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.

Taking the Fan Thing a Little Too Far

This happened a while ago, but Ive only just stopped laughing enough to write it down.

The other day, two ladies of my acquaintance were out in the car. I suppose it does no harm to reveal that they are in fact my mother in-law and sister in-law (both absolutely delightful people). They drove past a house which was evidently undergoing a good deal of building work, and outside of which was situated a 'portaloo'.

"Oh" says Mum, "those people must really like Doctor Who! Look, they've got a Tardis in their garden!"

I do hope she never has occasion to use one of the few remaining police telephone boxes to be found in our green and pleasant land.

Political Correctness and the Oxtail English Dictionary

I love languages; all of them. Even ones I have no hope in understanding. And let's face it a series of sentences directed at me in Cantonese might be the shopping list for my local take-away, or a declaration of undying love, I have no way of knowing (though probabilities would help me out), but it doesn't matter. Words just sound great.

Obviously, I have a particular affinity for the English language, whether it be the 'Ossome' Californian version, the 18th century 'authentic version' spoken in the Boston area, or my native (London-ish) vocabulary, well spiced and flavoured with Indian and French additives. (Moi perznal fayvrit be what spoken boi a Cornishmaan with ate pints o zoider in 'im.)

So it saddens me on my drive to work in the morning when I am verbally assaulted by a paragon of political correctness who wishes to remove a word from usage because it (allegedly) offends a section of society. This morning, it was the turn of a lady professor to complain about the fact that the extremely unfortunate victims of an apparent serial killer who is targeting prostitutes in Suffolk are being referred to as, well, prostitutes.

According to this person, all prostitutes are women first and foremost (which may badly surprise a small but significant number of rent-boys plying their trade in King's Cross, not to mention their clients) and there is no reason, therefore, to refer to them as prostitutes. This seems to fly in the face of common sense given that the Suffolk Strangler, as I have now heard the killer referred to in a shining example of alliterative inspiration, appears to be specifically targeting this particular working minority, and it's surely best to warn them of the fact.

When asked by a newspaper editor on the same interview as to what he should call these Working Girls, the lady responded with 'female workers in the sex service industry' - a slightly wider group of individuals, perhaps, but one which undoubtedly includes prostitutes. The man made a comment which I think was pointing out the unlikelihood of that phrase fitting into a headline, but I was narrowly avoiding being trashed by 38 tonnes of articulated Belgian at the time so I missed a bit.

Anyway, I shan't harp on, or indeed use the word again in what remains of this passage (or alleyway, or back of the car in a dark lane) except to say that I was wondering, as were the radio presenters, what the "Pretty Woman's" nearest equivalent to a trades union /civil rights group would have to say on the matter. Should anyone wish to ask them, they can be found under the name of "The English Collective of Prostitutes". I wish them the best of luck and the swift apprehension of the evildoer.

So, given that a valiant attempt has been made to remove a word from my dictionary, I shall have to counter by adding a new one, as revealed to me by my colleague Lew in the US. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to exasturbation, which is defined as the act of making a situation much worse than it was, all by one's self. An activity which regular readers will already know is one of my own particular talents.

What's it all about then?

Hello.

I've been playing at blogging for a while, sort of in secret. Not in total secret, of course, as that would seem to kind of defeat the object of putting my blathering on an accessible server in the first place. But to an invited audience, shall we say.

They tell me that some of what I've written in the past is amusing, but please feel free to comment (really, I'd like the feedback), if you read any further and you find that it isn't.

There are some pictures on this site, but no noises. If noises are 'your thing' then I can heartily recommend that your point your browser (a new window, of course) at http://pcpodcast.blogsome.com/ or indeed at http://suffolkandcool.com/ . Both of these places will deliver some excellent sounds, and my old amigo at PCPodcast is almost as good at grumbling as I am. I don't know the Cool Man of Suffolk well enough (or indeed at all) to cast nasturtiums in his direction (although, between you and I, I bet he's pretty good at grumbling if he sets his mind to it).

In future, there may be posts from invited guests here, but in the meantime, everything from here down is my own grumbling.

No animals were hurt in the writing of this blog, although I did have to blow a spider off of the keyboard earlier this morning.

