth policy, with no promising youngsters coming through the ranks for the Ginger Nut Tremble, Rich Tea Shake or Plain Digestive Wobble.
Ramifications.
There, I feel better for that.
(By the way, a recent survey said McVitie’s chocolate digestive was the most popular dunkee among the hoi-polloi. I wonder which biscuit brand commissioned the survey? Answers on a postcard to the Do They Really Think We Are That Stupid Department).
Friday 27 February 2009
Forever in our debt
Now stay with me on this ’cos although it sounds complicated it will, in fact, solve the nation’s credit crunch problems at a stroke. Well, two strokes.
It started when some bloke on the radio called in to suggest that instead of bunging the banks cash to sit on and pay fat pensions from, the Government should pay off everyone’s mortgages.
Brilliant. Paying off mortgages would mean the banks getting rid of most of their debts and they could start again. And it would leave every householder in the country with a large dollop of disposable cash to throw about – thus reviving the economy in an instant.
It’s sheer genius!
Of course, there then followed some sour, grumpy City suit saying it wasn’t possible, too expensive blah blah blah.
Oh, and £1.5 trillion added to the national debt for bail-outs isn’t, then?
My guess is that £1.5 trillion (don’t worry about it, it’s just a load of noughts, and the money isn’t real anyway) would clear the mortgages of most of England (sod the Scots and Welsh, they have their own governments) quite comfortably, certainly all up to about £150,000. (Populist, me?).
And if we then chuck another £200 billion (like a trillion, but not as many noughts) at car owners – that’s, say, 20 million of us getting ten grand apiece – we could all buy new less polluting cars that are standing about at Avonmouth docks and some disused airport in Gloucestershire.
In turn, we would have to hand our current cars to recycling centres (green stuff, y’see – it’s bloody infallible, I tell you) thus giving that industry a major boost.
Now some misguided souls may point out that those without a mortgage and those with no car would dip out in all this and thus it is unfair.
Yep, it is. And so is life – get used to it.
It started when some bloke on the radio called in to suggest that instead of bunging the banks cash to sit on and pay fat pensions from, the Government should pay off everyone’s mortgages.
Brilliant. Paying off mortgages would mean the banks getting rid of most of their debts and they could start again. And it would leave every householder in the country with a large dollop of disposable cash to throw about – thus reviving the economy in an instant.
It’s sheer genius!
Of course, there then followed some sour, grumpy City suit saying it wasn’t possible, too expensive blah blah blah.
Oh, and £1.5 trillion added to the national debt for bail-outs isn’t, then?
My guess is that £1.5 trillion (don’t worry about it, it’s just a load of noughts, and the money isn’t real anyway) would clear the mortgages of most of England (sod the Scots and Welsh, they have their own governments) quite comfortably, certainly all up to about £150,000. (Populist, me?).
And if we then chuck another £200 billion (like a trillion, but not as many noughts) at car owners – that’s, say, 20 million of us getting ten grand apiece – we could all buy new less polluting cars that are standing about at Avonmouth docks and some disused airport in Gloucestershire.
In turn, we would have to hand our current cars to recycling centres (green stuff, y’see – it’s bloody infallible, I tell you) thus giving that industry a major boost.
Now some misguided souls may point out that those without a mortgage and those with no car would dip out in all this and thus it is unfair.
Yep, it is. And so is life – get used to it.
Friday 20 February 2009
Yes sir, that's my baby
It must be a generation thing – or some pathetic quest for 15 minutes of fame – for otherwise why would young lads queue up to claim paternity of a teenage girl’s baby?
Why on Earth would they want to be lumbered with changing nappies, walking the sprog or making child support payments out of their pocket money when there is property to damage, old ladies to mug, passers-by to abuse or stab, and booze and drugs to take?
It’s not that long ago that if a young girl found she was pregnant and Teenage Boy A was the prime suspect, you wouldn’t see his a**e for dust if Teenage Boys B, C, D and E put themselves in the frame in the paternity stakes.
Boy A certainly wouldn’t be hiring Max Clifford or demanding DNA tests – just in case he got the answer he didn’t want.
