Pain and Podcasting

Last week, while on a business trip to San Fransisco, I managed to somewhat painfully injure my knee. Its the sort of injury I should expect when, at my advanced age, attempting to perform stunts on a snowboard and so I shouldn't complain. Well, if I'd been on a snowboard, I wouldn't complain, but I seem to have done this during the comparitively simple and well practiced manouver of getting out of bed, so I do feel a bit put out. I suppose it does go to prove my suspicion that many a bad day could be avoided by, quite simply, refusing to get up in the first place. I must try that out one day...



A concerned friend spotted me hobbling around the office and offered me some pain killers. Under normal circumstances I'd have had some anyway but, when I was packing my bag for the trip I realised that I had accumulated a vast quantity of pills, creams and ointments over my travelling career - enough that I could have treated any number of ailments from head to toe. So, fearful of being labled a hypochondriac, I elected to leave them at home. There's another reason of course, some of them were so old that the labels had worn off which would only invite trouble. I suspect that attempting to clean teeth with athlete's foot cream is disgusting, and I dont have the kind of unusual sensual proclivities for which a hint of minty-freshness between the toes would be a prerequisite, for either party.



As usual, my warped sense of humour almost managed to get me into trouble... The kind fellow handed me a couple of pills - small, vaguely diamond shaped, blue pills. Being a cheapskate, I tend to buy generic painkillers in the UK and so I'm accustomed to pills being of the rather boring, small, round, white variety. Colours and shapes - they're what you get from the Doctor for special occasions. I've only ever heard of one pill that matches the earlier description, so I peered suspiciously at him and said "I already have a dodgy knee - I dont need anything else stiffening up, thank you...".

If you're reading, Lew, I honestly didnt mean to imply you've been, you know, "disappointing miss Daisy" or "less-than-magic Johnson"...


So, back in Blighty and one 'minor injuries clinic' visit later, I am in posession of a pair or crutches, a stern caution from a nurse to keep my leg 'elevated' and an alternative use for a bag of frozen peas. It seems likely that I have "housemaid's knee", a diagnosis which caused a rather unattractive snort of derision from the good Mrs Grumbler, who indicated that the infrequency of my active engagement in domestic cleaning activites must surely rule this out. Perhaps Patellar Bursitis sounds more manly, or even immediately life-threatening.


Thinking about it, Patellar Bursitis sounds more like a distant star, around which some strange kind of alien life might have evolved "the Telepathic Eagle-Wolves of Patellar Bursitis". Or maybe a good name for an awful band. Which brings me on to my first attempt at podcasting which is called 'Music and Mumblings' - you can find it here. The bands are actually rather good. Have a listen - if I have to suffer, I dont see why you shoudnt too...

Life imitates art

Many people will know of Terry Pratchett, a man regarded as a minor deity by many readers of the Fantasy Genre for his Discworld series of books.


One of the characters who makes appearances in several of the books is Detritus the Troll, an upstanding member of the Ankh Morpork city watch. Trolls are made of stone and not generally noted for their quickness of wit... This isnt because Trolls are intrinsically stupid, rather, it's down to the speed of thought in a silicon based life form - which decreases as temperature increases. Thus a warm troll will be reeeaalllyyy stooopid. In Men at Arms, Detritus wears a clockwork hat which uses fans to cool his head down, thus keeping him relatively intelligent.

Given that Terry Pratchett himself is reported as having been diagnosed with an early onset form of Alzheimer's disease, it was breathtakingly ironic to read on the BBC website recently that an infra-red hat (known as a cognitive helmet) has been developed which may slow, if not reverse, some of the symptoms of that unpleasant affliction (which TP refers to with characteristic aplomb as an 'embuggarance'). The picture shows a hat with fans on it... One assumes that Mr Pratchett is aware of this odd example of life imitating art.

I personally have an awful memory. I cant afford a cognitive helmet, but you may, on occasion, see me with a pair of mini-maglights - one stuck up each nostril, in a desperate attempt to re-grow some brain cells.

Disabled Parking Public Information Film

This morning, breakfast TV reported on a subject close to my heart - the misuse of disabled parking bays.


This is a real trigger for me, guaranteed to set me off on a rant. Every time I see an able bodied person 'steal' a disabled space and saunter into a shop without a care in the world my blood boils, just as it did with the obnoxious fat git on my screen this morning.


Still, it reminded me of a conversation I had with the fellows at work a while ago, when the BBC was running a competition to produce a 'public information film' in the style of the ones that the UK used to have in the 60's. These peculiarly British oddities were a short film, maybe a minute or two long, which advised the public on things they shouldn't do... Like play with matches while wearing clothes soaked in petrol, shut children in fridges, or cross the road with a bag on their head. Things that wouldn't otherwise strike you as odd, unless the kind government told you they were - d'you see what I mean?


My film idea was about the dangers of parking in a disabled bay, when you don't have a disability...

The scene, outside a supermarket, there's one disabled bay free, and it's clearly marked. A big shiny red car screeches in - probably a Beamer, and out jumps a salesman in a sharp suit. He's talking loudly and self importantly into a cellphone as he strides towards the supermarket entrance.


Suddenly, Off from the left, a wheelchair appears. Its moving at a tremendous speed, and there's a little old lady sitting in it, clutching a sawn-off shotgun. As it hurtles past the rep, she lets him have both barrels, one in each leg.


The guy falls to the ground, screaming, and the picture slowly fades to one of those 'crime scene' silhouettes that we are all familiar with from the TV.

I've got this really great idea, too, about a film to discourage attractive single young women from parking in mother-and-child spaces....

Sorry Russell...

Today, Pete Cogle, the famous babbling pseudo-Tibetan Dave Gilmour look-nearly-alike podcasting nutcase was 200 years old. I'm sorry, I mean issued his 200th podcast (an easy mistake to make - Pete's almost Yoda-like presence makes him strangely difficult to age, though I have considered sawing off one of his legs and counting the rings, just to be sure).

