The Numbers Game

Sergeant Reeves sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long night.

He was always slightly nervous when partnered with Detective Inspector Moss. He was considered an excellent policeman, legendary within the Met. It was Moss that broke up the Ukrainian fraud ring, Moss who caught the St Swithin's Day murderer - only 17 days into his reign of terror, saving at least 23 more unnecessary deaths. Moss was the consummate police detective.

But he had his odd ways. And Reeves, sitting at the wheel of his standard-issue Mondeo, parked up in a lay-by, was stuck with him uhm-ing and ah-ing for an eight-hour stretch. The sound of Moss' pencil, scribbling away furiously, drifted over from the passenger seat.

"Sir," Reeves started, but trailed away to silence as Moss raised his grey eyes and coolly regarded his junior colleague.

"Please, Reeves, don't interrupt me. I meditate." He licked the end of his pencil and regarded the page in front of him.

"Sorry sir. It's just...well...I'm not sure why we're waiting out here. This case - no-one's under surveillance so far, are they?"

"No," replied the Detective Inspector absent- mindedly. "But we are carrying out important detective work nevertheless."

Reeves sighed once more, but audibly this time.

Without turning to address him, Moss continued, "You wonder why we're here, Sergeant Reeves, don't you? Well, everyone has to be somewhere. That's the nature of things." He pointed at the page in front of him, printed boxes with rows and columns, some filled with numbers.

"See that number seven in the top right-hand corner of the lower-left sub-square here? Now, to the untrained eye, that's just a number. But with the application of some simple rules, a little logic and years of practice, that one number tells me where other numbers will go. And where they won't. Plain as daylight. It's the key that unlocks the larger mystery."

"But sir," protested Reeves, "that's just Sudoku. Playing puzzles isn't going to get us closer to the truth. We've spent hundreds of man-hours trying to find a link between Woodward's gang and the jewellery shop robberies. This isn't helping."

Now it was Moss' turn to sigh. "Like I said, everyone - and everything - has to be somewhere. To solve this puzzle, we start by looking at the givens - those are the numbers already printed on it - although you might prefer to call them 'clues'. Then we go and cross-hatch. Or, in police parlance, we 'eliminate figures from our enquiries'. For instance, we know seven can't go there," he tapped a cell, "because it is already here. Because it definitely can't be in one place, we can see where it should be. Sometimes we deduce, sometimes we use trial and error."

Even while speaking, Moss constantly scanned the page, making notes and scribbling figures into the cells. Reeves gazed back along the road and counted the cars rumbling past.

"Got it!" Moss wrote the number five into the last remaining blank cell and folded the puzzle book away. Turning to Reeves, he smiled, "And I think we have an answer to our other mystery too. Woodward himself was involved. No-one else could have done it."

"What do you mean?" stuttered Reeves.

"Everyone has to be somewhere, Reeves. Woodward's alibi doesn't stack up. He physically couldn't have been at his club that night, like he told us. Think about it. There was a tube strike that night and he'd never have been able to made the journey from his home to central London in 20 minutes."

"So he's not being straight with us."

"And if I've taught you anything, Reeves, it's that sometimes you have to look at where someone isn't..."

"To see where they are! Brilliant, sir!" Reeves gunned the Mondeo's engine, and swung the car back towards town.

Moss waved the younger man's praise away. "It's really not difficult, Sergeant. Just a matter of putting figures into cells."

The Hum

We first noticed it as we were getting into bed the other day. A low-pitched, steady hum.

"What's that?" Katie asked.

"It's a low-pitched, steady hum," I replied, having already seen the script.

I got a look.

"It's really annoying. Have we got anything switched on?"

"Don't think so. The heating's not on. Everything's switched off, I think."

Katie sat up. "I don't like it. I'm going to check." She got out of bed and went downstairs.

"What are you doing?" I called after her.

"Checking the microwave oven's switched off," came a muffled voice from the kitchen.

"Why? Do poltergeists like popcorn or something?"

Then a thought occured. "Is it the cat?"

"No, you're getting mixed up. Purring, that's what cats do. Purr. Hum. Not the same thing."

I remembered that we'd do this thing at school to drive supply teachers over the edge. We'd sit in class, and random pupils would make a humming noise just on the edge of audibility. They'd never be able to pin it down to one person. I mentioned this to Katie.

"So you think the cat's trying mindgames on us? What next, will he mess around with the settings on a bunsen burner? Don't be a pillock. Anyway, this hum is still going on. I can hear it through the walls." She had her ear up against the party wall.

"You know, I don't think the neighbours will take too kindly to your asking them if they're humming late at night."

"It might make things a little tense, yes. Anyway, it's not them." She was right, the hum was all-pervasive. "This is going to make sleep a bit of a challenge."