All this talk about dumbing down GCSEs and A-levels so that morons can succeed is one thing, but dumbing down in the getting-away-with-it game – now that really is dumb.
But the reality, I suspect, is that not only do they wish to brighten up their dull little lives with a bit of entertaining speculation in the tabloids, but also that they know there will be no punishment, just like there is no painful or even meaningful punishment for any of the other misdemeanours they casually commit.
(Can you feel a “bring back the birch then hang ’em anyway” rant building up here?)
What we need here is some radical thinking. With feral cats we either neuter them or have them put down, so why not do the same with feral kids?
It won’t infringe their human rights because to have those, you are required to prove you are human, and that lot haven’t really got much hope on that score.
One thing that does spring to mind, though, is that these so-called dads should join Fathers4Justice - at least they will still have the Spiderman outfits.
Why on Earth would they want to be lumbered with changing nappies, walking the sprog or making child support payments out of their pocket money when there is property to damage, old ladies to mug, passers-by to abuse or stab, and booze and drugs to take?
It’s not that long ago that if a young girl found she was pregnant and Teenage Boy A was the prime suspect, you wouldn’t see his a**e for dust if Teenage Boys B, C, D and E put themselves in the frame in the paternity stakes.
Boy A certainly wouldn’t be hiring Max Clifford or demanding DNA tests – just in case he got the answer he didn’t want.
All this talk about dumbing down GCSEs and A-levels so that morons can succeed is one thing, but dumbing down in the getting-away-with-it game – now that really is dumb.
But the reality, I suspect, is that not only do they wish to brighten up their dull little lives with a bit of entertaining speculation in the tabloids, but also that they know there will be no punishment, just like there is no painful or even meaningful punishment for any of the other misdemeanours they casually commit.
(Can you feel a “bring back the birch then hang ’em anyway” rant building up here?)
What we need here is some radical thinking. With feral cats we either neuter them or have them put down, so why not do the same with feral kids?
It won’t infringe their human rights because to have those, you are required to prove you are human, and that lot haven’t really got much hope on that score.
One thing that does spring to mind, though, is that these so-called dads should join Fathers4Justice - at least they will still have the Spiderman outfits.
Thursday 12 February 2009
Ode to by Balantide
Roaded are red,
Bylets are blue,
I’b all bunged up
So why aren’t you?
Yed, I’b vine, thaggs for ass-ging. Jus’ a bit ob a code id bi dode.
Ad I egspegted to be ibbune abter habbing de flu diab.
Dough sujj lugg, ad dats why I’b souding blocked ubb - while by catarrh dently weebs.
Avgorredake, add well, und ebri bode id by body aches.
Bud do I gedd eddy symbaffi ? Dot a bit – dobody seebs to doh wod I’b goin fru. Add dobody cares, iver. Woe is bee.
Bud de most addoying bart ob all is dot knowing wurr id all comes frob. I’b blown by dose sebenty-dide tibes dis borning und the bloody stuff dust keebs cubbing.
But one codsullashun, I’b rediscobered Tudes. Doh, Tudes, you doh, de ones dat elp you breed more eedily. Doh, stubid, Tudes – bud dow id a liddle box and wib doh wrappers on dem. Don’t doh wod de world’s cubbing too. Obal Froods will be dext, bark by words.
But Beddylind und Sdrebsils are dow bart ob by stable diet und I hobe to be OK dext week.
P.S. Send only used 20s in de ged well cards, byda way.
Your lubbing cat,
Jim
xxx
Bylets are blue,
I’b all bunged up
So why aren’t you?
Yed, I’b vine, thaggs for ass-ging. Jus’ a bit ob a code id bi dode.
Ad I egspegted to be ibbune abter habbing de flu diab.
Dough sujj lugg, ad dats why I’b souding blocked ubb - while by catarrh dently weebs.
Avgorredake, add well, und ebri bode id by body aches.
Bud do I gedd eddy symbaffi ? Dot a bit – dobody seebs to doh wod I’b goin fru. Add dobody cares, iver. Woe is bee.
