Dog training...

So, tomorrow, at the grand old age of twentysomething (where something is a number larger than twenty) the Grumbler goes back to school. This has come as a surprise to a number of people, including the Grumbler himself.

You see, what’s really happening is that I’m taking Rowley (our four month old Golden Retriever) on a course of puppy training classes. This proves necessary as he has singularly failed to take on board the information in the book I bought him. I know that he’s digested the contents because I had to clean the results up from the kitchen floor the other day.

In my relatively simple world, taking the pup on a course equates to taking him to be trained. However, in reading up a little beforehand, all of the indications are that it’s the owners that are the target of the educators… This is just weird, for at least three reasons, namely:

1) It’s been a very long time since I last ran away with the single minded intention of impregnating every female I could get my paws on. (note, Im not saying I never tried this, just that I don’t any more)
2) I don’t make a habit of crapping in the kitchen. (I’d say I have never done this, but its conceivable that ‘mother Grumbler’, who has an outstandingly long memory for childhood misdemeanours, might disagree.)
3) Last time I was taken on a course, it was me that was trained, not the taxi driver who took me.

Still, I intend to keep my mind as open as Rowley keeps his bowels and so I shall embark on this course in an optimistic and resolute frame of mind. By the time Rowley and I are finished; one of us will walk to heel, sit, lie down and come on command. Mrs Grumbler thinks this is very funny.

Apart from refusing to walk under ladders; steering clear of black cats; obsessively counting magpies; throwing spilt salt over my left shoulder and touching something wooden just about every time I use the phrase “it should all be ok” in conversation, I am not a superstitious man. Ask anyone and, fingers crossed, they’ll confirm this. However, I can’t help wondering if the fact that I have just discovered, that the course location is one “Prat Hall”, is portentous.

I’ll let you know how it goes…

Wiping a smile off someone's face.

It's a funny thing, how we deal with stress at work.

Some people rant and rave, while others go quiet.
Some give up on their tasks, and others just get more determined.
Some will seek counseling, and others have more 'individual' approaches to coping...

I know quite a few people who vent their cube-rage on innocent fitness training equipment, clocking up countless miles in the air conditioned splendour of a building virtually next door to the office that causes the angst in the first place. (Hint, buy a bike, fellas, and get away from the damned place)...

One gentleman of my acquaintance who shall remain nameless (we shall, for convenience, refer to him as 'C' - this isnt a give away clue, my having referred to him as a 'gentleman' will already have put many people off the scent...) has a positively bizarre practice of rapidly clapping his hands together or against his crossed forearms. The rhythmic, fleshy slapping noises which result have caused many a raised eyebrow as unenlightened folk walk past his closed office door. Now, I don't know what it does for him, but watching the expressions on peoples' faces as they wonder what on earth he's up to makes the rest of us laugh and thus, this is actually a very effective stress reduction technique.

And then there's a lady I know who's office wall bears scars gouged by ricocheting staplers, paperweights and computer peripherals. Once again, there's an unintended positive side to this behaviour. If you want to know which track-ball pointing device can best survive instant deceleration from 70mph to 0, she can tell you. Show you, in fact. If you're going to wind her up, though, remember the rues of the golf range (and firearms range) - the safest place to be is behind her...

As you'd expect, I've got my own idiosyncratic approach to work related stress management. I like to imagine creative ways of freeing myself from the job which is causing the problem in the first place. Some are constructive, others less so, but all have remained (to date) mere exercises in thought, and therefore nothing to get me in to trouble (and come on, do you really want me to believe that you've never considered drowning your boss in a vat of Malmsey?)

Recent flights of imagination had me stocking the rest-rooms of our headquarters building (well, just the boys' ones, I'm not allowed in the girls' ones) with rolls of lavatory paper - every sheet of which bore the image of some individual (or indeed manager) who has caused me angst in recent times. Of course, this isn't a completely original idea... it was (maybe still is?) possible in the late '90s to obtain 'bog roll' with the face of Maggie Thatcher on every sheet. Utter genius.

Clearly this idea was too good to keep to myself, so I excitedly took myself off to chat to one of my good friends in the office. Conscious of the fact that this particular lady is no fan of the current president of the USA, I asked her to imagine this product with the grinning chimp-like fizzog of G-dubya proudly stamped between the perforations. To my surprise and disappointment, she frowned, and told me it was a terrible idea.

"Are you nuts?" she said in what I (correctly) took to be a rhetorical question "Shrubbie makes any mess he's involved in a lot worse than it was in the first place, and you want to put him on toilet paper?"