Don't Let Him in, I Can't Find the Harpic!

I recently took the opportunity to drop in on a friend on my way to a 'food fair' some distance from where I live. As is customary on these occasions, while he and I had arranged this visit a good week in advance, he had neglected to tell his wife until I was a scant ten minutes away. On my arrival, I was slightly surprised that the good lady was, initially, no-where to be seen, but it emerged that she was frantically engaged in 'tidying up and cleaning'. This raises two points:

• As a 'bloke' I am genetically incapable of recognizing mess, so whilst flattering, this activity is completely unnecessary.
• This must be a bit how the Queen feels - apparently everywhere her Majesty goes is redecorated just before she gets there (in my case, its usually just after I've left), and therefore the queen believes that the entire world is spotless, and that fresh air actually smells like gloss paint.

Anyway, I digress... My colleague reports:

She did go on to say she was surprised you hadn't used the toilet (hence the frantic cleaning when you arrived). She went on to say that if it was I that had travelled for an hour in the car, then proceeded to have a cup of coffee, go round a food fair, have a sarnie, beer and more coffee, then there would be a very high probability that I would pay a lengthy visit to the bathroom, along with associated skid marks, drips and unpleasant smell.

My response to this, as an open letter:

I have to admit that once I got 3 miles down the road, I was disappointed thatI hadn't used the toilet. Still, not wetting myself gave me something to concentrate on on the way home.

I shall indeed warn my wife that we will need to line the Kharzi with anti-skid material, should you visit. Pondland [name changed for legal purposes] actually do something which is intended for lining the bottom of ovens which would probably do the job quite nicely. They often have reader's tips too, detailing unexpected uses for their products. I shall write to them:

Dear Pondland,

Thank you for your marvelous oven liner. Its great, and can be used in all sorts of places.

My wife recently obtained a rare phoenixx from a 'Harry Potter' convention, to replace our beloved parrot, Enoch, which recently passed away from a nasty case of 'rivers of blood'. We've called him 'Crazy Arthur Brown' and he's lovely, but he was getting through three cages a week. The poor lad's droppings simply burn through the bottom of his cage, and the traditional sandpaper just isn't up to the task.

Now I use sheets of your magic oven liner, and the droppings just slide off. I'm even making money as Ive been selling them to a nice man who used to work for the KGB, but I have no idea what he does with them.


Also, I am finally able to invite my good friend 'Skidmark Pete' round to my house for a coffee - my wife wouldn'tt allow it before, as cleaning the loo after his visits was such a chore. A little circle of oven liner with a target mapped out with 'tipp-ex' provides Pete with a smashing drop-zone and now we're all happy. Just thought your other customers might like to know of these alternate uses for your marvelous product!

Regards,
Major Q. Tipp (retired)

This Week's Recipe is Sliced, Deep Fried Polonium, with Stuffed Olives.

This week I should have been at a secret location, watching a bunch of luminaries (or might that be loonies?) give a whole load of presentations about the particular slice of business in which we are all involved. While there is the occasional gem, all too often one can be subjected to death by powerpoint (reminds me of an old joke where a savage chief offers three captives a choice between 'death or bobo'). I wonder what the collective term is for 'presentations' - yawn, perhaps? Or maybe itch, fidget or slumber...

In fact, I should have been giving my own presentation "Knitting Hamsters for Beginners", but the fates have conspired to keep me safe and sound[1] at home instead of sending me off in a metal tube, 30,000 ft in the air, with three hundred other people and, if the UK gutter press is to be believed, a couple of microgrammes of Polonium 210. (Polonium[2] is a type of fermented sausage popular in Eastern Europe, and 210 refers to its length, in millimeters. It is one of the most poisonous substances known. Two microgrammes of this stuff is enough to kill the entire audience at a matinee performance of the Mousetrap, or would be, if they weren't already dead anyway.)

These days, a powerpoint presentation is probably the closest today's busy executive comes to sitting down and watching some good, old fashioned amateur (see last week's post) dramatics. That might be a shame, but for the fact that some of the worst ones are unintentionally funny. The correct way to show 'appreciation' of such a production in times past would have been to pelt the perpetrators (I beg your pardon, I meant, of course, performers) with a selection of rotten fruit and vegetables. That's no easy these days since most produce is genetically engineered, irradiated, vacuum packed or in some other way buggered about with so that it doesn't go rotten, even on a boat journey from Papua, New Guinea, to Guildford. (Watching a container ship try to dock at Guildford is a pleasantly futile way to spend an afternoon, by the way.)