I laid my head on my pillow and tried not to think of overheating electrical circuits, ruptured gas mains or CIA mind control signals. Funnily enough, this did indeed make restful sleep a little tricky.

Nevertheless I must have drifted off. I couldn't hear the hum this morning. For all we know it might still be going on and we've just become numb to it. We sould be the subjects of an experiment. At any time I could just flip out and start acting all random.

Spiral Sir Anthony, your overcoat is like a potassium submarine!

I'm just playing with you now.

Guy Fawkes Night 2009

I'm in a bit of a quandary. By rights I should right now be stood by a roaring fire, watching incendiaries exploding over my head.

That's city life for you, I suppose.

But it is November 5th, Bonfire night. And we celebrate things on this night. I even held a fireworks party right here, on this very blog, last year.

But things are different this year. We've been told that setting off fireworks is a Bad Thing. There are considerations to be made. And let's be honest, we're still in the middle of a recession. I was going to have a firework party but decided that sitting at home setting fire to a £20 note every five minutes would be more effective.

Plus, it occurs to me that I was baptised a Catholic. Burning an effigy of a Catholic man is probably going to earn me at the very least a wedgie from the Pope.

So given that the forces of noise control, Health and Safety, fiscal prudence and religious sensitivity are allied against us, what can we do?

Well, sparklers are still OK. I would suggest that we just don't light them. See the look of glee in the kiddies' faces as they wave around lengths of stiffened wire in figure-of-eight patterns in the dark.

The bonfire is slightly more problematic. Hey grandma! Try this new cocktail of Baileys and Tabasco, then we'll all gather around as you do your party piece of falling asleep with your mouth wide open.

The fireworks could be a challenge. How do you replicate the effect of rockets trailing against a darkened sky, each reaching its own zenith and climaxing in a dramatic starburst?

Easy. A few pints of heavy, followed by a sharp blow to the back of a head with a blunt object. Works every time.

In the t-shirt shop

Shopper: Hello. I’m sorry, but I need to return this t-shirt that I bought here last week.

Assistant: I’m sorry to hear that sir. What seems to be the problem? Was it the wrong size?

Shopper: Oh no, not at all, it fitted perfectly. Like a glove. Not that it had five arm-holes, of course.

Assistant: Ha ha no sir, that would be silly. So why are you bringing it back?

Shopper: Breach of promise.

Assistant: I beg your pardon? Breach of....

Shopper: ..promise. That’s right. It was not as advertised.

Assistant: I don’t follow you sir. It’s a t-shirt. You put it on, you’re wearing a t-shirt. You have, in all senses, become a t-shirt wearer. That’s pretty much what our customers expect, vis-a-vis t-shirts and the wearing thereof. What promises are there to be broken?

Shopper: Well, look at it! Read the slogan on the front of it!

Assistant: “Surf party – Malibu Beach.” I’m really sorry sir, I don’t understand.

Shopper: I wanted to live the life. I wanted to hang ten. To be able to survey the roaring foam with a gimlet eye, and proclaim to those around me, “Surf’s up.” In short, I wanted what this t-shirt promised.

Assistant: I see.

Shopper: But it was all a tease. I took your t-shirt at face value. I bought it, I took it home. I wore it.

Assistant: You wore it?

Shopper: Oh yes, I wore it! And I hoped. Hoped against hope. But nothing happened.

Assistant: Nothing, erm, happened?

Shopper: Nothing. No . Nothing. I didn’t get invited to any parties, Malibu Beach or otherwise. I was ready to carve some radical tubes. I was amped. I was going to pop. I was ready to rip. But the t-shirt did nothing. Despite the t-shirt, it turns out I was still an insurance clerk from Basingstoke.

Assistant: I see. Well, there is perhaps something we can do for you.

Shopper: There is?

Assistant: Ye-ess. Clearly when you bought the t-shirt we hadn’t carried out a sufficiently robust lifestyle analysis. Had we known a little more about your background and expectations we could have offered you something a little more appropriate. Here, look at the slogans on these ones.

Shopper: “Born to file”. “Doug’s Double-Entry Book-keeping Shack.” “Spreadsheet Summer camp.” My, but these are just perfect!

Assistant: Oh, I am so pleased to hear that, sir.

Shopper: Now I can wear a t-shirt that actually says something about me!

Assistant: We aim to please, sir. I’m totally stoked we were able to help.

The Heritage Condiment

What will they say of Britain, those that come after us in some long-distant future? When the institutions we today hold sacred are no more than words upon a page, our history, architecture and culture no more than footnotes, what will there be that speaks of Britain?

There is something. There is something that represents this country better than any person, or any idea. It is bold and uncompromising, steadfast and sure. In an ever-changing world it is one true constant.

It is Magna Carta in a pot-bellied jar. It is Marmite.