Bud de most addoying bart ob all is dot knowing wurr id all comes frob. I’b blown by dose sebenty-dide tibes dis borning und the bloody stuff dust keebs cubbing.
But one codsullashun, I’b rediscobered Tudes. Doh, Tudes, you doh, de ones dat elp you breed more eedily. Doh, stubid, Tudes – bud dow id a liddle box and wib doh wrappers on dem. Don’t doh wod de world’s cubbing too. Obal Froods will be dext, bark by words.
But Beddylind und Sdrebsils are dow bart ob by stable diet und I hobe to be OK dext week.
P.S. Send only used 20s in de ged well cards, byda way.
Your lubbing cat,
Jim
xxx
Sunday 8 February 2009
All white on the night
Now that’s what I call winter. None of that namby-pamby big southern Jessie drizzle and fog stuff for weeks on end but a good couple of days of blizzards wafted gently in by an Arctic blast of Siberian wind.
It transported me back a few decades, to our humble wooden hovel atop the Pennines, where we would be snowed in from August Bank Holiday until early June, fearing to venture out in case we were attacked and eaten by marauding packs of starving Yorkshiremen who had roamed over the moors from Halifax in search of sustenance.
Why do you think there are no trees and very little wildlife up there?
We would shiver in a dark corner as dad tried to light a fire by rubbing Granny Arkwright’s wooden legs together (she lost her real legs in the Great Tripe Mine Collapse of 1908 while trying to rescue a large slice of thick seam which, sadly, was lost).
Then we would huddle round the light and warmth created by burning the council rent man, who had accidentally died while arguing with dad, who at the time was putting his point across in true Lancashire philosopher style by using his clogs.
Ah, happy days.
So to the present and the daily grind of traipsing back and forth to Bath through an icy, snowy and unpredictable Chew Valley,
But was a few inches of white stuff going to stop a weather-hardened Lanky from getting through?
Yep.
So as I write this from a cosy, centrally-heated spare bedroom office back home, having given up the unequal struggle against Mother Nature, I am indebted to BBC West Ceefax for this gem that appeared midst Friday morning’s carnage. The last paragraph of a report of trouble in Wiltshire stated:
“Problems have been compounded by low salt levels, which have meant that only main toads were being gritted.”
Picture the scene, all the local toads queuing up to be gritted by the council’s Amphibian Salination Application Executive, salt cellar in hand, who suddenly spots a frog trying to sneak through.
“Oi, you, frog thing. What d’you think you’re doing? Toads only, mate. More than my job’s worth to grit you. ’Oppit.”
* We would like to make it clear that no amphibians were harmed in the creation of this missive.
And apologies to Mike Harding for blatantly pinching one of his jokes, circa. 1974, but we do keep being told to recycle.
It transported me back a few decades, to our humble wooden hovel atop the Pennines, where we would be snowed in from August Bank Holiday until early June, fearing to venture out in case we were attacked and eaten by marauding packs of starving Yorkshiremen who had roamed over the moors from Halifax in search of sustenance.
Why do you think there are no trees and very little wildlife up there?
We would shiver in a dark corner as dad tried to light a fire by rubbing Granny Arkwright’s wooden legs together (she lost her real legs in the Great Tripe Mine Collapse of 1908 while trying to rescue a large slice of thick seam which, sadly, was lost).
Then we would huddle round the light and warmth created by burning the council rent man, who had accidentally died while arguing with dad, who at the time was putting his point across in true Lancashire philosopher style by using his clogs.
Ah, happy days.
So to the present and the daily grind of traipsing back and forth to Bath through an icy, snowy and unpredictable Chew Valley,
But was a few inches of white stuff going to stop a weather-hardened Lanky from getting through?
Yep.
So as I write this from a cosy, centrally-heated spare bedroom office back home, having given up the unequal struggle against Mother Nature, I am indebted to BBC West Ceefax for this gem that appeared midst Friday morning’s carnage. The last paragraph of a report of trouble in Wiltshire stated:
“Problems have been compounded by low salt levels, which have meant that only main toads were being gritted.”