As a part of the celebrations for this and other notable centenarian podiversaries (for messers Cool Clitheroe and Dark Cutler), we met in London last week as I have already noted. So why am I harping on about it again now? Well, the thing is, he recorded quite a bit of our conversation...

That's not a dead mouse you see him holding here, its a microphone. I have it on very good authority that the 'wind shield' (for such it is) that adorns the microphone is actually made from werewolf-fur which Pete's good lady wife was keeping in a box in the attic[1]. Its possible that something of the terror that the fur's previous lycanthropic owner could inspire still clings to this rather pathetic remnant. I have seen grown men and women turn pale, or flinch when Pete thrusts his rather scruffy and moth-eaten appendage towards them in search of a juicy quote (and the same goes for the microphone, ho ho!). Anyway, the dratted thing may no longer be attached to a man-eating monster, but its still bloody dangerous because it can still pick up an injudicious comment from twenty feet away.

After a few beers I have been known to talk a fair amount of bollocks (qv 'Testiculator'), but the thing is it doesn't usually come back to haunt me. Well, obviously sometimes it does, otherwise there is no earthly way I could explain my first marriage[2]. On this occasion, though, I had the chilling experience of hearing it all played back to me, and to make matters worse, there was some good music in the podcast, so I couldn't even turn it off.

To be fair, I have absolutely no-one but myself to blame for the awful 'Julian and Sandy' impersonations to be found at the beginning of Ourobouros Podcast #36. (Ooooh, Isnt he bold!) I'm not even too bothered about having claimed to live in a shed (after Mrs Grumbler reads this, there's likely to be more than a grain of truth in that assertion). Its almost impossible to hear what I said my favourite long word was, and even if you can make it out, I can weather that storm too.

However, just in case anyone gets the wrong idea (particularly any warped publicist who reckons it might make a good stunt) I need to take the opportunity in these pages of pointing out that I don't really have any intention of stuffing Russell Brand's Booky Wook where the sun shines not, in a manner of speaking. No. I don't want to be within six feet of either object, thank you very much.

[1] No, I don't think he knows why, either.

[2] This is a cheap shot and entirely unjustifiable - its only in for comic effect. And in any case, chronologically speaking, the first marriage involved a goat in a prehistoric Mongolian village (they made me their chief!) after I accidentally fell into a time warp in my local supermarket last Easter while reaching for a packet of Frozen peas, but I've been trying to hush that up.

A Wail of a Time!

It’s a grim Tuesday morning, and I’m huddled in a crusty, rusty, freezing-cold and rattling old train – peering through the steamed-up windows I can see sheets of rain lashing mercilessly against the steel grey landscape. I’m heading towards London, and I’m assaulted by a wave of memories of a score or so years ago, when my younger and less curmudgeonly self dragged itself into the capital for work every day. I thank a veritable host of deities (including Jah, Shiva and Catweazle) that I don’t have to do that any more – the very idea makes the tarnished remnants of my soul shrivel inside me. I wonder if Beelzebub likes prunes?

There’s another difference in the journeys now and then… 20 years ago I was comfortably numbed by cassettes of Pink Floyd played on my trusty Walkman. Now, I’m being shocked awake by a bewildering assortment of fantastic new music via a series of Podcasts on my iPod.

This journey has an undeniably more palatable purpose than work. I’m going to meet with my old mate Pete ‘Codger’ Cogle, host of PC Podcast, and three other podcasters - Peter ‘the Kid’ Clitheroe from Suffolk ‘n Cool; Rowley Cutler from Dark Compass and Colin Gazely from Ourobouros.

I’ve not had the chance to meet these last three guys before, but I’ve been listening to them for long enough that they already seem familiar to me – an odd situation, because (even if they’ve been reading my blog) I’ll likely be an unknown quantity as far as they are concerned. By lunchtime, this is no longer a concern to me; we’re all sitting comfortably in the Sussex in Covent Garden, each with a pint of (hideously expensive) Spitfire ale, yapping away like we’ve all known each other for years. I venture to suggest that if a bunch of whales is called a ‘pod’, then the collective noun for podcasters ought to be a Wail - and this meets with general approval. Mind you, with the amount of cackling going on, an external observer might have chosen a ‘coven’.

I wont bore you with a transcript of our drunken ramblings, though I have to award quote of the day to Mr Clitheroe who, when I told him I had listened to his entire ‘back catalogue’, informed us that he’r rather go through the Codger’s back passage than through his back catalogue…

You can see us at the top of this post and, provided that the Codger managed to hit the record button at some point during the day, you can probably hear us on PC Podcast (Wednesday 23rd, I would imagine).

A little review of the podcasts themselves won’t go amiss here…

Dark Compass – despite Rowley’s site getting a vast number of hits from people searching for ‘Golden Compass’ and ‘Dark Materials’, his compass is more like Captain Jack Sparrow’s – it's useless if you want to find North, but it will point you at your heart’s desire (no, its not Pirate Radio). Try it, you’ll like it. Rowley’s been at this the longest of this wail, and he’s soon coming up for show number three hundred.

