It was the noise that caught my attention at first. A gently rustling, down amongst the weeds and wind-blown litter trapped under the bushes. Some sort of wild animal, a cat, perhaps? But as I moved closer, I could hear something else.
A gentle sobbing.
Pulling aside the branches, I saw him. And what an odd figure he was. To be honest, I couldn’t really tell what I was seeing at first. He was about four inches tall, no arms, legs or head. In fact, there were no features at all. He was vaguely rectangular, slightly thicker at one end and dark grey in colour; almost black, in fact.
And he was crying.
The shock hit me as I realised I recognised this figure. It was like discovering an old friend who’d fallen upon hard times. “Hang on,” I gasped, “I know you.”
He stopped crying momentarily and turned towards me. Well, at least I think he did. It was rather difficult to tell, what with the lack of a face.
“Go away,” he said. His voice was low, trembling. “I don’t want to speak to anyone. You’re all the same, you people. All those years of service I gave, only to be cast aside.”
For the first time I looked at the building in front of us. It was a fairly anonymous-looking place - a book shop - one of the major chains to be found in most large towns. And then I understood. I crouched down to his level. “You’re an apostrophe, aren’t you?”
“An apostrophe? The apostrophe.” He made a sound that was, I reckoned, the nearest thing to blowing a nose a punctuation mark could make. “For decades I was quite happy. I sat there, on that sign,” he indicated the fascia of the shop. “But then they decided that I wasn’t right for the digital age.”
“I heard about that. Something about apostrophes not being used in web addresses, that sort of thing, yes?”
The apostrophe harrumphed. I tried to brighten the mood.
“It’s not so bad, apostrophe. Look, for what it’s worth, not all of us humans feel the same.”
“Well, that’s as maybe. Right now I’m out of a job.” He paused. “I could use a drink,” he said, hopefully.
I picked the apostrophe up and dusted the leaf debris from him. Placing him carefully in my jacket pocket I went looking for a bar that didn’t look too busy. I didn’t want to attract too much attention, plus I wasn’t entirely sure what the licensing laws had to say about punctuation and hard liquor.
Twenty minutes later the apostrophe and I were installed in a booth at some place up a side street. I had a beer; he sipped fitfully from a Cosmopolitan in a shot glass.
“It never used to be like this,” he said. “There was a time when we were respected.
People knew how to use us and valued what we brought to the written word.”
“The indication of ownership and missing letters in contractions, you mean?”
“That is right. Or, that’s right, if you prefer. I mean, I understand that the English language changes, but we served a purpose. An apostrophe’s job is to make things more clear.” He hiccupped gently.
“I must admit, apostrophe, I never knew punctuation marks did much drinking.”
And as the empty glasses began to build up, he talked. He told me about the different personalities out there. Question marks are never satisfied, apparently. Always inquisitive, never pleased. Permanently on the lookout for answers. The apostrophe’s voice shows a hint of sadness as he spoke about them, as if he felt the question marks’ constant struggle for truth.
“And then there are the exclamation marks. Absolute berserkers, the lot of ‘em.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. They start out a little excitable, like Labrador puppies. But over time they get a little...’Viking drinking hall’. You know what I mean?”
“I understand....I think. What about semi-colons?”
“Semi-colons; now there’s a bunch of drinkers for you. Seriously hardcore, those fellas. Completely the opposite from bullet points. Those boys are scarily organised. Almost obsessive-compulsive. Oh yes, we’ve all got different personalities, you know.” He snorted. “Just don’t get me started on full stops.”
“Full stops?”
“Smug little gits. The Internet has a lot to answer for, but promoting those jumped-up little specks of print is one of its worst crimes. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about the others. They can speak for themselves. Especially the quotation marks.”
“So when did it all go wrong for you, apostrophe?”