She was right, as it happens. and when I think about some of he other faces I'd imagined having printed up, well, nothing sticks to them either...

Back to the drawing board - I'm sure there'll be another daft happening to inspire me soon!

Experience which cannot be bought

An acquaintance of mine is, at present, in the happy position of being able to recruit into his little team at work. Of course in these days of political correctness and rules on what you can and cannot put in a job advert he is a little restricted in what he can say.

For example, a lawyerly friend of mine was recently successfully prosecuted for discriminatory behaviour by a Vampire on the basis that, having read what he was not allowed to ask for, he simply stated "Individual required for busy law practice. Must have pulse."[1]

Anyway, there's always a silver lining, and in this case, the restrictions on what can be said prevent the employer from detailing the full horrors awaiting the successful applicant for this position. So the little white card with the job description was taped inside the global news-agent's window of the internet and, being rather vague, it has elicited several diverse resumes (or Curriculum Vitae as we like to call them in the old country).

One such CV from a fellow who we shall call Fred proudly announces that, in his current position, he has experience of bugger 3.2.

Version 3.2??? One can only imagine the press releases:

Bugger version 2.0 - sixteen new levels of difficulty!

Bugger version 3.0 - internet enabled - choose to play with the computer, your friends, or yourself!

Bugger version 3.2 - multi-player is here!

The problem here, of course, for all the (admittedly puerile) amusement this causes, the context of the resume clearly indicates that this is a software package of some sort. Now, I don't know about you, but when someone refers to a software package I've not heard of before, I look it up.

I wonder what will happen if I type 'bugger 3.2' into Google...


[1] This is not strictly true. If one was to bar entry to the legal profession on the basis that the applicant is 'undead' there wouldn't be any lawyers. But as an illustration, I'm sure you get my point.

An untrue history of King Henry VIII

A bloke in the pub told me that you cant libel a dead person. This should test that theory.

King Henry the Eighth built the Tower of London in the fifteenth century as a residence for his wives. Now, hundreds of years later, the Tower is more of a museum than a residence and is where one can see the quite spectacular display of the ‘Crown Jewels’.

Modern day visitors to the Tower of London may see a suit of Armor said to have belonged to Henry, complete with an impressively large codpiece (designed, of course, to protect the ‘family jewels’ rather than the crown ones). Whilst it undoubtedly suited Henry to nurture a belief amongst the peasantry that he was blessed with a fearsomely proportioned todger, the rather more prosaic truth of the matter is that closer inspection of said codpiece (Later used as a model for the Dome of St Paul’s Cathedral by Leonardo DaVinci) reveals that it actually contains three packets of king-sized cigarette papers and a rolling machine.

What would the king be doing with such unusual smoking requisites? Well, by way of an interesting historical footnote it’s worth pointing out that Henry had earned his numerical adjunct not by virtue of having succeeded seven other likely lads of that name to the Kingship of England, but rather because of his habit of never buying more than an eighth-ounce of ‘Moroccan Black’ hashish from his longtime drugs supplier “Marrakesh” Pedro.

Drugs were not the only habit Henry acquired from Pedro – who was in fact the first polygamist of his acquaintance. Having asked Pedro why he had several wives Henry, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, misinterpreted Pedro’s mumbled explanation regarding Moorish customs – as in “these potato crisps are moreish, you cant just have one can you?” The rest, obviously, is history (that is, after all, what we are talking about here). It’s well known that the king had six wives, but not quite as widely appreciated that the purpose of such a complicated matrimonial arrangement was so that he could have one wife for each day of the week. (While, as a deeply religious man, continuing to respect the Sabbath, of course.)

Contrary to popularly held belief (which espouses a theory based on the general disapproval of divorce by the church), it was this polygamy that was ultimately the cause of Henry’s excommunication from the Church of Rome by pope Clement (The successor to Julius, who had held the post for hundreds of years since escaping an assassination attempt whilst acting as Caesar in ancient Rome). Clement was in fact wildly jealous that Henry had so many wives, whilst he was forced by the constraints of his position to sit in the Vatican stationary cupboard with a borrowed copy of “Swiss Guards’ Naked Wives” and dream of what might have been or, if he was really lucky, to cuddle one of the nuns behind the bike-sheds in St Peter’s square when no-one was looking. Failing, quite spectacularly, to live up to his name (which means ‘merciful’) Clement simply cut Henry off.