It lurks in the nation’s kitchen cupboard psyche, starless and Bible black. And for a humble condiment it manages perfectly to express everything we know and love about Britain and the British.

In a world of beige it is a decidedly binary substance. You either love Marmite or you hate it; there is no in-between. There is a jar sitting not more than six yards from where I sit as I write. To me it is the purest ambrosia; my wife treats it as one would a vial of Polonium 210.

It is traditional yet relevant. Look at the jar, that comforting, maternal pot. No fancy 21st century re-branding exercises here, thank you very much. It is the trigger for memories. Grasp the top, twist it off and inhale. Take in a pungent lungful of childhood picnics, of rainy-day lay-by sandwiches, of morning hangover remedy toast.

Plunge a knife in and pull out the silken ooze. Watch as it dances on the bread, threads of black against the grain. And taste. Feel the bitterness subside into deep, meaty, yielding, fulfilment.

It has a final party trick to play; that most British of qualities – strength in depth. When you think there’s nothing more to come, when the jar’s apparent emptiness taunts you, do not fear. An angled finger reveals hidden reserves. You just need to know how to call upon them.

All that we know of Britain could be cruelly snatched from us in a heartbeat. Governments could tumble. The Ravens could leave the Tower. The seas may rise.

But with a pot of Marmite to hand we could face all odds. And, if the oceans do get a little restless, at least we’d have something with which to waterproof our dinghy.

I am not Stephen Fry

On a number of levels there are some similarities between me and National-Treasure-and-generally-good-egg, Mr Stephen Fry. It's a low number, but it certainly counts as a number.

We're both blessed with physiques that would, if we were being charitable, be described as being somewhat less than athletic. I'm a bear of a man. I loom. I can only loom. And blunder. Loom and blunder, that's me. I suspect Stephen would recognise the same characteristics.

I have this deep, booming, stentorian voice. I can't whisper to save my life. Blunder, loom and boom. That's pretty what I'm about. Mr Fry would, I fear, find this familiar.

Despite these seemingly antisocial characteristics I can turn my hand to the avuncular if I wish. Dispensing wisdom and charm, I'd make a damn good uncle. If I had glasses I'd perch them on the tip of my nose while gently explaining the best use of the terms 'rebut', 'reject' and 'repudiate'. Stephen personified.

I'm even on Twitter, too. But this is where things start to unravel. Stephen Fry is seen (wrongly) by some as the eminence gris behind Twitter. If he sees some injustice, a single tweet from his fingers will send his massed followers into overdrive, leaving him settling into a wingbacked chair, gently harrumphing. Yet if he wants to support something, a favourable 140 characters from the keyboard of his Apple is sufficient to guarantee its success.

I tried this last week. My mate Barry was running the New York marathon yesterday for a jolly good cause. I thought he could use all the help he could get, so I tweeted about it. I thought if I could mobilise the masses, Fry-style, we'd see Barry nosing the tape (or whatever it is they do at the end of races) with a couple of grand behind him.

Nothing. Nada. Rien. Sod all. Sweet Felicity Arkwright.

Maybe I need to work on my charm a little.

Boo!

It is a fairly well-known fact that Halloween, which we celebrated last night, has its background in older, pagan festivities.

Indeed, the word 'Halloween' originally comes from 'Haughlerwai'iaighn', which is, as you probably know, Gaelic for 'pretending you're not at home by hiding behind the sofa with the lights off when teenagers knock your door'.

As it happens, last night we actually were out, spending time at the pub surrounded by people with pale faces, scars, blood stains and bullet wounds. There was no make-up involved - it was just that sort of pub.

I thank you. Tell your friends. I'm here all month.

But every year Halloween gives the more Grinchy among us the chance to go on and on ad infinitum about trick-or-treat, this pesky new import from the colonies. How it's a Bad Thing. How it encourages kids to essentially go begging. How it terrorises the old folks. This is a new thing, they say, it's an unwanted import from that lot over the Atlantic, and therefore it must not stand.

But the thing is, I remember it as a kid. And I'm an old git, so it can't be that novel to us. I recall one time, when I was about seven, trying to get my own back on trick-or-treaters coming to the family home. I'd hide behind the dustbins at the side of the house and wait for them to approach. I'd emit a low, menacing moan. I'd make the bins judder. I'd then realise that I'd pretty much run out of things to do. They'd call me a pillock. It was a tradition, though.

And it has spawned a number of other traditions since then. The 'making sure you've bought a whole load of funpack chocolate and sweets' one. The 'putting them in a bowl by the door' one.

Or, if you're like us this year, the twin traditions of 'going out to the pub to drink Hobgoblin beer', then 'taking a whole load of uneaten chocolate and sweets into the office on Monday morning'.

(Image credit www.freeimages.co.uk)