“I blame the greengrocers.” If he had a brow, it would have furrowed. “What’s so difficult about writing signs? I mean, I had a little sympathy when they were dealing with potatoes and tomatoes. But ‘apple’s’ started to creep in. What’s that all about? I ask you.” The apostrophe sighed, turning his attention back to his drink.
“I see.”
“And don’t get me started on ‘its’ versus ‘it’s’, or ‘who’s’ and ‘whose’. ‘Your’ and ‘you’re’ just brings me out in hives.”
“I’m sorry?”
He was getting his second, vodka-fuelled, wind. “It’s not as if it’s rocket science, is it? But the common-or-garden apostrophe has had its usage well and truly mangled for years. It’s enough to drive you to drink.” He regarded the latest empty glass, hungrily.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
The apostrophe’s tone darkened. “That’s the problem with your lot. You never realise. You invented us, you know. We didn’t just appear from nowhere. You came up with punctuation marks to make things easier. More clear, more efficient. You thought you were so clever. But misuse and abuse is all you know.”
“We’re not all the same. Some of us care about this sort of thing.”
“Pah! I can’t understand you lot. You come up with wondrous works of art. You’re cultured, apparently. You can put a man on the moon. You invented pop-tarts.” At this, he sounded almost wistful. “But most of you still can’t tell the difference between an em-dash and an en-dash. Christ on a bike. You’re all bloody hopeless.”
There was an awkward pause. I had essentially just been upbraided by a symbol. I cleared my throat. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Well. Now I’ve lost the Waterstone’s gig, I’ve got all this free time on what you might call ‘hands’ if I had them. So I’m going to rest up for a while, do some things for kicks.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A bunch of us are thinking of going up to Toys ‘R’ Us.”
“What – so you can feature on their sign?”
“Oh God no,” he shuddered. “That’s just wrong on any number of levels. But have you seen what they’ve done to the letter ‘R’? It’s just hilarious.”
With that, the apostrophe was gone. And as I stared into the bottom of my beer, I wondered how many people would even notice.
Showing posts with label Overactive imagination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Overactive imagination. Show all posts
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Monday, 23 January 2012
My life in sport
Last weekend I went to a film premiere. I know, get me. There wasn't a red carpet, unfortunately. No reporters on the way in asking me what I was wearing. Shame really. I would have loved to been able to answer them with a confident "Jacamo. For men who love pies a little too much."
But anyway. The film. It was the latest release from my friend Chris, who over the last few years has done a number of these friend-sourced movies. I have mentioned them here before. They're great fun, even when filming them involves the possibility of injury. This latest one was a selection of short sketches tacked together for the general amusement of the discerning filmgoer. And Chris was generous enough to let me put one of mine in.
The sketch was based on a silly short story I wrote. And as most of you weren't present at the cinema screening on Saturday, here it is. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote it.
-o-
Whenever real sports fans are gathered together the same names will crop up. The legends of athletic history. Coe, Ovett, Redgrave. Thompson, Hoy, that one that goes to the toilet in street. These are characters spoken of in hushed tones. And to that list, that panoply of greats, we could so easily have added one more name.
My name.
For I had the ambition. And the vision. Not much in the way of natural ability, or, for that matter, physical fitness. But I was hoping that the ambition-and-vision thing would make up for these glaring omissions.
Because I not only wanted to bring gold back to Blighty; I wanted to introduce the world to a brand new Olympic sport. My name is Phil. And I was going to be the world’s first Sudoku Olympic Gold Medallist.
I was never the most athletic of people, growing up. My idea of strenuous physical exercise involved a game of chess next to an open window. But I thought it unfair that the plaudits only went to those able to work up a sweat. It was my considered opinion that the Olympics should be open to all; not just the grunt-and-jump merchants. And that’s when I had my brainwave.
At first, I’d considered developing Wordsearch as an Olympic event. But then I realised this would be giving an unfair advantage to Chinese competitors. After all, they would already be comfortable with the concept of writing up and down as opposed to side to side. So Sudoku it was.