Meanwhile, back in the Tower, as Henry’s first wife Catherine of Aragon might have been expected to be assigned to the first day of the week. However, her seniority allowed her to choose her day for warming the king’s bed and she settled on Wednesday since there was no EastEnders on the TV, and Saturday was her bingo night. This freed up Monday for Anne Boleyn, who was the second spouse, chronologically speaking. The remaining wives followed on successive days of the week as might be expected – with Jane Seymour staking Tuesday, Ann of Cleves claiming Thursday, Kathryn Howard holding Friday and Katherine Parr settling for Saturday.

There was a great deal of serendipity with this final appointment. Henry was a documented lover of sports and, as he grew older, like so many men before and since, he took up golf. Saturday was his golfing day, and he enjoyed nothing better on a Saturday than finishing a few holes on par. (Or if he was particularly lucky, under par.)

One might have expected Kathryn to have been Henry’s most favoured wife. However, this honour actually goes to Jane Seymour, since she produced an heir to the throne (later to be known as King Edward VI due to his uncanny resemblance to a potato). Unfortunately, it was customary for royal males of the time to be born in full suits of armor, and Jane was, understandably, never quite the same afterwards.

When considering Henry, we should not neglect his musical skills. He would sit for hours by an open window, idly stroking a lute (a small, but spiteful, animal related to the polecat) and is credited with having written the well-known song ‘Greensleeves’. Greensleeves earned its name because it was written during the summer, the king was a hay-fever sufferer, and the handkerchief was not a popular accessory until a hundred or so years later.

Several rather stodgy historical references suggest that it may have been a love song for Anne Boleyn, but in actual fact, it was composed under contract to a company manufacturing cheap telephone answering machines as a piece of generic hold music. Henry’s business acumen was as awful as his musical taste. The song itself is recognizably awful and the company which commissioned it went, quite deservedly, bankrupt. This was mainly due to the fact that the telephone itself was not invented for a further four hundred years and thus the market for answering machines was somewhat lacking at the time.

Henry died, from the ground upwards, in January 1547. He’d suffered a leg injury during a jousting match after which he’d become a bit of a bloater and had to be moved about by crane. The leg had turned gangrenous and ultimately carried him off at the age of 55, in the palace of Whitehall. Inexplicably, his last words are reported to have been “Monks! Monks! Monks!”

Approximately 100 years later, medical professionals were still arguing as to whether he had also suffered from Syphilis or Diabetes. This was entirely academic, there being no treatment for either at the time, and the rudimentary diagnosis being along the lines of “Starve ye the patient twixt the crowing of the cock and the setting of the sun. If he still be awake, ensure that ye shagge him notte, lest ye too suffer the pox”.

Word of the Week - Anemic

Anemic: A 21st century, internet enabled Irishman.

Usage:
"Hello Paddy, Oi've not seen you digging the roads recently, to be sure!"
"That's right Seamus, Oi had to get an office job because the Dr told me Oi'm anemic."

To forestall complaints from my countrymen, I'd like to point out that I know how to spell Anaemic as well but the Us version is so much easier...

Shakespeare on a plane.

Sitting on the third floor of my bungalow, which overlooks a magnificent natural harbour on the spectacular Buckinghamshire coastline, I am struck by the delightful realisation, while reading a Chinese biography of William Shakespeare (the celebrated Welsh pole-vaulter, and inventor of the first commercially successful flushing television), that it's not entirely necessary to be 'correct' in order to be considered amongst the greatest proponents of one's chosen field.

Mr Wm Shaksp himself, for example, has been known to sign his name in up-to eleven different ways (there is some conjecture as to whether all of the known signatures are genuine) proving, or at the very least suggesting, that he either couldn't spell consistently, or frankly didn't care to. Consensus has it that he was also an indifferent typist (a trait which he and I share).

The biography to which I have referred is written by the most excellent Bill Bryson[1], of whom I have been a dedicated fan for absolutely ages - some several years, in fact, before I'd ever heard of him.

Having read approximately three quarters of this book I am much gruntled by the fact that Shaky (as his friends almost certainly didn't refer to him) steadfastly refused to allow such trivial issues as geographical inaccuracy to bother him. Bryson points out that, in Two Gentlemen of Verona, the Bard of Avon has Prospero and Valentine set sail from Milan and Verona, even though both cities were a good few hours train journey from salt water in the 1600s.

Anachronisms probably didn't bother him either - given how easy it would have been for him to look things up on the internet to establish their temporal veracity. (For example, he seemed particularly unfazed by the presence of a 1960's police telephone box in his room during a recent episode of the BBC's Dr Who.)

And he positively revelled in neologism, an art in which he was clearly a master.

This is all most excellent news to me, and there's hope for me yet, it would seem. Why? Well...