PC Podcast – an eclectic mix of music presented by a sixteen year-old music freak trapped in the body of a forty-something year old beermonster. Living proof of the restorative effects of Adnams Broadside (or was it vodka and creosote?), Pete’s been delighting his listener(!) with some great tunes, twice a week, for two years now. He’s dragged me kicking and screaming into to French-Canadian Punk gigs and calmed me down again with Cornish bagpipe dub reggae amongst other things, and was once silly enough to let me hijack his podcast (though he didnt actually tell me until afterwards - trust me, it was complicated, and I was drunk). I’m not sure if his listening figures have recovered yet…

Suffolk ‘n Cool (cultural note for American English speakers: say it fast, and remember that ‘Suffolk’ might be written phonetically as ‘Suffuk’) – a similar mix to PC Podcast, musically, with the occasional ‘curve ball’ as a result of Peter’s Puckish Podcasting Personality (sorry, can’t resist a bit of gratuitous alliteration). Peter C has been ‘at it’ almost exactly the same length of time as Pete C (oh bugger it - see why it’s the Codger and the Kid now?) the two having presented their first episodes within a day of each other. Now, heaven forbid that I should pshychoanalyse, but I wonder if the Kid’s compensating for Codger having gone live a day before him when he trumpets all those Suffolk ‘n Cool first plays? Peter’s autobiographical notes on his website tell us how he preogressed from ‘rodie’ to ‘knob twiddler’. Fittingly, he’s about to knock out his 100th emission. In a manner of speaking.

Colin’s Ouroborous Podcast is named after a legendary Greek serpent (no, NOT Phillip) which swallows its own tail – a symbol for infinity. Colin says (quite rightly) that there’s an infinite amount of good music ‘out there’ and has made it his mission to bring you some of it. His podcast is the youngest of the four, but it’s no less likely to deliver you some sounds that you’ll love – his own enthusiasm for that music certainly shows through.

You know, there are days when I’m quite happy having nothing to grumble about!

Just not that many ;-)

Hopping Mad

In the Grumbler houshold, the inevitable result of Christmas, coupled with the January sales, is a mountain of refuse which may be recyclable (Cardboard, boxes, wrapping paper) or not (plastic bags and expanded poly-bloody-styrene).

All of this stuff needs to be carted to the local refuse centre - even if the bin-men could be bribed to take it away, you don't want to leave a pile of boxes outside your front door which advertise what presents you got. Imagine the neighbours trying to work out what exactly you're going to do with 25 gallons of custard in catering packs and a wetsuit?

So, I piled all the rubbish into the back of the car on not one, two or even three occasions. No less than four times was I forced to patronise the 'dump'. Our own facility has a height restriction set at about 3 feet six inches to prevent anyone coming in with a van because that would be 'trade refuse' and a bunch of yellow jacketed, power-crazed 'assistants' who are there to ensure that everything is put in the appropriate recycling area.

So, despite the minor feeling of triumph I'll have experienced after having Limboed in, avoided the rabid free-range council-sponsored eco-mentalists and manoeuvred myself to the 'devil-may-care, bung it all over this wall, I love landfill' section of the facility, at some point on one of these trips I have managed to scoop up and throw away with the rest of the crap one of my perfectly good, nicely broken-in hiking boots - kept in the back of the car for dog walking expeditions.

As I remember it, this was a £150 pair of boots, meaning that trip has cost me £75, dammit. Obviously, this is some kind of karmic retribution to my gleefully hubristic gloating over outsmarting 'Stig of the Dump' and his mates.

Oh well, there's nothing I can do other than make the best of the situation. Later this year I intend to take the family on a hopping holiday in the lake district. If anyone has any recommendations, lemme know?

Happy new year

Tired of all those other snacks? Just cant get enough? They're everywhere, but they still don't satisfy?

Now available from the United States and all-new for 2008, its the 'Credit Crunch' bar!

A gorgeous melt-in-the mouth filling, so light you'll wonder if there's really any substance at all, shot through with bitter-sweet chunks of northern rock to give it that authentic adrenalin-packed crunch! A great collection of flavours all consolidated into one easy-to-swallow snack - the whole bar covered in chocolate thicker than a brace of sub-prime mortgage applicants.

Its the taste that folks have been queueing hours for, they literally cant get enough! Try it yourself, and see what the hype is all about.

* Remember, your future is at risk if you bite off more than you can chew.

The Queen's Christmas YouTube Message

This year’s Queen’s Christmas message is not only to be televised, but also available as a podcast and on YouTube in an attempt to reach out to younger viewers. Apparently, the speech itself has been updated a little in order to ‘really connect’ with today’s youth. An exceedingly unreliable correspondent from the Royal Household has leaked what he allegedly says is a transcript of this year’s speech.


Yo Subjects,

My homie 'Bubbles' and me is sendin’ a bigged-up Merry Christmas and stuff and a Happy New Year and shit your way, isn’t it?

We’re well glad this year is nearly over, because it’s been a bit of a bummer, you know what I mean?

They are still ranting on about a certain young lady previously associated with one of my boys and this ‘n that and apparently she was having an affair with Dido. Big bucks for that video, isn’t it? Anyway, some shopkeeper is mouthing off that she was knocked up by his son. Says that we had them killed and stuff so that we wouldn’t have to pay for the wedding or something - what am I, James Bond? (Radical, Miss Moneypenny!) He wants me to go to court and everything, I mean, no way – he’s not my Dad!

Sons, and that, are like well tiresome, d’you know what I mean? I mean, mine keeps moping around all day and he’s like ‘Come on Mummy, let me have a go at being Queen?’ and I’m like ‘No way Bro, I haven’t finished yet, is it?’. He’s a bit crap if you ask me – Duke of bloody Cornwall and can’t even do a decent Jethro impression, tragic. Anyway, I’ve well stitched him and everything, got him a part time job at Christmas steering poor jam-stained little Chavs into Santa’s Grotto in Brent Cross.

Some of you have sent me word that your Christmas is gonna be well distressing, because the post office hasn’t turned up with the bling and shit you’ve ordered over the internet. That’s not on because these Jokers are calling themselves the ‘Royal Mail’ and everything and that’s disrespecting me because Im the Royal Queen and stuff and they're well-useless and I'm not. I’m not standing for that and I’m sending my grandsons over there to sort them out because they’re well-hard. They wanted to know what was in it for them, so I promised them half an hour each with a hand-maiden, d’you know what I mean? One of them is a bit odd though, said he’d rather have a foot-man, and he hasn’t even been in the Navy. Scary.