Lets not forget that fruit and vegetables in their natural state are most certainly too 'earthy' for today's executive to soil his hands with, so the projectile of choice will have moved on. I offer, for your consideration, a selection of modern and upmarket projectiles and delivery systems suitable for livening up these very occasions.

• Crystallised citrus fruit slices. Rock hard, and entirely cased in an abrasive sugar coating, these are the ninja stars of the confectionery world. The mental scars will outlast the physical grazing earned by unwary presenters who encounter a deftly flung slice of sugared lime.
• Chocolate Brazil nuts. The shiny plastic-like coating of chocolate on these increasingly scarce nuts reduces their wind resistance to almost zero. It's a little reported fact that NASA is currently engaged in covering one of its space shuttles entirely in a mixture of Hershey's and carnauba wax in what I am sure will be a successful attempt to obsolete those pesky heat resistant tiles. The less well off executive may find that second hand (reload?) brazil nut ammunition may be cheaply obtained from old ladies, since the nuts tend to be too hard for the dentures, and the old dears spit them out after sucking off the chocolate. Fired from a slingshot, one of these babies will prematurely curtail the most tedious of presentations.
• Finally, and most ominously, we have the blowpipe fired, hanabero stuffed olive. This is the hollowpoint bullet of the vegetable world. With sufficient velocity, the olive will, but virtue of its having been 'excavated', flatten on impact. Anyone who has previously consumed pieces of habanero chili will be well aware of the fact that there's a lot more damage done to the hole they come out of, than the one they went in through.

And yes, this is all sour grapes, and I am sore that I'm not there.


[1] As safe as it is possible to be when blessed with teenage daughters.
[2] Note for lawyers, this picture does not show a poisonous substance. Go sue someone else.

Religious Symbols

During my morning commute to the office to have my soul sucked out, energy bled away and youthful enthusiasm and optimism brutally suppressed by a bleak despair, I like to lighten my mood by listening to the Today Program on Radio 4. That's when I'm in the UK of course. In San Fransisco I listen to KFOG which is in no way similar, unless John Humphrys is prone to listening to Pink Floyd in the bits where he's not on air.


Anyway, while I was driving in today, a Vicar was expressing his displeasure at British Airways' recent decision to prevent a member of staff, a committed Christian, from wearning a cross outside of her clothing. He asked for all Christians to boycott the airline in protest. There was, of course, an entirely predictable debate involving Turbans, Burkhas and all manner of other religious symbols or attire, and their acceptability or otherwise in the workplace. I, as (perhaps regrettably) a godless heathen began to feel a touch 'left out', while at the same time having a certain amount of sympathy with the chattering clergyman.

Should I wish to proclaim my lack of faith to the world at large, what 'symbol', I wondered, would I share with my infidel brethren? A cursury search of the web (after all, I dont actually want to FIND one, that would spoil the point) has revealled the happy fact that while there is much discussion on this issue, there is no commonly agreed upon symbol. So, I'm free to make up my own then. Yippee.

Most religions, I figured, seem to have their holiest sites or most revered figures firmly located in extremely hot places. After all, Christians, Jews and Muslims all appear to have quite an interest in arid climes. And what is it that all of these places have in common? Sandals. So my first thought was a circle, containing a stylised pair of sandals, with a line through them at 45 degrees. Now that would look 'wicked' on one of those fine silver plated chains from the cheap shop - the ones that manage to turn your neck green after a week's wear. Not to be, I'm afraid...

Meaningless speculation and drivel (two of the pillars of my own existence) are helped along, I find, by pleasant company and conversation. You can speculate on your own, behind closed doors, but my mum always told me it would make me go blind (I think she said speculation). So, a couple of minutes after arriving at work, when it was time for my cigarette break, I collared a colleague and dragged him out into the rain with me. He doesnt smoke, but he does enjoy the cigarette breaks.