Picture the scene, all the local toads queuing up to be gritted by the council’s Amphibian Salination Application Executive, salt cellar in hand, who suddenly spots a frog trying to sneak through.
“Oi, you, frog thing. What d’you think you’re doing? Toads only, mate. More than my job’s worth to grit you. ’Oppit.”
* We would like to make it clear that no amphibians were harmed in the creation of this missive.
And apologies to Mike Harding for blatantly pinching one of his jokes, circa. 1974, but we do keep being told to recycle.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Sweet vole music
You know how it is. You are sitting in the office minding your own business when a headline catches your eye (Moral: Stop throwing your eyes around in public).
This is an occupational hazard when working in a newspaper office but, even in the kind of environment where silly headlines are batted back and forth willy as it were nilly, this one was a classic.
‘Bonekickers discover our oldest vole-eater’ it bellowed, atop a tale that analysis of the bones of Westbury Man from 600,000 years ago proved that he ate rhinoceros, bear and… vole.
Somewhat aside from the fact that I never knew rhinos inhabited Westbury (OK, let me have the jokes) it was decided that a much dafter headline would have been the title of that Dean Martin classic song, Little Old Vole-Eater Me – well, slightly amended, obviously.
Little do you realise when you tip such a small pebble over the edge of the precipice what momentum it will pick up. So we all took the rest of the afternoon off to come up with vole-related song titles (as you do – and if you didn’t get a paper last week, sorry ’bout that).
Here are most of the clean ones I can recall, but feel free to add your own in the comment field below.
And perhaps we should thank heavens the story wasn’t about that beaver running around Cornwall.
Stand By Your Vole
I Wanna Hold Your Vole
Dark Side of the Vole
Court of the Crimson Vole
Vole over Beethoven,
Vole in My Shoe,
O Vole Mio
I’ve Got You Under My Fur (by Vole Porter)
There’s a Vole in My Bucket
Vole With It, by Liam and Vole Gallagher
Baby, There’s Voles Outside
I Got a Vole, But I’m Not a Voltmeter
You’re a Pink Toothbrush, I’m a Vole
Vole not Dole
Vole City Walking
Love Volercoaster (little-known funk number by the Ohio Players)
Vole Lotta Love
I Knew the Bride When She Used to Eat Voles
19th Nervous Vole
Get off my vole
Good Volebrations
(And no, I don’t understand half of them, either. My age, I suspect).
This is an occupational hazard when working in a newspaper office but, even in the kind of environment where silly headlines are batted back and forth willy as it were nilly, this one was a classic.
‘Bonekickers discover our oldest vole-eater’ it bellowed, atop a tale that analysis of the bones of Westbury Man from 600,000 years ago proved that he ate rhinoceros, bear and… vole.
Somewhat aside from the fact that I never knew rhinos inhabited Westbury (OK, let me have the jokes) it was decided that a much dafter headline would have been the title of that Dean Martin classic song, Little Old Vole-Eater Me – well, slightly amended, obviously.
Little do you realise when you tip such a small pebble over the edge of the precipice what momentum it will pick up. So we all took the rest of the afternoon off to come up with vole-related song titles (as you do – and if you didn’t get a paper last week, sorry ’bout that).
Here are most of the clean ones I can recall, but feel free to add your own in the comment field below.
And perhaps we should thank heavens the story wasn’t about that beaver running around Cornwall.
Stand By Your Vole
I Wanna Hold Your Vole
Dark Side of the Vole
Court of the Crimson Vole
Vole over Beethoven,
Vole in My Shoe,
O Vole Mio
I’ve Got You Under My Fur (by Vole Porter)
There’s a Vole in My Bucket
Vole With It, by Liam and Vole Gallagher
Baby, There’s Voles Outside
I Got a Vole, But I’m Not a Voltmeter
You’re a Pink Toothbrush, I’m a Vole
Vole not Dole
Vole City Walking
Love Volercoaster (little-known funk number by the Ohio Players)
Vole Lotta Love
I Knew the Bride When She Used to Eat Voles
19th Nervous Vole
Get off my vole
Good Volebrations
(And no, I don’t understand half of them, either. My age, I suspect).