I embarked on an extensive training session. I would start by learning the numbers. All of the numbers, one to nine. After all, if you’re going to be an expert, you need to start with the fundamental principles. At the same time I got my application in to the International Olympic Committee. Apparently they have to decide on things like this; it’s not as if you can just show up at the stadium with fifteen hundred copies of the Puzzler book and expect to be let in.
My parents were supportive, in the main. “He needs to do this,” my mother said to anyone who would ask. “He needs to achieve. He needs to push boundaries. He needs to win.”
“He needs to get himself a sodding job and stop living in our loft,” my dad would reply from behind the Daily Mail.
Over the months and years my Sudoku skills came on in leaps and bounds. I had a testing regime, practicing for up to twenty hours per day. At my peak condition I was a lean, mean, Sudoku-completing machine. I could do the ‘three lightbulb’ ones in 45 minutes.
But I needed further encouragement. I found out that Sir Steven Redgrave was visiting my town to give a talk on his life and career. I went to see him, and, when he had finished speaking, had a minute or two to explain my plans for greatness.
He had a couple of words for me. I did not understand either of them.
Eventually the momentous occasion arrived when the letter from the IOC arrived. This was it; the continuation of all of my hopes and dreams. A further step along the long and arduous route towards Olympic glory.
I opened it with trembling fingers and read the contents carefully. There were terms I did not fully expect, like ‘colossally inappropriate’ , ‘bringing the Games into disrepute’ and ‘please do not ever write to us again’.
And I’ll tell you something. I’m sure Jesse Owens never had this trouble.
But anyway. The film. It was the latest release from my friend Chris, who over the last few years has done a number of these friend-sourced movies. I have mentioned them here before. They're great fun, even when filming them involves the possibility of injury. This latest one was a selection of short sketches tacked together for the general amusement of the discerning filmgoer. And Chris was generous enough to let me put one of mine in.
The sketch was based on a silly short story I wrote. And as most of you weren't present at the cinema screening on Saturday, here it is. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote it.
-o-
Whenever real sports fans are gathered together the same names will crop up. The legends of athletic history. Coe, Ovett, Redgrave. Thompson, Hoy, that one that goes to the toilet in street. These are characters spoken of in hushed tones. And to that list, that panoply of greats, we could so easily have added one more name.
My name.
For I had the ambition. And the vision. Not much in the way of natural ability, or, for that matter, physical fitness. But I was hoping that the ambition-and-vision thing would make up for these glaring omissions.
Because I not only wanted to bring gold back to Blighty; I wanted to introduce the world to a brand new Olympic sport. My name is Phil. And I was going to be the world’s first Sudoku Olympic Gold Medallist.
I was never the most athletic of people, growing up. My idea of strenuous physical exercise involved a game of chess next to an open window. But I thought it unfair that the plaudits only went to those able to work up a sweat. It was my considered opinion that the Olympics should be open to all; not just the grunt-and-jump merchants. And that’s when I had my brainwave.
At first, I’d considered developing Wordsearch as an Olympic event. But then I realised this would be giving an unfair advantage to Chinese competitors. After all, they would already be comfortable with the concept of writing up and down as opposed to side to side. So Sudoku it was.
I embarked on an extensive training session. I would start by learning the numbers. All of the numbers, one to nine. After all, if you’re going to be an expert, you need to start with the fundamental principles. At the same time I got my application in to the International Olympic Committee. Apparently they have to decide on things like this; it’s not as if you can just show up at the stadium with fifteen hundred copies of the Puzzler book and expect to be let in.
My parents were supportive, in the main. “He needs to do this,” my mother said to anyone who would ask. “He needs to achieve. He needs to push boundaries. He needs to win.”
“He needs to get himself a sodding job and stop living in our loft,” my dad would reply from behind the Daily Mail.
