Blessed be the lawmakers

According to a recent story on Auntie Beeb, the following are still valid laws on Britain's statute books. Some of them date back to the 12th century, but, well, rules are rules. After all, there was a survey and everything, so it must be true. So I thought it was worth having a look-see:

"Every able-bodied man between the ages of 16 and 60 should practice archery at the local Butts every Sunday after church." Hmmm. I can see I'm going to have a bit of a problem with this one. I don't mind the archery - you never know when there's going to be Agincourt II (This Time It's Personal). And once someone explains to me what "Butts" means, I can stop sniggering. But the "after church" thing? C'mon....

"Being drunk in charge of a horse, cow or steam engine incurs a £200 fine and possibly jail for up to 51 weeks." What if the horse knew its own mind? Can any of us ever truly be said to be "in charge" when it comes to domestic animals? Or am I over-sharing here?

"It is illegal to die in the Houses of Parliament." OK. We're entering the outskirts of Weird County now. Anyway, I've seen Prime Minister's Questions on TV enough to know that some backbenchers have been flouting this law for years. Rimshot, cymbal, I thank you.

"It is illegal not to tell the tax man anything you do not want him to know, but legal not to tell him information you do not mind him knowing." I've re-read this a few times now. And I still don't understand it. Strange, because tax law has such a reputation for unassailable logic and clarity.

"Eating mince pies on Christmas Day is banned." I am so screwed.

In memoriam

Eighty-nine years ago, on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, the Armistice was signed in a railway carriage in France. This piece of paper brought to an end the Great War - global hostilities that are believed to have claimed 9 million lives and injured 21 million.

It's almost impossible to imagine the impact this had on a generation at the time. But everything about this conflict should boggle the mind, even the best part of a century later.

I had some great teachers at school. And one of them, when talking about the war, asked us to visualise the local St Andrews stadium on a Saturday - say 20,000 people in total. Then he challenged us to think about all those people killed in battle. All those voices silent, all those hopes crushed, all those dreams ended, all those families affected.

Then he told us to imagine those 20,000 deaths happening in just one single day. Most of them in the first hour of battle.

That was the Battle of the Somme in 1916. It went on to claim up to 500,000 lives. Soldiers - just lads, really, many of them young enough to be my son - waded through knee-deep mud, clutching single-shot Lee Enfield rifles with bayonets affixed, towards the enemy machine gun posts.

To this litany of madness we must add other, no less deadly, battles - Marne, Arras, Ypres, Verdun.

After the war, it was noticed that poppies were the first things to grow in the disturbed soil of the wrecked and rutted fields of Northern France, Belgium and Flanders, lending them a red hue. And so it was that the poppy became a potent symbol of remembrance.

So why do we still wear poppies all these years later? After all, the last veteran of the Great War faded away some years back. However, we know now that this was not, in fact, the war to end all wars. World War 2, Korea, Malaysia, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan and any number of other conflicts all prove that man's ability to understand his neighbour didn't evolve following the Armistice.

People may say that in 2007 there is no place for Remembrance Sunday. That it harks back to a militaristic past, is outmoded and glorifies war.

But remembrance for the fallen is not the same as glorification. War, in and of itself, is not beautiful. It is the lack of reason, the failure of logic, the end of negotiation. But we can, and should, still honour those who, for better or worse, go to fight. After all, they didn't get the chance to choose where they ended up.

Dedicated men and women are on duty right now around the world. It doesn't matter whether or not we agree with the conflicts to which they've been posted. There are many who are battling to rebuild their lives after injury whilst on service. They deserve our support. Furthermore, there are families who, even today, are struggling to cope with the loss of a loved one. Remembrance, for them, is more than just one day per year.

That is why I wear my poppy. And that is why you're reading this today. On the 11th day of the 11th month.

(P.s. - whilst researching for this post I came across this blog, put together from the letters of a WW1 soldier, with each letter being posted exactly 90 years after it was first written. I can't recommend it enough.)

You've missed a bit

Today we were making ourselves useful, which is unusual for a weekend. In fact, in truth, "useful" it's a little odd for us, even during the week itself.

Our friends Liz and Kevin bought their first house a couple of months ago. However, their headlong dash into home-ownership has been halted somewhat by the fact that their house needs a bit of work. Well, a lot of work, actually, they told us. In fact, the exact end date of the works is currently expressed as "some point in 2008."

We volunteered our services to help out, so this morning found us driving out to Chelmsley Wood to the address they'd given us. After all, we thought, it's only one house - how much work could there be to do?

Anyone here familiar with the concept of the TARDIS? That whole "small on the outside, huge on the inside" thing? As they showed us around what turned out to be a three-storey townhouse, we began to understand the magnitude of the work they'd undertaken. They will get it done - Liz is one of the most scarily-organised people going (she makes lists of all the lists she's drawn up) - but it's going to be quite a project.