I've a tendency to tell porkies - sometimes under artistic licence, but more often simply because I'm fundamentally dishonest. This is not a laudable trait and its particularly annoying to me that, while obdurate in their refusal to follow any good example I try and set them, my kids have picked up on the art of lying pointlessly with what is evidently some gusto.

I'm also a lazy fellow. For example, despite having only a sketchy appreciation of European Geography, I have taken Mr Bryson's assertions as to the landlocked nature of those two (Italian?) cities on faith. Mind you, it's not easy for me to check the facts because I am currently on an aeroplane (I lied about being upstairs in a bungalow - see the earlier reference to dishonesty) and the stewardess I just asked doesn't know either.

Finally, I have (as recorded elsewhere in this blog) been an accidental neologist myself for some time - and a very enjoyable practice it is, too. Pausing for a moment of introspection, I must now abandon my dislike of the word 'updation' (coined, according to urban legend, in the burgeoning technical industries of India). If I don't, then I'll be guilty of hypocrisy in the extreme by using words like 'confustion', and indeed going on to invent more new ones. Like this, for example: Fallacio: The unfortunately mistaken act of orally stimulating the wrong gentleman's wedding tackle.

Right, well, I appear to have been rabbiting on for a considerable time, and I want to get back to the book now‚ there's only a couple of hours until we land, and I wanna find out how it ends before we get to San Fransisco.

Time and weather permitting, I shall commit further offences against the written word whilst on my Californian odyssey. I'll bet you just can't wait, can you?



[1] Bill Bryson: Shakespeare. Wonder how long it took him to think THAT title up?

Scrobulous!

I love words. Primarily in English, although other languages are fun too.

I like to write as well - although typing, it really has to be said, isn't my forte. Actually, what I originally typed there was that 'typing isn't my frote' which has an entirely different, although not entirely incorrect, meaning. This sort of proves my point.

Sometimes, my poor typing, when compounded by a lack of spell-checker, can get me into serious trouble. Imagine, if you will, the repercussions of missing the final 'o' from the sentence: I tried to talk to her but she was out for the count. Actually, even the linguistic airbag and seatbelt combo of the spell checker failed to save me on that one.

Happily, however, the results of my mistyping are frequently creative and sometimes informative. The best typos are those which look like they should mean something, but really aren't 'genuine' words. For example, it was in this way that I 'invented'[1] the word 'confustion' a good few years ago. At the time it didn't show up on any web searches but, more recently, it has appeared in the urban dictionary. Happily, the first definition attributed to it is pretty much exactly what I thought it should mean: a cross between confusion and frustration. (In which respect it adequately describes my day job.)

Some time later, a similar happy accident resulted in the apparent birth of the word 'scrobble'. Obviously, before 'laying claim' to it and giving it a meaning I had to Google it to see if it was already in use, but I thought it sounded like a friendly sort of word. The name of a over sized but amicable ginger cat, for example. Or maybe it should be a verb - some kind of well meaning, bumbling searching activity. As in, "She scrobbled in the depths of her handbag and managed to extract a mint humbug - miraculously still protected from the pocket-fluff that lived there by its rustling cellophane wrapper." You can imagine, then, my disappointed horror when the Google search threw this up:

Urban Dictionary: Scrobble
To scrobble is the action of shaving ones testicles with a rusty blade.

My nice friendly word has been hijacked to describe a bizarrely unpleasant activity. What would the neighbours have thought If I'd stood on the back doorstep of an evening calling in the cat... 'Scrobble! Scrobble! Din-dins!' Doesn't bear thinking about. I didn't bother to search any further, and certainly didn't click on the link.

Fast forward a couple of years to the point where the Grumbler is now a podcaster as well as a blogger and interested in all things to do with music. A friend recommended to me that I should check out last.fm as a source of legitimate music and inspiration. And indeed it is, but I nearly had heart failure when it advised me to download a piece of code which, it said, would scrobble my music collection! It brought to mind quite horrific images which I have spent weeks trying to forget, and frankly I don't think many of the artists would have reacted well to the prospect. Its doubtful that Ian Dury, for one, would have reacted positively to the idea that he attempt to deforest his family jewels with the aid of a tetanus encrusted pen-knife, and I really don't think its something Melissa Etheridge would take lying down. I'm not prepared to guess how Iggy Pop would view it, but there's always one dum-dum boy.

There are two possible morals to this story.

• Either Last.fm should have been more careful with the naming of this practice,
• or it really doesn't matter what someone else thinks a word means, as long as you know what you mean when you use it.

I strongly suspect that latter approach is how a lot of the people in the company I work for treat language - they will clumsily raid the craftsman's toolbox of language, and happily use an expensive chisel to undo a two cent screw. Bloody Philistines.

