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).
Thursday, 29 January 2009
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.
Monday, 22 December 2008
It's cruel child's play
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…
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, 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…..
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