He told me that the Greek gods live on the top of Mt Olympus, where it's likely to be chilly, and that nobody had enquired of the Norse gods as to whether central heating was an essential feature of the average dwelling on Asgard, or whether they required air-conditioning instead. So, that's the sandals image done away with then.

This fellow pointed out that, from his point of view, one of the good things about having a religion was that it can sustain, even nourish, a person through times of adversity. He also pointed out that despite my tendency to liken my life to a vast and featureless desert without end (and therefore without a centre), there are in fact a few things around which my life does appear, to the outside observer, to revolve.

The first of these, of course, is a solid comittment on my part to the practice of 'taking the mickey' indiscriminately out of almost anything that anyone holds dear, whether or not I personally have sympathetic leanings, purely for effect. [I'd like to point out that I make fun of myself as well, I dont want everyone else to have all the attention.] Well, I cant argue with him, but its a bit ethereal really. Cant easily make a symbol out of that.

Then he struck a vein of pure gold. Food. If there's one thing about which I can endlessly enthuse and evangelise, its food. As the recipient of several blunt comments regarding the 'quality' of any chicken which might be obtained from a supermarket at two for a pound in comparison with the kind of free-range feathered aristocrat to which I am drawn myself, he knows he's on to a winner there.


So, next time you set eyes on an oversized individual proudly sporting a Potato (possibly engraved with a pair of sandals, I dont give up on an idea that easily) on a chain, know that it's there as a gesture of solidarity with those who like to advertise their own faith. And, of course, to sustain and nourish him through times of adversity; at which task it may, I respectfully suggest from a purely materialistic point of view, be (at least temporarily) more effective than an item of headgear or jewellery.

Amateur Time

As the festive season approaches at 160 Km/H (a hundred miles an hour in old money) we are faced with what an old friend of mine refers to as 'amateur time'. What on earth does he mean?



Well, its not the ticking off of passing seconds by someone who isnt paid to do so. Have no fear, Old father time is alve and well, and looking forward to the 31st December when he gets to go to parties and watch, as Big Ben strikes midnight, the assembled people search for the least physically unattractive person to kiss and shout 'happy new year' to, before turning into a newborn baby. Father Time, that is, not the kisser.


Nor is it the most dreadful Japanese import of modern times, Karaoke, where people who have deluded themselves into thinking they can sing stand up in front of their mates and murder songs like 'The Locomotion' (which should be murdered) and 'Wish You Were Here' (which should not be). Why is it that most people who do this cant carry a tune in a bucket?

Sliding down the scale of tastelessness for which I am so rightly known, the last thing it isnt. Its not those few pages to be found in 'gentlemens magazines' so often named after Ford cars (until they came out with the Mondeo which, if it were a magazine, sounds like it would be target at men who dont like girls). I'm referring to the pages where the 'mistress of the house' tries to live up to her title by allowing her hubby to send in a few pictures of her removing, piece by flimsy piece, her best dominatrix outfit in a seedy hotel bedroom in Walsall.

No, we were closest with Karaoke, its about pubs... At this time of year, folks who have stayed in all year watching soap operas and knitting their own hamsters decide to go out for a drink. Of course they deserve it, but these are the same people who have a bet on the horses only when the 'Grand National' is running. For my American readers, the Grand National is a bit like the Kentucky Derby, but without the fried chickens. Thus, the pubs dig out the bottles of sweet vermouth which havent seen the light of day since last year, and hang up a few sprigs of tired looking mistletoe. Conversations take place debating whether 'Cinzano' should be pronounced to rhyme with 'chin' or 'sin', and harrassed looking husbands in oversized, chunky-knit, olive green cardigans with big brown buttons find their senses overwhelmed by the beauty of the pneumatic young lady behind the bar and intoxicated by the merest sniff of her beer-splashed apron.


My curmudgeonly colleague claims that, as a seasoned and regular consumer of the fermented malt beverage, his enjoyment of the drinking establishment is adversely affected by these migratory visitors with their soundtrack of Slade, Wizzard, John Lennon and Yoko Ono and the Wombles. Personally, I think the miserable git should be forced to sit at the top of the christmas tree until his attitude improves.

Another Dubonnet and lemonade please, Sandra, and could I have another cherry please love, 'cos this one's gone a bit limp?