Still, if you cant beat 'em, join 'em. So you can hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles, Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, See if I don't![2] Know what I mean?


[1] No, of course I didn't invent it. But I hadn't seen it before, and I couldn't find any use of it on Google at the time.
[2] With apologies to the great Douglas Adams who, being dead, probably doesn't give a toss.

ATM - A Telling Moment

I recently had an unpleasant experience with an ATM. Not an awful experience, you understand, but neither pleasant nor, indeed, fruitful.

I'd stopped off on my way to work to collect some cash, stuck the card in, pressed all the right buttons and requested a few purple pictures of our dear Queen when, right out of the blue (or in this case, green) the machine displayed this message:

Your bank has not authorised this transaction

before going on to vigorously spit my card out with the sort of disgust that one might normally associate with, say, finding a short, course, curly, ginger hair in an otherwise inoffensive cream eclair.

Once I'd retrieved the card - which had been propelled past my ear at a phenomenal speed (I swear it was accompanied by a very small "sonic boom") I resolved to call my bank manager, almost immediately.

Fortunately, by scrambling under the seats of the car and sorting through the two years of debris that have collected there I had been able to salvage enough loose change to buy my breakfast (although I admit one of the coins was a funny green colour). Actually, I found half a Big Mac too, but it was cold. So, soon, I had settled down in the office with the regulatory pint of coffee and bacon buttie, and was on the phone to my bank manager.

Bank managers, eh? They're invariably portly, balding, bespectacled little men, with names like "Mainwaring", or "Grimsdale", trying to overcompensate for their lack of stature by nagging you ceaselessly about your overdraft; or they're pale grey shades who look half dead, exhibit no personality whatsoever, and smell of mothballs. Right?

Wrong actually. My bank manager is a very pleasant lady whom, for the sake of anonymity, we shall call Heather. Well, I say pleasant, but what I really mean, in the nicest possible way, is that she's a bit of a nutter. I'm sorry, Heather, if you're reading this, but it's true.

Allowing for a certain amount (quite a lot actually) of artistic license, the conversation went a bit like this.

...
"Look, its kind of embarrassing, I mean, I think I did everything right, but, well, nothing happened."
"That's OK, don't worry, let me have a look... There shouldn't be any problem, everything looks quite healthy really. Perhaps you should just try again?"

"I did. I waited a couple of minutes to calm down, because, well, I was upset. You see this hasn't ever happened to me before. Honestly. And then I tried again, and I was really careful in case I'd done it wrong somehow the first time, but, well, nothing happened. Again!"
"Hmmm, was there anything odd about the situation? There weren't any odd attachments?"

"Attachments?!? No..."

"Anyone watching you?"

"Oh come on! No! There's no way I'd do it when someone was watching!"
"Well, it was probably just a glitch, you know, one of those things... It happens to lots of guys. Try again and everything should be fine."

"Yes, but its never happened to me before, and what it it happens again?"
"Well, try not to worry about it, that wont help at all."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one it didn't happen to!"
"Well, maybe next time you could try a different one?"

"Isn't that a bit, well, promiscuous?"
"Nonsense! Thats what they're there for! Relax, have a glass of wine, try again. Even if you try two or three different ones, we'll still respect you in the morning."

"OK, I'll give it a go, and, if it happens again I suppose I'll just have to go into the branch and do it the old fashioned way..."
"That's the spirit! If all else fails you can always write a cheque!"
...

Well, if thats how much fun a conversation can be after a cash machine refuses me a hundred pounds, I cant wait 'till I'm turned down for a mortgage!

Coffin resale values?

For reasons I won't go deeply into - beyond commenting that there seems to be a great deal of it about at the moment, I was having a Chat with Mrs Grumbler, her mother and her sister about death the other day.

It's odd, isn't it, that when the bony bloke with the scythe is expected to pay a call on someone you care about, you can still find things that are funny.

Where are you intending to spend eternity? Obviously, somewhere quiet is ideal, but where? Likely resting places for the ashes of our nearest and dearest included the sea (too much chance of being dragged up in a Spanish Trawlerman's net), outer space (already too crowded) and a jar on the mantle-piece from which you could forever imagine the nagging voice of an elderly relative complaining "It's bloody hot in here!" (ruled out by the still-living). Personally, for a guaranteed undisturbed eternity, I favour an urn placed behind a row of bottles of Alcohol-Free lager in any supermarket in the North East of England.