Well, that’s enough from me now because the Dinner’s ready and Chef, he’s an ex heroin-addict, gets well vexed and everything if it cools down. He says that there’s nothing worse than Cold Turkey. Ha ha, that’s my Christmas joke, get it? Anyway Eastenders is on now.

A Merry Christmas to all of you and your husbands, wives or civil partners if you is batting for the other side, isn't it, isn't it? Standard!

Condiments of the Season!

Revision 3.

It’s often said that Christmas is only magical and exciting for children; this, in my opinion, is poppycock[1]. I think that the problem is that we grown-ups have simply forgotten many of the things which are fun about Christmas. Now, it’s fair to say that I speak as what Richard Dawkins might call a Cultural Christian . What I mean is that the celebration of Christmas is something I’m accustomed to, even though I’m far from being a regular church-goer (the folks down at the Nemeton would see it as a bit of a betrayal, I fear). There's something I enjoy, despite my curmudgeonly nature, about this excuse for a bit of indiscriminate and promiscuous bonhomie.

So, given that my attempt to get together a team of Ninja Morris Dancers has stalled due to the current weather being cold enough to freeze one’s bells off and, since it’s a traditional part of Christmas, I figured it would be a rather good idea to have a Nativity Play. In the Office.

Traditionally, the Nativity play performed in infants' (elementary) schools in the UK is a chance for parents to go and watch their offsprings' first tentative steps in the general direction of amateur dramatics. These days, though, its often an excuse for power crazed local councillors who've recently overdosed on political correctness to whine on about not offending other religions. Whoops - almost started on a rant there, not in the spirit of things at all. Ahem. So, yes, parents, first steps... well, in the office, there are one or two of us knocking on the door of forty, or perhaps even gazing wistfully back at it... Perhaps this is not so much a time to make Mum and Dad proud, but an opportunity, instead, to mortally embarrass our life-partners...

As I am a megalomaniac (though not yet a local councillor) I shall, of course, take it upon myself to arrange the casting. Lets start with the starring roles. (Note, with every major production, there is always a little re-casting. We shall be no different, and I may add players as I see fit.)

I'm prepared to bet that its generally easier to find a virgin in an Infants' school than at an office (even in the town in which I live, famous for its young mothers, there is a standard which at least lets the girls get to Junior school before procreation boosts their chances of a council flat). And, despite the classic example in Monty Python's Life of Brian, you cant exactly go round asking can you? So, we'll settle for Irony here and cast, in the role of Mary, a gentleman known in other blogs as 'the Lad'. He is the least likely of us to actively enjoy dressing up as a lady (sorry Rod) and, according to the stories with which he used to entertain us at lunchtime (when our local staff eaterie served food instead of the dried up 'poppycock' it currently pushes out), possibly the least virginal. So, the Lad gets to be Mary.

While on the subject of infants, we shall cast my good friend Andy as the Baby Jesus. This is because he (a) is good at making incoherent noises, (b) apparently sucks his thumb in times of stresss and (c) fits in the crib.

Joseph, in this context, is no more than a bit part. After all, his 'part' apparently didn't get to do its bit... This (as a sort of Homage to Andrew Lloyd Webber) will go to the person who can produce the most psychedelic anorak.

I seem to remember the involvement of a shepherd, and an angel in the story somewhere. The Angel clearly has to be the lady who makes the coffee without which we couldn't function in the morning, and the boss can be the shepherd (baaah baaah) for obvious reasons that if we don't all act like sheep, at least we can be servile curs...

Geography has never been my strong suit. In fact, during my O-Level exam, I wrote a good couple of pages to the examiner, apologising for wasting his time in forcing him to mark a paper for which I clearly should never have been entered. He must have appreciated the apology, I passed with a 'C'. Anyway, this means that the three wise men (or kings, the story varies) from the East will in fact hail from the valleys of Wales (some distance to the west of us here).

There's a reason for this, of course, in that the trio needs to be self evidently foreign, so the accent of the two genuine Welshmen in the office (Bus-boy and the tenth man) will do nicely. The quick amongst you will notice the mathematical discrepancy. Fear not, for I shall step into the breach. Ive always wanted to be regarded as a Wise Man and, despite my inability to stick to a single accent for more than ten words ,I do, bizarrely, enjoy pretending to be Welsh[2]. Well, due to the aforementioned linguistic drift, more of a sort of Pakistani from the Valleys.

The three wise men always bear gifts, and this occasion will be no let down on that score. The Welsh kings will bestow Goldie Lookin' Chains, Class-A Skunk and a four cans of Brains S.A. on the lucky infant.

Slightly off topic, but when was he ever on the same plane as the rest of us, we'd have to bring back - for one night only - the Podcaster - in the role of Christmas past...

Also not in the original score, as far as I know, are the bouncers. Saxman and Mr B can fill in here, because they are taller than everyone else. These are needed only for this particular play since I cant be bothered to think up any more clever castings, and have therefore consigned the rest of the staff to be sheep.

Someone's gonna have to keep the kings away from them...

Happy midwinter festival of your choice. Ho ho ho, have I got a surprise for you, small person[3]!


[1] An interesting word, actually a corruption of ‘Pappekak’ – which is Dutch for ‘soft dung’ rather than referring to, as I had suspected, the stamens of an opium-producing flower.

[2] If anyone can help cure me of this...

[3] If the punctuation zealot is tuned in here, I have to say in my defence that as the question is rhetorical, I felt I could get away with an exclamation mark.

Nonconformist collectives...

Encouraged by having just received a sound, if second-hand, telling off for a deliberate grammatical faux-pas in an email, (the offended person feeling safer in sending her good husband to do the dirty deed) I have decided to form a new organisation for the sort of person who might read (and enjoy) "Eats shoots and Leaves".