Thursday 22 January 2009
Oh! What a lovely recession
How’s your recession going? Having a good one or is it all becoming a bit of a nightmare?
Many years ago it would often be heard said of someone: “Oh, he had a good war, y’know.”
This usually meant he did his fair share of shooting at Germans but managed to get back to dear old Blighty pretty much in one piece and found that his wife wasn’t pregnant by an American GI – either by luck or judgment.
We will soon be doing the same about this credit crunch malarkey, you mark my words.
“Oh yes, he had a good recession” will, in days to come, mean he stayed in a job, his firm stayed out of bankruptcy and his wife didn’t become pregnant by a bailiff.
But make the most of it, mes braves, because the tide will turn before you can say “Repossession, repossession, repossession.”
‘Ere long, mortgages will start to go up, just when you were harbouring thoughts that the building society may start paying you to live in your own home, and all those special offers will begin to dwindle as businesses realise that the more they discount, the less profit they are making.
You will know we have reached the turning point when Honda announces the closure of its Swindon plant and relocates its entire production to some bloke’s shed in Nempnett Thrubwell; when Domingo’s pizzas are offered at two for the price of three; that we see the arrival of the BOGO – a recession version of the BOGOF - which stands for Buy One Get One; and the 50% Off Sale – yes, everything’s half size.
Mrs A is trying to do her bit by spending her way out of the recession, although I have pointed out that a wild and reckless spree in the Pound Shop probably isn’t going to kick-start the economy.
No matter – her heart is in the right place. Not sure about various other body parts, though.
I, for my part, have decided to play an heroic role in saving our local pub by diverting a larger chunk of the housekeeping into the landlord’s coffers. I have been joined in this philanthropic gesture by several other brave souls who are eternally grateful to have a new excuse.
It’s reminiscent of the Dunkirk spirit in as much as we will soon be in deep trouble with the enemy and need a great deal of help to get home safely.
Many years ago it would often be heard said of someone: “Oh, he had a good war, y’know.”
This usually meant he did his fair share of shooting at Germans but managed to get back to dear old Blighty pretty much in one piece and found that his wife wasn’t pregnant by an American GI – either by luck or judgment.
We will soon be doing the same about this credit crunch malarkey, you mark my words.
“Oh yes, he had a good recession” will, in days to come, mean he stayed in a job, his firm stayed out of bankruptcy and his wife didn’t become pregnant by a bailiff.
But make the most of it, mes braves, because the tide will turn before you can say “Repossession, repossession, repossession.”
‘Ere long, mortgages will start to go up, just when you were harbouring thoughts that the building society may start paying you to live in your own home, and all those special offers will begin to dwindle as businesses realise that the more they discount, the less profit they are making.
You will know we have reached the turning point when Honda announces the closure of its Swindon plant and relocates its entire production to some bloke’s shed in Nempnett Thrubwell; when Domingo’s pizzas are offered at two for the price of three; that we see the arrival of the BOGO – a recession version of the BOGOF - which stands for Buy One Get One; and the 50% Off Sale – yes, everything’s half size.
Mrs A is trying to do her bit by spending her way out of the recession, although I have pointed out that a wild and reckless spree in the Pound Shop probably isn’t going to kick-start the economy.
No matter – her heart is in the right place. Not sure about various other body parts, though.
I, for my part, have decided to play an heroic role in saving our local pub by diverting a larger chunk of the housekeeping into the landlord’s coffers. I have been joined in this philanthropic gesture by several other brave souls who are eternally grateful to have a new excuse.
It’s reminiscent of the Dunkirk spirit in as much as we will soon be in deep trouble with the enemy and need a great deal of help to get home safely.
Friday 16 January 2009
Initially a good idea
Acronyms, eh? Who’d have ‘em?
When I wur nobbut a lad in short pants and smog mask, we only had three – BBC, ITV and TCP. Mind you, we were very poor.
But kids today – they don’t know they’re born. Just look at the acronyms they have to choose from – SWAT, ASBO, YOI, CRB, TWOC, ITV – and they are just the criminal ones.