Then, we moved on to discussing appropriate music for a funeral service. The Lord's My Shepherd is very popular, I'm given to understand, but I have always rather fancied the idea of my mortal remains (some considerable time in the future) rolling away to the Stranglers' "No More Heroes". Pretentious, Moi? Apparently, the song which deceased persons request more than any other (presumably before the moment of their passing) is "Fire" by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Nice.

Then we got on to coffins. Great big wooden boxes, lined with padded silk, polished to perfection, and adorned with more gleaming brasswork that the collected front doors of the Royal Crescent in Bath. All for the purpose of conveying the recently departed into the fiery maw of the crematorium furnace. What (as Ian Dury sang, but in an entirely different context) A Waste.

Clearly, eco-friendliness suggests, no, demands, that such squandering of resources be stopped. But how to replace it? No-one wants to go to their eternal rest in a plastic bag and, in any case, these will soon join the list of objects banned in the UK along with Handguns, Cigarettes, Recreational Pharmaceuticals and Parmesan Cheese[1] and thus it will be illegal to possess, consume or traffic in them. On the grounds of taste, we wont discuss the disadvantages of paper bags.

But why shouldn't coffins be re-used? Tip out the contents and deal with as appropriate, then bung an ad in the local free paper. Give as much information as possible, as some folk are going to be (unaccountably) particular about this.


"Coffin for sale. Three previous owners (occupants?) - all old ladies. Only ever used for visits to Church. Supporting documentation available"

Proving, ultimately, that it doesn't matter whether you're flogging a box, or a Bentley - its vitally important to maintain a Service History if you want to minimise depreciation.


[1] Wishful thinking on my part, unfortunately. Detestable stuff.

Help, I'm being stalked!

I suppose it was inevitable that I'd irritate someone at some point, but I never expected it to be so soon in my career as a miserable-git-blogger!

I am, it seems, being stalked by a TXT messager... Her name's Siobhan and, if I had to guess (never having seen her), I'd say she's probably about 13 years old.

This all started on a Saturday a few weeks back when, while having a lunchtime pint with my father down at the pub, I received a message on my phone: "Heya howz u then". Now, quite apart from the atrocious spelling, I feel that this message is missing, at the least, a comma and a question mark. It also came from a number I didn't recognize, so I ignored it - for a while.

Once I had completed my filial socializing activities, I took myself off in my little red hairdresser's car, topless (I refer to the car's top, obviously, I have no intention of scaring anyone by exposing my own impressive set of moobs and besides which it was February and my raspberries would have frozen off). Remembering the message while driving home, I carefully located a place where it was safe to pull over, switch off engine and apply handbrake before getting the dog out of my sky and inquiring thusly in a suitable TXT idiom:

"I regret to inform that your number seems not to be in my directory. Pray tell, who are you?"

The reply came almost instantaneously:

"Who dis x".

Having blatantly ignored the question I put, and retorted instead with one of their own (also somewhat punctuationally deficient) I began to wonder if, perhaps, my mysterious correspondent was an American. However, I'm not at all sure that I have ever had a message adorned with a trailing kiss from any of my transatlantic friends.

"I am the person to whom you have just sent a text message." I retorted - staying remarkably cool in the face of provocation, I thought.

By return I received "How did u get my number". Things were becoming less opaque by the moment - I was clearly dealing with a Lack-wit. (In the same way that many Americans are unable to tell the difference, based on speech patterns, between the English and Australians, so a small but significant section of the English are often hard pressed to tell the difference - based solely on speech patterns - between an American and a Lack-wit. Should the penultimately identified individual be wearing a baseball cap backwards, there is actually no difference.)

"I have your number as an inevitable consequence of you initiating this exchange by virtue of having sent me a message."

"Dis is siobhan who r u x"

Evidently, if I was to get home before freezing to death by the side of the road, another tactic was required. So, I dialed the number and spoke to the confused individual at the end of the line - explaining the sequence of events, and advising her that she had, in fact, been sending messages to an incorrect number. Happy to have resolved the conundrum, I continued home, safe in the knowledge that I'd get no more incomprehensible messages. Mistake.

The messages have continued, and have been rather entertaining. Over a week or so they have included

"Howz u hun love ya xxxx bm4l xxx cya soon xxxxxxx".
"Nite x tb x"
"Hey wat u at tmb"
"Hi bbe how r u tmb x

I've actually had to find a 'teenage txt speak translator to even understand one or two. As a public service, here it is - type a confusing abbreviation in the box, and it'll do its best to enlighten you:

I do feel rather sad for the object of Siobhan's affection who clearly isn't getting all of his (or her) messages - so I have left her anther message to let her know...