However, being of a perverse nature, Ill have to give it an inappropriate name. Thus I commend to you:

The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Apostrophe's.

My Malicious and cruel imagination can see English teachers exploding up and down the country even as I type.

Double Take

In response to Monday's grumblings, one of my dear readers who remains "Anonymous" said...

I want to congratulate the Grumbler on his forthcoming TV comeback . It's been a long wait. So, are Dave and Freema as nice as they appear on TV?

So, this left me wondering - are they likening my Alchemistic-Ape-Altering device to the humanoid cloning experiment conducted by General Sontar resulting in the fearsome race of Sontarans, or is this a weak attempt by someone who knows me to liken my own handsome self to a "Doctor Who" monster, hmmm?

Well, I'll leave it to a 'Private Eye' style lookalike picture for you to judge for yourselves...

The right ape for the job?

On occasion during my illustrious[1] career, I have been called upon to recruit personnel into some reasonably specialised positions. Of course, despite many promises to the contrary, this hasn't happened for quite a while at my current employers. That's a mixed blessing, as it happens, because on the one hand an ever increasing workload has to be handled by a tiny band of put-upon 'martyrs', but on the other we are saved the soul-destroying[2] task of looking for something which doesn't exist - namely the right man or woman for the job. Invariably, we have had to take on someone who has the potential to do what we need, without necessarily having the knowledge - then we mould (or crush, if need be) them to fit our inscrutable purpose.

In the UK at the moment are three obvious situations where we simply aren't going to find the right (wo)man.

• Leader of the Liberal Democrat party. Currently a fight between a couple of guys, both keen for the job. In fact, its a pretty meaningless activity, since whichever of them actually gets in will lead a party which stands no chance of getting into government within the foreseeable future.


• Manager of the England football team. OK, I don't know a lot about football, but understand that we set fire to the last guy for failing to get us into something called Euro 2008 (approximately $2,979 at today's rates, not much of a prize, is it?). Our football team seems to fail to get into a lot of things, and when it does get in, it certainly doesn't win. There's no reason to suppose that the individual (would be nice to see a lady in this role, make a change anyway) who can achieve success here exists either.


• Owner of the Northern Rock Bank. This lot are in a bit of a state as a result of the recent 'credit crunch'. Bit of a shame since they weren't directly responsible for anyone moving out of a trailer-park, but that's life. Anyway, they owe the UK taxpayer about £24 billion pounds (a bit more than $2,979 at today's rates) in loans made to bail them out. It seems unlikely, even if a certain well known bearded billionaire manages to buy them (why does he need an international airline since he can clearly walk on water?), that the taxpayer will see this sum repaid in full.

Bleak Huh? Well, I have the solution. A fanfare, please, for Dr Grumbler's Patent Alchemistic-Ape-Altering device. Guaranteed[3] to convert any simian subject into a solid-gold 'right man for the job' (or woman, obviously, depending on the the subject ape - gender reassignment is not an option on this model). Simply follow the easy to read instructions (translated directly from the original Japanese, and then into Swedish for that authentic high-tech flat-pack feel) to program in the desired results, pull the big lever on the right, and then... [4]

[1] meaning: without lustre

[2] yes, Ive still got one. I keep it in the freezer in case I ever need it again

[3] guarantee underwritten by International Reckless Sub-prime Lenders incorporated

[4] monkey not included

An Infectious Beat

I was chatting with my mate Pete the Podcaster the other day when he mentioned that one of our mutual friends had paid him a complement by describing his podcast as 'infectious'.




Now, he's a modest bloke, is our Pete, but the podcast is dear to his heart and he spent the day with a warm and comfortable glow about him, imagining our mate Richard tapping his feet, drumming his fingers on his desk, humming tunelessly and generally pissing off anyone within 50 feet of him in the office. "This," he doubtless thought to himself, "is what I do it for." So, as he admitted to me, it had rather wounded him when the chap in question informed him that he didn't mean he'd been indulging in a bit of "creative commons karaoke", he meant that the podcast had given him the flu.




Braver readers of this blog who, undaunted by its content, have taken a look at the recommended links to the right and treated their ears to either of the podcasts run by the Codger and the Kid will know that both of these individuals have had colds over the past few weeks.

I've been listening to both of them, and I've had an absolute bugger of a cold. So what if there's a grain of truth to this suggestion that you can catch something from a podcast? This is a little worrying.


So, partly because Ive had nothing better to do for the last half hour, partly because it was a fascinating quest, and partly (more about this later) to provide a spot of audience participation, Ive searched for some genuine podcasts, available for subscriptions through the itunes podcast directory which might possibly leave you with more than you bargained for. So, if you believe this kind of rubbish, and value your health, may I suggest that you think twice before listening to:

• News Pox


• Radio Rabies


• Ebolaworld

Now the audience participation bit - There are painstakingly accurate drawings of the viruses responsible for the cold, rabies, ebola and pox on to days post. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to identify which is which...


Oh yeah, I almost forgot to say, If you havent listened to either PCPodcast or Suffolk'n'Cool yet, why not give them a go. As far as Im aware, at time of writing you'll end up with nothing worse than a hangover or a mild case of athlete's foot. Good luck!

Kitchen Devils

Every morning in our household, Mrs Grumbler and I play out what has come to be an essential ritual. It's called "who's going to make the tea?". Now it's an interesting fact about my good lady that, on waking up, her need for a cup of tea is almost exquisitely balanced by her desire to stay in bed for as long as possible. It happens that if I wait long enough, she'll usually get up and make it. However, in fairness, I aim to make the tea at least half the time and, in laziness, she aims to have me make it the other half as well.

