A quick one for the weekend

Picture the scene: we are sitting in the Old Joint Stock in Birmingham City Centre. It is a Friday afternoon, but as Katie and I are off work for the week, beer and pies are featuring on the agenda. Quite heavily.

Katie gestures to St Philip's Cathedral opposite. "Remind me," she says, "is that St Philip's or St Paul's? I can never remember."

"I'll give you a clue," I reply. "Think about the name of the bloke you married."

"Oh," she says, not missing a beat, "is there a St Grumpybastard, then?"

It's so good we have a relationship of mutual respect.

This is my sport

I don't do exercise.

Hold on to yourselves. I know this news is coming as a colossal shock. But I don't do running-around-a-sports-field-chasing-a-pig's-bladder. I don't do running-around-a-sports-field. I don't do running.

I'm actually drinking from a bottle of Gatorade as I type this. The irony would be unbearable, were it not for the fact that I had to go and get a spoon from the kitchen to lever off the sports cap.

But there is a competitive edge in all of us. And for me, this materialises itself in the arena of the quiz. Often, but not always, the pub quiz. No, I don't get all sweaty and out-of-breath. But put me in a team with a suitably pithy and amusing name, and I will crush all comers. And if there's a pint or two in the mix, maybe some pork scratchings, I'll be at peak performance.

Several weeks ago there was such an event - a music quiz, no less, my specialist subject. Knowing about Greek gods and the periodic table is all well and good, but really there is no substitute for being able to recognise obscure one-hit wonders from the early eighties.

Nominally, we were a team, the four of us. 'Sex, Drugs and Sausage Rolls' was our name. But our respective strengths were a little unequal. Essentially I answered the questions, team member A reminded me that the Shangri-Las did 'Leader of the Pack', G got the crisps in and S giggled nervously. A role for everyone.

And I was transformed. The music clips played, and I whispered the answers after a second or so. On one occasion the music failed and only one note was played. "Oh, that's the beginning to 'Under the Bridge'. It's not the Red Hot Chili Peppers version, though, it's the All Saints cover."

My team members shot me a nervous look.

They were even more nervous when I had to correct the quizmaster later on. But if people are going to assert that Soft Cell performed the original version of 'Tainted Love' then they need to be corrected. Do these people not know anything about Northern Soul?

The nervous giggling from S became even more intense. G suggested I was exhibiting special characteristics. I think I may have been showing off. But this is my sport. This is my arena.

In recognition of my single-minded focus, this was posted over my desk the following day:

I think they're trying to tell me something.

Something tells me we're not in Osaka

I often wonder what Richard Branson was thinking when he chose the name 'Virgin' to christen his new record company. I suppose it was meaningful back in the longhaired and slightly musty seventies. It was him up against the Establishment and his new business endeavours were pure and unsullied. Virginal, even.

He probably didn't realise that some 30-odd years later the same brand would be applied to all manner of things. An airline, financial services company, telecommunications and even a railway. None of these are normally spring to mind as being particularly pure and unsullied.

I was reminded of this the other day when I was on a Virgin Pendolino train bound for London. A colleague and I were on our way to the capital for an awards ceremony. Not wanting to hang about, we'd planned matters with military precision. It was to be an SAS-style assault; get in, pick up a slab of perspex with our employer's name on it, and get out.

I know the SAS don't normally hang about for accolades, but apart from that the comparison works, OK?

The train had ten carriages, A to J, with A at the back and J at the front. We were towards the rear, in car B. We'd shown up at Coventry station, the train was remarkably prompt and we found our reserved seats with ease. This was good. It was all we could have expected.

Pulling through the concrete-ness of Rugby, the train manager's voice came over the tannoy. In days of old, he'd have called himself the Conductor, but progress had occurred. With a world-weary voice, he announced:

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is an announcement for customers* in carriages A and B. We would be grateful if you could refrain from visiting the buffet car in carriage C. A customer appears to have been sick and as a result it is, erm...somewhat unhygienic underfoot."