Touch wood, all has been quiet since... though next time I get a message I'll send her this URL...

The VISTA Acroynm - Audience Participation

OK, I'm not, in a million years, gonna 'dis' a large organization which has more lawyers than I've had hot dinners, but I did recently buy a new personal computer. Ive spent a little time (when I wasn't trying to get the godforsaken piece of cr*p to install and run a simple program) wondering how much more pleasurable my experience would have been if the unnamed organization diverted some of its lawyer-spend into obtaining a few top class Quality Assurance Engineers (or maybe even a couple of half-wits testing for an afternoon might make a difference).

You may feel that I'm, perhaps, a little upset by or that this posting is in some way inspired by the preceding admission on my part. I couldn't possibly confirm or deny such an assertion, should you make it...

Anyway, if we were to assume that the word VISTA is in fact an 'extended-extended-TLA'[1], what, in fact, could it be an acronym for? I shall start the ball rolling here, but plead for my readers to contribute by adding comments - the best of which I shall move into the main body of the post. Don't be shy, stick your name in the comment so I can 'attribute' correctly.

• Verifiably Infuriating, System Trashed Absolutely
  
• Violence Inducing Systematically Toxic Appliance (thanks PC!)
• Venerially Infectious Sexually Transmitted Abhorrence
• Vicar, I've Shagged The Altar-Boy
• Very Important Software To Avoid
  
• Vacuous, Inadequate, Substandard, Trashy Abomination
• Viciously, I've Strangled The Authors
• Victory! I've Switched To Apple!
  

Right, Over to you lot. Bring 'em on!

[1] extended-extended-Three-Letter-Acronym

Eurovision faux-pas

In the wake of Ireland selecting Dustin the Turkey to represent them in this year's Eurovision Song Contest, several other countries are rumoured to be considering jumping on the bandwagon.


The UK are said to be looking to Gordon the Gopher


Norway are apparently relying on Noggin the Nog


Sources in Brussels, however, claim that there is no truth to the rumour that, due to a terrible misunderstanding, Belgium are planning on Choking the Chicken.

Revisited: Discarded Identity Management Strategy

Too good to leave this out, really:

ISBN: International Standard Buttock Number.

ttfn.

Discarded Identity Management Strategy

OK, I'm going to do it twice in one night, and for a man of my age I hope you appreciate that I'm putting myself out for you.

Still, I've had a bit of a rest so I should be all charged up for a bit more social intercourse[1] again now; and after all, I was only Bashing the Bishop earlier so that doesn't really count. Posting - I'm talking about posting here, I know how my reader's mind works (and yes, Rod, I deliberately put the apostrophe before the "s").

At lunchtime the lads and I had a parley which came close to the good old days of the curry-conversation - which was a regular occurrence during which a bunch of fellows would sit round a table and talk bollocks for an hour. Of course, it could only be close, because that tradition was mortally wounded when Podcaster joined the dark side of the business park.

Unfortunately, the inspiration for those rambling chats was directly proportional to the quality of food served up in the staff restaurant. When the comestibles started to taste like the afforementioned bollocks, the wit and wisdom just died a death. Today, we had a good meal.

Sparked by recent cases of identity theft, hospital baby swap horror stories and password management we discussed ways and means of people proving their bona fides - which might look like Polari, but is actually Latin for 'not bent'.

So, what you want is a simple, clean way for a person to prove who they are - so that we could do away with passports, passwords, credit cards and all manner of other inconvenient things which the thoroughly cosmopolitan dude needs to cart about with them these days - but it still needs to be "on one's person".

Ever been through US immigration? well, for a while you've had to give two fingerprints when entering the country, and just recently it's progressed on to having all eight fingers and two thumbs printed. Presumably this is to prevent any members of the Yakuza getting in - many of them dont have eight fingers - see Yubitsume. Anyway, it's tiresome, because the machines are a bit finniky - a faster and more reliable method is required.

Well, there's the Gattaca approach - great film, great idea, but a touch invasive at times and easily circumnavigated (provided you arent too fastidious) by simply carrying around a small sample of somone else's piddle -though it does rely on having a bloke at home who's prepared to hide in the microwave if the rozzers turn up.

What's the solution? Well, obviously it's tattoing a unique number in the form of a barcode onto the arse of every newborn. With the simple expedient of installing a laser scanner in every airport, supermarket checkout, PC keyboard etc it will be a simple case of dropping the strides (or lifting the skirt - another plus point for thongs there, easy identification) for a quick moon, and Bob's your uncle! How foolproof is that? Lets face it, there are precedents for using the backside as an ID card in the animal world too, have you ever seen a pair of dogs introduce themselves?