Of course, in the balmy days of summer this isn't so much of a hardship. The kitchen is full of golden morning light, the birds are singing, and the dog is breaking his neck to be let out in order to piddle over the flowers. In the icy grey days of winter, though, it's a different story. It's still dark when we wake up and, however early I set the heating to come on, I always feel cold standing in my lace trimmed dressing gown and Winnie the Pooh slippers waiting ages for the kettle to boil. All this while the light of my life slumbers on in 15 TOG duck-down insulated bliss.

I thought, until recently, but this was a simple case of jealousy on my part that somebody else was getting an extra 10 minutes of snore-time (yes, she really does). Now, though, I know differently. It turns out that my reluctance to make the tea in the mornings is a perfectly natural consequence of the fact that our teapot has been infested by an evil demon from the lower reaches of hell.

Now, I know what you're thinking. How on earth can the average demon fit inside teapot? Well, let me tell you that in my experience, daemons come in all shapes and sizes and their physical size bears little resemblance, at the end of the day, to how malignant they turn out to be. And, in any case, it's a big teapot.

Obviously, I haven't actually seen the demon, because only lunatics and those who have sold their soul to the Devil can actually see demons. I am (contrary to popular belief) neither a paid-up Satanist nor am I a nutcase. No, I have been forced to conclude that there is a demon somewhere in the kitchen because of a number of bizarre and frankly disturbing occurrences centred around that very room.

Firstly, things have begun to disappear. Chocolate, biscuits, grapes, savoury treats from the fridge, chocolate, and especially chocolate have all mysteriously vanished. Nobody, especially not the children because I've asked them several times, has any idea where these things are going.

Secondly, the children themselves have begun to display an irrational, almost terrified, behaviour pattern whenever we ask them to make tea or to empty the dishwasher -- on which the teapot happens to stand. Basically, they will refuse point-blank to co-operate.

So the obvious conclusion is that the kids are terrified of the teapot, and I can't think of any reason that they would be terrified of it unless it was infested by a demon. Yes I know you'll tell me that all of this evidence is merely circumstantial; but there is a clincher. The dog has left me and note telling me that he has actually seen the demon, and he is nuts, so he ought to know.

How's yer plums?

This weekend the family learned why our American cousins like to differentiate between a torch and a flashlight.


We went to a firework display in the local town of Wokingham (famed, amongst other things, for having a Vulcan in the shape or John Redwood represent them in the Houses of Parliament). We Brits do this every year in the first week of November and, on many occasions, an effigy of Guy Fawkes (a Catholic bent on regicide and the obliteration of a Protestant government) is burned.


The display was preceded by a torchlit procession from the market square to the 'fairground' where the display was to take place. Participants could, on parting with a mere five pounds, take possession of a flaming torch made out of a length of broomstick (note to self, check to see if the mother-in-law's runabout has been stolen) and some sacking soaked in wax.



Knowing that it was a racing certainty that at least one Family member would, as is often the case when walking around a field in the dark, stand in the leavings of one of the local canine populace I also stuck a battery-operated torch in my pocket so that we could check and discount this eventuality before getting back in the car.


Seeing me pocket the flashlight, the good lady wife was heard to enquire -"What's that for, Damsons in Distress?".


I shouldn't mock - she's given me some splendid ideas. Watch this space over the coming weeks for a play based upon the story of "Damson and Delilah"[1] and a fairy tale about a young fruit imprisoned in a tower by an evil sorceress which I'm intending to call Raplumzel.


[1] Actually, I can't really claim that one as my own idea. I must give credit to my good friend Rod, who likes to dress up as a lady in front of paying strangers.

TED is a part of United

Airline delays are a favourite thing to moan about and, reassuringly, something that can be experienced anytime... Just book an internal US flight with the USA's 'TED' airline - a 'low cost' service operated by United.

Speaking from personal experience, I have found this particular bunch of jokers to be on-time only once, and on that miserable occasion I was firmly glued to my seat due to the carelessly discarded chewing-gum of a previous delightful passenger.

Still, on the bright side, the delay in Las Vegas's McCarran airport which I experienced (there were, apparently, no pilots available) gave me the change to use the 'free' wireless network. Well, they say its free, but they have you enter an email address when you log on - doubtless so they can spam it for evermore. So, I entered the email address of a guy who gave me a particularly hard time at a recent conference...

And I managed to look up "the Old Codger's pole" as recommended by Mr or Ms "anonymous" in a post-script to my last post (thanks for the feedback, btw). Of course, I did this while NOT logged in through my office system, since navigating to a website known as "codger's pole" might well be a slightly risky experience. Anyway, it turned out safe after all. Take a look, Pete, one of these guys looks uncannily like you after a couple of ales :) Do you think the Clitheroe Kid will be jealous that you've got a massive pole?

Once the plane actually turned up and was hastily cleaned and refuelled, we were herded onboard and taxi'd a short distance only to stop for another half hour because 'Airforce Two' was due to land. Now, I wouldn't want to cast aspersions as to the amount of room a passenger is allowed on these planes, nor the quality of the ventilation when on the ground, but the term 'flying veal-crate' comes to mind.

Of course, this kind of thing wouldn't happen in the UK. Our deputy head of state doesn't have his own plane. In fact, until recently, the deputy p.m. was known to travel about in two jaguars - presumably being bifurcated prior to his journey and reassembled at his destination for security purposes. Certainly it was never necessary to close a motorway just because he was on it - though it could be inadvisable to be on the street if he went for a walkabout in one of his more pugilistic frames of mind...

Finally, landing in San Fransisco a mere three hour late (not bad going for a one-hour flight) we had the delightful opportunity to wait for another hour for our luggage.

Anyway, back to this hopeless airline who's catch phrase is "TED is a part of United" might like to consider my alternative suggestion - "United is an anagram of UNTIED". They can certainly keep their "friendly skies"...