I then remembered that Brother No. 2 was on a business trip in Japan. That very morning, he'd updated his Facebook status to tell us he was also going to be train-bound. Only he was going to experience the legendary 300kph Shinkansen bullet train. I couldn't help thinking there would be no vomit-derived disruption to service on the Tokaido line.

As we approached Milton Keynes, a grim-faced cleaning operative strode down the train's corridor, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, readying herself for her chunder nemesis ahead.

It occurs to me that I've just written quite probably the most depressing sentence in the history of mankind.

Pure and unsullied, Sir Richard? I don't think so.

*(Customers=passengers. More progress.)

In Memoriam 2009

Ninety-one years ago today the Great War ended. An unholy clash of 20th century technology and 19th century tactics, World War 1 ultimately caused the deaths of some 15 million combatants.

We remember them today.

Seventy years ago, conscription was increased in Britain, to cover all men aged between 18 and 41. Of those who joined up, many did not return.

We remember them today.

We remember the fallen in all conflicts - a litany of times and places; Korea, Malaysia, Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands, Bosnia, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan.

We remember those whose names are read out at Prime Minister's Questions every Wednesday lunchtime. Whose flag-draped coffins are applauded through the streets of Wootton Basset.

But we should also remember the other ones. In the Birmingham suburb of Selly Oak is a military trauma ward. The staff there speak of wounded soldiers, often brought directly from the battlefield thousands of miles away under heavy sedation. Some of them wake up asking where their rifles are. "They think they're still out there," said a staff member, "if they see relatives they warn them to stay away, saying they're not safe."

Today we remember the dead. But let's not forget the living.

Because when diplomacy fails, when negotiation has no further part to play, it's the soldier, sailor or airman that bears the brunt.

To the extreme

Katie has taken to watching an American TV programme in recent months. (Should that be program? Never mind.) It's called "Extreme Makeover:Home Edition." And for those of us used to DIY SOS it's quite an experience.

But for those of you who haven't seen an edition of EM:HE, let me give you a quick rundown.

1. Loud shouty bloke called Ty (I'm sorry, but is that even a name?) and bunch of chiseled interior designers in a fancy bus descend upon a family that has tried to prevail against a tragedy of some kind.


2. Within the team there is a female designer who wears Too Much Pink. That's her thing. There's a grizzled New Yorker. There's a Brit who is clearly channelling the spirit of Dick Van Dyke. And then there's Michael. Who, according to the caption, is in charge of 'Glamor'.


3. Michael is good with colours.


4. The worthy family are sent off to Disneyland. For it is ordained, It Shall Always Be Disneyland.


5. The word 'awesome' will be used. A lot.


6. A cast of thousands helps to demolish the family home, managing this task in seconds, often with mere handtools. Every time, Katie and I will ask, "Does no-one build things out of bricks and mortar over there?"


7. The British carpenter bloke will use phrases like 'lumber' and 'highway'. We shout 'wood' and 'motorway' back at the screen. This doesn't seem to help.


8. Ty will wander around shouting at people through a loudhailer. Perhaps 'Ty' is short for Tylenol?


9. Someone will go shopping to kit out the new house. Essentially this entails leaving the local branch of Sears looking like a plague of locusts has passed through.


10. The family return to their new house. The bus is rolled out of the way so they can see it. We wonder what the neighbours think, given that the new house towers over all others in the locality.


11. Many tears ensue.


12. There is a very shiny kitchen with one of those big fridges. Typically it's the size of Herefordshire.


13. The words 'Oh My God' will be used a lot. Unless they're Good Church People, when 'Gosh' gets bandied around more often than a Wodehouse novel.


14. If they're in Texas, Someone Quite Famous in a Big Hat will show up and deliver an impromptu concert.


15. The mortgage is paid off and/or college funds are provided. At this point Katie will ask, "But what if the kids didn't want to go to college?"