Trouble is, it didnt really take that long to shoot the idea down. There were two main complaints:

1) Babies are not born obese. However, in the UK and US these days, scientists have determined that by the year 2010, fourteen out of ten thirteen year olds will weigh more than a twelve month old elephant. Apart from the fact that the inherent 'barge-arse' effect on fatties would cause the lines on the barcode to get further apart, there's te danger that one of these hefty folk might sit on the scanner and squash it, and also a chance that stretch marks might actually corrupt the digital signature. Thus, by waving his 'arris' at a convenient scanner, Harry Poter's corpulent cousin Dudley could empty the bank account of a poor innocent spinster in Cheam. Less than ideal.

2) This is the clincher really. There's a movie - cant remember which one (audience participation required here - please comment if you know the answer) in which someone escapes from a prison by gouging out the governor's eye and using it to fool a retina scanner on an automatic gate. This raised the horrific possibility of a mugger slicing off a victim's bum-cheek in order to get a free week's shopping at Tesco's.

You have to appreciate, really, that we *like* sitting around and talking bollocks. That's just not going to be at all comfortable with only half an arse. So, a great idea, but unfortunately a non-starter at the end of the day.





[1] Perhaps it would be more fun if that did mean having sex with more than one person at a time.

Episode V - the arsebishop strikes back

Garfield, the beleagured Archbishop of Canterbury has 'come out fighting' to defend himself against the recent storm of upset and disapproval.

Many religions have developed forms of 'marshal arts' as a defence when their practicioners are under attack. For example, the Jedi (a stunningly popular religion in the UK, according to the last census) have lightsabres, mind control and the Force. Similarly, when faced with violence, the Shaolin monks will terrify their adversaries by smashing concrete blocks with their bare hands or even attempt to become invisible by sticking ping-pong balls in their eye-sockets and walking across ricepaper without leaving sweaty footprints (note, its been some time since I watched 'Kung-Fu' on the TV, I might be slightly confused here...).

The hierarchy of the Anglican church have clearly evolved a terrifying method of defence based around whingeing that they have been misunderstood.

Over and above that, the unfortunate fellow with the mitre is quoted in the BBC today as saying "I believe quite strongly that it is not inappropriate for a pastor of the Church of England to address issues about the perceived concerns of other religious communities, and to try and bring them into better public focus."

This is indeed excellent news and to be roundly applauded. I look forward to the good fellow:

• Attending rallies defending the rights of Pagans to dance naked round bonfires and indiscriminenetly fornicate with each other in joyous celebration of the earth mother.
• Contributing to learned journals on the justifiable aspects of entirely hypothetical Neo-Mayans hurling children into bonfires from the tops of bloody great pyramids
• And most importantly , defending the rights of the modern atheist who, while accepting that other persons' views are important and just as valid as their own lack of beleifs, would like the law of this supposedly secular democracy to be kept entirely free of constraints, rewards or punishments based on any religion whatsoever.

Silly Cant* - erbury

Oh dear. Dr Rowan Williams, a man who enjoys considerable influence as the Archbishop of Canterbury, is currently in hot water over statements he has made suggesting that it is inevitable that Britain will have to adopt some aspects of Islamic Sharia law (See BBC article).


The unfortunate, but rather easily predicted, effect of his pronouncement has been a rash of statements along the lines of "people who come to Britain should abide by British laws". Whatever his intention in saying his peice, it doesnt seem likely to do much for the level of "tolerance" that the average citizen is likely to display - especially since Sharia Law is frequently described in the popular press as 'ultra conservative" and occasionally as involving "barbaric practices".


Perhaps, then, the best thing to do is to bear in mind the striking similarity between the good Dr and Garfield the cat. This will assist folk to afford the Archbishop a suitable level of credibility.



Of course, Britain is a country that is proud of its tradition of free speech - except of course in areas which might incite religious hatred, which are specifically outlawed these days (the Archbishops comments might seem dangerously close to that in effect, if not intention). Whether or not the grumbler agrees with the sentiments is irrelevant, he will still fight (well, grumble actually) in defence of Dr Williams right to say them. It just feels like it would have been more approprate had he done so while wearing a plastic bowler hat, comedy red-nose, stripey suit, and a pair of shoes fifteen sizes too big. Maybe a squirty-flower too, just for emphasis.

* Cant: Variously (but not exclusively) defined as

• the private language of the underworld
• phraseology peculiar to a religious class or sect
• the insincere use of pious words

In this case, though, you might be forgiven for assuming I made an 'accidental' typographical error.

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.