Street Life

So, I was reminded today about the photograph you see to the left, of my good friend Matthew. This was taken when both of us happened to be in the fair city of San Fransisco. It was some years ago now, and we were much older then than we are now.

Since Matthew claims Welsh ancestry, I found the opportunity to take a picture under such an appropriate street sign irresistible.

Of course, Matthew was keen to return the favour but, would you believe, even in that most cosmopolitan of cities, there is no street called "Miserable Old Fat Bastard".

I see the makings of a series here. If anyone knows where they can find a genuine street called 'Codger' please let me know so I can drag my mate Pete off poste haste for a photo session...

Today's scribblings arrive by courtesy of a speech recognition program. This, in itself, gives me much to grumble about but more of that later. There is, of course, a reason why I am using this rather unusual method of text input. I'm sitting here, yakking into a cheap and uncomfortable headset perched unsteadily atop my sparsely greying dome because my right arm is in a cheap and uncomfortable sling and I have been forbidden to use it by a stern yet well-meaning lady of the medical profession.

I am, in point of fact, suffering from an unfortunate repetitive strain injury of the wrist. Now, I know my readers (both of them) and so I know what you're thinking now. Stop it.

For a couple of reasons I have been out of the office for a little while and have had some time on my hands. There's only so much walking the dog and daytime television that a man can stand and so I've had to find some other things to occupy my time. I rather like to make things so I've tried to use that time constructively.

In fact my injuries have been caused by an overindulgence in my hobbies of drawing and woodcarving. As a result of much diligent application over the preceding three weeks I have, to show for my efforts, a wooden carving of a horse's head approximately 1 foot high; several pen and coloured pencil drawings of dragons; a sore arm and an irritated wife. This latter, rather unwelcome, situation is a result of my current inability to fully participate in the activities of housework or packing for and driving to our family holiday in the Lake District of England.

Speech recognition: oh dear, oh dear. Now everything started quite well because the program I'm using has in its name the word Dragon, and I like dragons. Trouble is, it starts to go downhill from here on. Firstly, having installed Internet Explorer seven I find that the programme does not automatically update itself with the latest patches on the manufacturers website. This has necessitated a phone call to technical support and the ensuing download of 1 GB patch file for which I am still patiently waiting.

In the meantime I decided to get on with "training" the package to recognize my dulcet tones. The promotional "blurb" which comes with this particular package sets great store by the accuracy and ease-of-use of this software. It is hardly necessary, we are told, to train it-it's that good straight out of the box. So I expected my clear and concise delivery of the Queen's English to present no problem. Unfortunately, of course, the (inevitably American) software is expecting the President's English rather than that of the Queen. My first attempts contained so much garbage inaccuracy and misspelling that they actually resemble a George W. Bush speech. And to borrow a word from said President I'm afraid I rather "missunderestimated" the magnitude of the task of training. It's taken most of the afternoon and been quite frustrating but I finally seem to be getting somewhere.

Health warning

I would like to humbly apologise for my absence from these pages for some time, but that would be grossly out of character so I'm not going to do so. Instead, I shall provide a pathetic excuse; a work related sense of humour failure rendered me, for a while, no less full of vitriol but rather lacking in suitable wit with which to express it. Anyway, the situation is behind me now (also in front of me, to the left, right, above and below me) so, since there's evidently no escaping it, I shall get on with things...





This month, the act of smoking in public 'enclosed spaces', like pubs, has been outlawed in England, bringing us in to line with Wales, Ireland and Scotland. Now, I was actually in California a good few years ago when a similar thing happened at midnight on New Year's Eve. Great timing! Anyway, on that occasion I simply left the country for a smoke. Trouble is I happen to Live in the UK.


In preparation for this, and in order to reduce the exhorbitant rates charged by my life insurance company, I have become a lifetime non-smoker. The lifetime I'm referring to is the adult stage of the 'May Beetle', which is, in fact, about a month. Mrs Grumbler has also eschewed her incendiary pleasures for a similar length of time. We avoided killing each other during the 'gnarly phase' by the simple expedient of me flying to San Fransisco for the better part of three weeks, although many people were unable to detect any appreciable change in my own demeanour.



So, now that I am a non-smoker, I can set about those poor unfortunates who still partake with the zeal reserved specifically for those of us who used to, and are trying to convince ourselves not to start again.



To discourage people from smoking, we in the UK already have some quite prominent and no-nonsense health warnings printed on our cigarette packets. The stylish monochrome black or gold packets (or garishly coloured boxes favoured by the lower rent end of the market, not that I'm a snob or anything) are rather starkly invaded by "SMOKING KILLS" messages, and comments like "Protect children, dont make them breath smoke". (As a side note, my local member of parliament never replied to the email I sent to the effect that the latter sugestion should be changed to "Protect children, set fire to a paedophile". What do we pay these people for?)



These warnings, though, arent enough for the people in Westminster. Instead, they are to be replaced with pictures warning of the dire effects of tobacco... Given the wide variety of heath warnings available, Ive had some fun imagining what these might be like...




First, the shock value. "Hey puffer, what do your lungs look like?"




Now, lets appeal to the scientist. "Oi speccy, whats that smell?"












And, finally, the one that probably made me stop in the end. Have you met my little brother, by the way?

WOW, January 27th

Testiculator: One who gesticulates, while talking bollocks .

Allegedly, this word has been invented to describe Adam Hart-Davis , possibly because of his attempts to portray HM Customs and Revenue as nice, helpful people, with the uk taxpayers' best interests at heart.

Credit to my amigo Pete of the PCpodcast for this new word.

Elevator 'facts'

Some unsupportable 'facts' about elevators, or Lifts, as they are called in more civilised society.

1) The larger a person is, the more likely they are to be standing in front of you.

2) The larger a person is, the more likely they are to be leaving after your stop.