16. More crying, including the odd tear or two from Michael.

You couldn't do this over here, you know. We're a bunch of cynical buggers at the best of times. The nearest we have is those shows where a homeowner is delighted to get a new bathroom over the course of a weekend.

Somehow, the sight of someone getting tearful over a new heated towel-rail just isn't on.

Bread and circuses

The Emperor was not a happy man. His armies had endured months of intractable conflict, from Palestine to Gaul. The Senate members were not agreeing to his demands. And he knew the citizens would not take too kindly to the higher taxation he was planning to impose next spring, following the collapse of the spice trade.

It used to be so simple, he thought. When all those years of debate and politicking had led to his accession to the throne of Rome. First amongst equals. Wherever he went, the people had shown him respect. He was, in every sense of the word, a God.

But now he could sense unrest. Unrest was...inconvenient.

"Minstrel, play me a tune," he ordered as he settled back in his chair. The soothing notes of the Venetian folk muse drifted across the room, but did little to calm the Imperial brow.

Unless....

The next day the Emperor called together his closest counsellors. "The people need distracting," he said. "They need something to stop them from thinking."

"But my lord," stuttered one minister, "freedom of mind characterises the Roman citizen. For are we not the cradle of philosophy and democracy?"

"Thought is over-rated. Look at what happened to the Greeks. I would rather a city of sheep."

"What would you have us do, Emperor?"

"Organise a competition. Have it held weekly. Make it so alluring that all citizens desire to see it."

"The gladiatorial combat? But my lord, all the fighters have been conscripted to the German campaign."

"No. Music and song. Every week the citizens can watch the competing muses. They want democracy? Allow them to vote on who to save. They want debate? We arrange it so there are unexpected developments. They want to protest? Let them march in the streets in support of their favoured minstrel!"

"Sir, do you think this will work?"

"People are simple. We give them full bellies, we entertain them, we distract them. They will become as children. Yet they will love us for it."

And this is how the Roman spectacle of Bread and Circuses came about. Of course, in these enlightened times, 2000-odd years later, we're far more savvy than your average Roman, aren't we?

Ahem.

In which our hero does a 180-degree u-turn

Two days. That's all it took.

On Thursday I'd wittered on intelligently argued against the use of fireworks. "A considered commentary on the latter-day ramifications of this ancient festival," the critics said.

Well, if I tell you they said it, and you don't ask for proof, no-one gets hurt. OK?

But then we went to see Liz and Kev last night. And that's when it all unravelled. The first words spoken to us as we walked through their door - "Did you remember to bring fireworks?"

"You wanted us to bring fireworks? We never knew."

"Well, we've got some left over from Thursday. We're going to have a little display in the back garden. But we haven't got any rockets. They might have some in Asda across the road though."

There was a pause. Katie looked at me. I looked at Katie. Katie sighed a well-rehearsed sigh and uttered the immortal words. "Go on then."

Like big kids Kev and I skipped over to the shop. Like overgrown children we surveyed the goodies on offer. Like superannuated toddlers we came back, tooled up with our own Weapons of Rather Localised Minor Destruction.

The next 50 minutes were spent hurtling back and forth along L & K's garden, brightly-coloured cardboard tubes in hand.

"Is it lit?"

"Dunno. It's difficult to tell."

"Ooh, hang on, the fuse is fizzing. Scarper!"

Then we'd run the 30 feet back to the house, turning to survey our handiwork. For We Are Men And We Make Fire.

Just for a brief moment, I actually was 8 again. And I was in another garden, miles away. And my biggest worry was whether the fireworks would last all night. And I was watching the stars bursting overhead. And I was smelling the cordite. And I was looking forward to Mom's baked potatoes and chili. And Dad was telling me and my brothers to watch out for the next one.

And I was remembering how he'd be even more excited than us kids.

I seem to be getting a lot of echoes this year.