We got the guided tour. And with every twist, every turn, every additional staircase, every spare room, every storage cupboard, there was another bit of work to do. By all accounts, the previous inhabitants hadn't really been "House & Gardens" subscribers.

"Hmm, are those ceilings really painted yellowy-gold?"
"No. We believe they may have been heavy smokers. And you're seeing them after a fair bit of cleaning."
"Oh..."

They've done really well so far, but I did wonder what we could add. After all, I am to DIY what King Herod was to good parenting. There are sections of our own home (OK, complete rooms) that haven't seen paint since we moved in 11 years ago. If it's a choice between selecting paint colours or having a nice pie, the pastry comestible will win.

But the beauty of today's situation was that this house had been comprehensively gutted by Liz and Kev. There was no furniture in place, no carpets, no paper on the walls (well, at least not in the bits we were working). We were able to paint with gay abandon. Does that phrase still mean what it meant in the 1950's? Never mind.

And I actually enjoyed it because there was none of the fear that normally accompanies any of my DIY exploits. Whether that was because it was someone else's house, or whether the risk of dripping paint on a TV or passing cat was removed, I don't know.

But we've offered to help them again over the coming weeks and months. I don't know if it will inspire us to great things at Fatboyfat Towers. It might. But while there are pies uneaten....

Three things

Apparently this is called a meme post. Someone else tags you and sets you a specific challenge - perhaps a particular thing to write about. You do so. Everyone's happy.

I have Dory to thank for this. Go over and read her blog when you get a moment - she's very good at this whole writing malarkey.

For the purpose of this challenge I have to write about three things I haven't let go:

1) The desire to write that book. I have no idea what about, by the way. Every now and again I'll have some brilliant idea - a plot, characters, treatment, the whole thing. Then the attention span problem kicks in and I'm back to square one. Maybe I need a Dictaphone (insert punchline here).

2) The nagging fear that someone, somewhere is planning to feed me broccoli. It is the Devil's vegetable. I will say no more on the matter.

3) The love of deeply unfashionable music that I first started listening to in my teens. I can't understand these people who are embarrassed by their record collection. If we accept that it's OK for music lovers to listen to concertos written in the 18th century, what's wrong with something from 1972? Of course, I'm not suggesting that you can compare Handel's Messiah with "Close to the Edge" by Yes. That would be silly. There are nowhere near enough Mellotrons in the Messiah.

Enough stuff about me, thanks. On with the madness.

A few words of welcome

So. Hello then, Erin Sophie. Second child of our friends Theresa and Jonathan. Welcome to the planet. Just a few words, then, to get you started.

First of all. Ten pounds seven ounces? My God. Your poor mother. You'll be walking before she is.

Secondly. Your name. I know you had no choice in this. We'll have to have a word with your Mom about this one. But she stole it from Katie, my wife, She Who Must Be Obeyed. I'll tell you now that the chances of me and Katie having children, this side of a Biblical miracle and lottery win, are lower than a snake's abdomen. But she was really rather keen on the name Erin in the unlikely event of a daughter* coming along. It's a beautiful name, but now one of her friends has used it, she can't. Not that she was going to have the opportunity in any case, but you see, adults aren't always logical about things like that. That's something you'll learn pretty soon, too.

By the way, if you ever meet my mother (you won't be able to miss her, she's the small excitable lady who's making scones), do not mention the above paragraph under any circumstances. She has this whole, "I suppose I'll never be a Grandmother" thing going on. Did I tell you she was excitable?

Third. Your own mother will be this wonderful presence in your life; nurturing, caring, teaching you right from wrong. She will be your best friend and your role model. But we're the ones who saw her doing the Pulp Fiction dance in her wedding dress at the reception, way back when.

Fourth. You've been born in the period around Bonfire Night. Sorry about that - it will quieten down in a few weeks.

*(And Rory if it was a boy. It might be an Irish thing on my part.)

Going down the Smoke

Yesterday I made another trip to our blessed capital city. I would have written about it then, but as I wrote the "Bloggers on Strike" post on the train going down, I thought I'd use that one first instead before I thought better of it.

I'm pleased to say that this time there wasn't a tube strike or anything, so in many ways it was a little less fraught than my last visit. But as I'm tasked with writing something every day this month I should really use this opportunity to set down some random thoughts. Would be churlish not to, really? So here we go then:

• Getting a train at 7.10am is clearly a daily reality for many people. I am not one of those people. Give me coffee or give me death.
• Having said that, the countryside, all mists and mellow fruitfulness, looked quite wonderful at that time in the morning. I watched as the communities we sped through were stretching and yawning themselves to life. It was a magic that was spoiled somewhat by our "Train Manager" (wha?) informing us over the tannoy that there were to be no hot drinks that morning due to a technical fault. People have died for less.
  
• £117 for a return train ticket to get you to London before 9am? Are you serious? I only want to have the seat for an hour and a half - I'm not looking to form a life-long attachment with it.
  