3) If you enter an empty lift in which someone has recently broken wind, you will be joined at its next stop by someone you have a burning need to impress.

4) If you want a lift to yourself, get in and face away from the doors. This unnerves people, and they will leave as soon as possible rather than risk sharing the space with a nutcase.

5) The majority of lifts in the town of Redding are manufactured by "Otis".

6) 15% of English people will snigger to thmselves when entering a lift manufactured by "Schindler" (think about it, it'll come to you)

Update: July 2007: We had some good comments added by people with their own Elevator Etiquette. My thanks to Tengrain, Ellroon and a couple of anonymous chums for these:

Tengrain said...
Axiomatic: when you enter an elevator, it is always going the direction you are not.
Etiquette tip: Always talk loudly on your cell phone while in the elevator. Bonus points for using the phrase, "The clinic says the rash will go away in three days. Now I have to call the others."

ellroon said...

1. The more you dislike the person you are riding with, the slower the elevator moves.
2. The more you are in a hurry, the higher the percentage is the elevator is broken.
3. If you are pushing a wheelchair, a trolley, a wheeled suitcase, it is guarranteed the elevator will not rise completely to be level with the floor.

Things to do in an elevator:

• When you are in the elevator, stare at your watch, counting down under your breath. Then start hopping frantically while shouting 4..3...2...1...
• Have your gloves talk to each other.
• Take off one shoe and look carefully inside. Then call a pet's name.
• Look at the Otis nameplate in the elevator and then start telling people long-winded detailed stories about your perverted Uncle Otis and his chickens. Never get to the point.
• Cover your face with a napkin or handkerchief and sob loudly throughout the ride. No one will be able to talk.

Anonymous said...

Rule #1: Do not EVER get on an elevator with Amy when you have a banana in your hands! EVER!

WOW, January 19th

Another word of the week...

Cosinecure : Position or job which requires temendous effort, while offering little or no reward. Opposite of sinecure.

Damned Passwords

Look, I dont care what the 'security gurus' say, for the past few years I have been quite happily using the names of my immediate family as passwords. After all, I have to remember about a hundred passwords, whereas I have less than half that number of children, and I can remember all their names.

Last time I tried to change a password I was informed that:

1) Passwords must be a minimum of 8 characters in length
2) They must contain both upper and lower case letters
3) They must contain at least one digit, and one or more of the following special characters (-$#@%*)

So, I've given this some considerable thought, and I have a solution. When I get home from my current business trip to the moon, I am going to suggest to my wife that we change the kid's names to R2D2-kid1 and C3PO-kid2. Snappy, eh?

WOW, January 8th

Yes, its 'Word Of the Week' time.

This week, the delightful wife of one of my acquaintances was heard to claim that she was going through the Mentalpause. I beleive I know how she feels. Looking on the bright side though, once the Mentalpause is over, theres no need to spend a fortune on sanity towels.

Reality TV

Some friends and I, aided by a reasonable quantity of rather pleasing intoxicant, were recently discussing 'Reality TV' in the hope of hitting the right formula to make our millions, with the minimum of effort on our part, and leaving aside all question of taste and decency (since that's an important facet of this kind of show). We think we've cracked it! Any TV producers out there should contact the Grumbler for a discussion regarding production rights for...

Celebrity Victorian Nut-House

The 'action' takes place in a grimly run-down building, some 200 years of age. It is draughty, damp, dark, ill maintained and, frankly, dangerous. Any UK inner-city primary school should fit the bill nicely, and the rental for a period over the holidays might pay for some new chalk and slates for the students.

The cast includes a number of professionals fully trained in nineteenth century mental health care techniques. Exhaustive research on the part of the grumbler (by which I mean I scoured the web until I was tired, which didn't take long after last night's new-year revelry) suggests that this involves the ability to fling a bucket of water, push a small chunk of stale bread through a hatch in a steel door, and physically restrain a malnourished inmate with the aid of only four or five similarly minded ruffians.

Under the tender ministration of these carers we will have a number of 'celebrity lunatics'. Other 'celebrity reality' TV shows suggests that most of the individuals likely to agree to appear will be bordering on certifiabilty in any case. In keeping with similar programs, the 'celebrities' need not in fact be recognisable to the majority of the viewers at the start of the series. It is suggested that they include at least some of the following.

• Someone who used to read the news twenty-five years ago on regional TV, before leaving to become a postman.
• Any mildly-controversial back-bench politician, preferable without any 'party' associations.
• A bishop.
• A former Children's TV presenter whose career ended in a (preferably smutty) scandal.
• Anyone who's been on one of these programs before.
• One or more gay persons, famous only for being gay.
• An ugly man.
• A stunningly gorgeous woman.
• An Australian or South-African sportsperson of yesteryear.
• A west-highland terrier, or shopping channel presenter who believes they are a west-highland terrier.
• A post-operative transsexual (preferably D.I.Y.)
• The Emperor Napoleon

Cameras will be situated all over the 'nut-house' to capture every moment of action, with a daily show delivering 'highlights' to the viewers. Telephone/Text/Interactive TV voting systems will allow the viewers to 'vote out' one celebrity a day at a nominal cost of one pound per vote plus the usual network-charges. Each voted out celebrity will be given a handful of loose change (preferably foreign), a thin blanket impregnated with cat's pee and a cardboard box, and be dropped off under a motorway fly-over to provide some shelter from the elements as they begin to 'live rough' or, as its called these days, re-integrate into the community. (Note the possibility of spin-off programs here)

The eventual winner is, of course, the last person remaining after all others have been voted off. Their prize (unless the dog wins) will be a year's supply of fake tan, and an opportunity to rekindle their career presenting a daytime TV program dealing with the sale of antiques.


I don't watch a lot of this kind of show myself, of course, so I can only hope this one hasn't already been done....

Happy new year.