The trouble is, a catchy, user-friendly acronym is now a must for any organisation that wants to be taken seriously and, in some cases, for ones that don’t.
But, oooh my, we get so twee.
The tyrants who are apparently running this country love stuff like Ofcom, Ofwat, Ofgem etc, but when it comes to Foreign And Commonwealth Office, do we get FACOFF ?
Not a hope – it’s far too accurate.
So come, brothers and sisters of the revolution, let us act as one mighty sword to prick the balloons of pomposity (put than sentence in Google and see what you get) and make the case for FACOFF.
If the Government had any sense, it would see the error of its ways and instantly put the Immigration Office under FACOFF’s control so that, the next time the EU phones with the intention of asking if we can take another couple of million asylum seekers, whoever answers the call at our end simply announces the name of the department …
* Just in case you ever wondered, TCP stands for trichlorophenylmethyliodosalicyl. See – educating you as well !
When I wur nobbut a lad in short pants and smog mask, we only had three – BBC, ITV and TCP. Mind you, we were very poor.
But kids today – they don’t know they’re born. Just look at the acronyms they have to choose from – SWAT, ASBO, YOI, CRB, TWOC, ITV – and they are just the criminal ones.
The trouble is, a catchy, user-friendly acronym is now a must for any organisation that wants to be taken seriously and, in some cases, for ones that don’t.
But, oooh my, we get so twee.
The tyrants who are apparently running this country love stuff like Ofcom, Ofwat, Ofgem etc, but when it comes to Foreign And Commonwealth Office, do we get FACOFF ?
Not a hope – it’s far too accurate.
So come, brothers and sisters of the revolution, let us act as one mighty sword to prick the balloons of pomposity (put than sentence in Google and see what you get) and make the case for FACOFF.
If the Government had any sense, it would see the error of its ways and instantly put the Immigration Office under FACOFF’s control so that, the next time the EU phones with the intention of asking if we can take another couple of million asylum seekers, whoever answers the call at our end simply announces the name of the department …
* Just in case you ever wondered, TCP stands for trichlorophenylmethyliodosalicyl. See – educating you as well !
Monday 5 January 2009
Good Lord ! Who ?
Well what a disappointment.
OK, that thingy bloke may turn out to be the greatest Dr Who in the history of …er… Dr Who, but what a let-down it all was.
All the Whovians in my local pub said he knew the latest incarnation would be a female doctor (no, you didn’t read that bit wrong, he is a lonely, sad character).
Somebody else was trying to convince us all that we would witness the first black doc. Or even a gay one in the form of John Barrowman.
But none of the mentioned favourites were in with a sniff.
Personally, I would have gone for Peter Kay.
One stroppy 18-stone lump of Lancashire lard would be more than a match for any Dalek invasion of Cyberman infestation.
The sonic screwdriver could have been transformed into a stick of garlic bread and his mum’s new bungalow could have doubled as the northern base for Torchwood.
Ah, but ‘twas not to be.
Instead we have mi-laddo wotsisface – who, don’t you think, looks remarkably like Michael York in the film version of Caberet ?
Perhaps he is a time traveller after all.
OK, that thingy bloke may turn out to be the greatest Dr Who in the history of …er… Dr Who, but what a let-down it all was.
All the Whovians in my local pub said he knew the latest incarnation would be a female doctor (no, you didn’t read that bit wrong, he is a lonely, sad character).
Somebody else was trying to convince us all that we would witness the first black doc. Or even a gay one in the form of John Barrowman.
But none of the mentioned favourites were in with a sniff.
Personally, I would have gone for Peter Kay.
One stroppy 18-stone lump of Lancashire lard would be more than a match for any Dalek invasion of Cyberman infestation.
The sonic screwdriver could have been transformed into a stick of garlic bread and his mum’s new bungalow could have doubled as the northern base for Torchwood.
Ah, but ‘twas not to be.
Instead we have mi-laddo wotsisface – who, don’t you think, looks remarkably like Michael York in the film version of Caberet ?
Perhaps he is a time traveller after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)