• Can I go on record right now to say that if I manage to live out my life without ever having to drive in Central London, I'll be inordinately happy? By all accounts, the average speed a Londoner would have experienced in the horse-and-cart days would have been about 7mph. If it's any more these days, I'd be amazed.
• Traffic lights. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Gree...oh no, red. Thanks, Ken. I'm just a stupid Brummie, but even I spotted that one.
  
• The aging businessman sitting across the aisle to me at the conference was the spitting image of a pinstriped Peter Gabriel. Now, is this because business people are looking more like British 70's progressive rock music icons. Or is it actually the case that one of my heroes is now looking a little old?

As he was:




As he is these days:


(I could have sworn it was him. Assuming it was rather unlikely that the ex-Genesis lead singer and pioneer of world music would be attending a conference on regulation in the UK financial services industry, I resisted the temptation to ask him for a quick verse of "Sledgehammer", just in case.)

• I'd like to congratulate the owner of the hairdressers near the Barbican Centre for choosing such a witty name. Cissors Palace. I see what you did there. Caesar's Palace. And you use scissors. Genius. Good work.
• The life of taxi-driver must be one that lands a heavy toll. Perhaps it's the traffic lights that does it to a man. The driver I had back to Euston Station may well have a superb collection of Hackett polo shirts and a nice little place in Alicante for the winter months. But he had the cold, empty eyes of a Mako Shark.
• The sign near Smithfield Market advertising Tripe Dressing. For those of you that didn't know, tripe is the stomach lining of a cow. Apparently it's quite a delicacy in areas where, well, they'll eat anything. Tripe Dressing? There's an image with which to conjure. I don't even want to think about that one.
• If there's someone who thinks they've got a double seat to themselves for the train journey back, and you go and take the remaining seat JUST AS THE TRAIN IS PULLING OUT OF THE STATION, prepare to soak up some really pissed-off vibes for the next 130 miles.
• Try sitting next to someone tapping away on a laptop for an hour and a half without trying to read what they're typing. Go on. I dare you. It can't be done. But apparently his review of something-or-other is mission critical. Thrilling stuff.
  

That is all.

One out, all out

"...and the Health Secretary advised the public that the discolouration was harmless and temporary."

"Hello. It's the top of the hour. I'm Todd Badger and this is On the Ground News. In our main story today, the National Blog Writers strike entered its third successive day today, with all parties keen to stress that they were in no mood to back down. And with no-one seemingly in the mood for reconciliation, the impact of this unprecedented industrial action is beginning to make itself felt.

"We cross now to our correspondent on the scene, Matt Bianco. Matt?"

//THUMPA//THUMPA//THUMPA//THUMPA//

"Thanks, Todd, I'm here in..."
"Matt, are you hitting yourself rapidly in the chest, or something?"

//THUMPA//THUMPA//THUMPA//THU..

"Erm. Yes, Todd. You see, I'm supposed to be in a helicopter, and.."
"We don't have a helicopter, Matt. You drive a Volkswagen."
"Look, throw me a flippin' bone, will you? All my journalism college friends work for CNN, and.."
"OK, OK. I'm sorry, go ahead, Matt."
"Thanks, Toddy. I'm surveying the scene here as the Blog Writers' Strike of 2007 takes a hold. And it's a sight to behold, I can tell you. Already, Blogger and LiveJournal are stockpiling blog posts."
"Matt, how long can they hold out for?"
"Good question, Todd. We think that unless the Blog Writers return to their keyboards before the weekend, we'll all be forced to have old blog posts re-issued."
"Say it isn't so..."
"I'm afraid so, Todd. We're already bracing ourselves for a slew of posts about "Why I blog", there are unconfirmed rumours of old "Look at what my dog/child/husband did" video posts making a somewhat unwelcome revisit. And then there's the Doomsday scenario of all those LOLcat posts coming back to haunt us again. Back to you in the studio, Todd."
"Thanks Matt. Worrying times indeed. I'm joined now, on a live link-up, by the de-facto head of the striking Blog Writers, Muriel Voletrouser. Ms Voletrouser?"
"Hullo."
"Clearly this industrial action is going to have wide-ranging and terrifying effects. With that in mind, what do you have to say to your blog readers?"
"Those of us at Bloggers Uniting to Gain Ground in Every Region..."
"B.U.G.G.E.R?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry, carry on."
"We at B.U.G.G.E.R. are determined. For too long we've laboured in poor conditions, pouring out our hearts and souls, often without getting a single comment in return. Some of us want to earn the money the Internet promises. Some of us want our writing to be loved. Some of us want to be recognised. And now we're being forced to write a post every day for the month of November, without a single day off. I'm not some farm animal, Todd."
"Erm, no, we can see..."
"What do we want? Quite a few things. When do we want it? Whenever you can manage, if it's not too much trouble...."
"Thank you. And now the weather..."