Over the months and years my Sudoku skills came on in leaps and bounds. I had a testing regime, practicing for up to twenty hours per day. At my peak condition I was a lean, mean, Sudoku-completing machine. I could do the ‘three lightbulb’ ones in 45 minutes.
But I needed further encouragement. I found out that Sir Steven Redgrave was visiting my town to give a talk on his life and career. I went to see him, and, when he had finished speaking, had a minute or two to explain my plans for greatness.
He had a couple of words for me. I did not understand either of them.
Eventually the momentous occasion arrived when the letter from the IOC arrived. This was it; the continuation of all of my hopes and dreams. A further step along the long and arduous route towards Olympic glory.
I opened it with trembling fingers and read the contents carefully. There were terms I did not fully expect, like ‘colossally inappropriate’ , ‘bringing the Games into disrepute’ and ‘please do not ever write to us again’.
And I’ll tell you something. I’m sure Jesse Owens never had this trouble.
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
A quick one while he's away
Hello. I know, it's been a while. I've been busy. 53,418 words of busy so far. I've not actually finished the novel yet, so I still have that to deal with. But I took a break to write a 500-word bit of flash fiction. I'm just a giver, aren't I? Enjoy:
The Ballad of Dyspeptic Willie Madison
Dyspeptic Willie Madison was born under a bad sign. It read, “Ten Items or Less.” His unusual birthplace was down to his mother’s desire to get a year’s supply of baby supplies by giving birth in the supermarket. Tesco lived up to their promise, but his mother was less than happy. She’d been planning to visit Waitrose later that same day.
She didn’t give him that name, of course. That came from his time as the king of the bluesmen. After all, no-one in the delta would have taken him seriously with the name Craig Biggins. Apparently, according to the Blues Academy, your handle had to include a physical infirmity and refer to at least one US President. Dyspepsia was simply the next on the list. At least he wasn’t Syphilitic Bubba Washington.
His fame came easily enough. He had the blues and wanted people to know about them. He had a ready-made audience, hungry to hear what he had to say. A poet for the disaffected generation, Willie sang out loud and clear about the human condition. His first single, “Milk Carton Blues,” spoke of the frustrations of modern life.
Before too long, anyone who knew anything was name-checking Dyspeptic Willie Madison. His fame was rapidly followed by fortune. The houses, the cars. Life was good. Until the day he received a visitor.
“I am the Blues Angel,” said the mysterious stranger. “My name is unimportant, although you can refer to me as Hooch.”
“Hooch?” said Madison, reaching for the next bottle of Bollinger.
“You can blame Muddy Waters. Now then, Madison, I’ve come to talk to you about your life.”
“Things are going great, Hooch. Look, I’ve got everything I need.”
“Yes. You see, that’s the problem. You’re meant to be a bluesman. Your life is meant to be one long struggle. You get the blues, it runs your life, man. Your woman should do you wrong. The boss should be on your hide every day. Look at you – it just ain’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Robert Johnson fought a long battle with his demons,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “The only conflict you have is with the Planning Committee of Solihull Borough Council.”
“But they won’t let me build an orangery.”
“Enough of this. If you want to sing the blues, you need to feel some loss. I’m here to make things right.”
“But how?” asked Madison, his eyes widening.
“Just you leave it to me.” The angel clicked his long fingers.
The crystal flute of champagne dissolved from Madison’s fingers. As he stared, his designer clothes were replaced by beat-up denim. With a loud rumble, the walls around him started to crumble and fall. In seconds, there was nothing but expensive-looking rubble. Moments later, even this had faded away.
“You weren’t kidding,” said Madison.“I ain’t finished yet,” said the angel, pushing an old guitar into his hands. “Right,” he said. “Now you’ve really got the blues. Don’t you ever forget it.”
The Ballad of Dyspeptic Willie Madison
Dyspeptic Willie Madison was born under a bad sign. It read, “Ten Items or Less.” His unusual birthplace was down to his mother’s desire to get a year’s supply of baby supplies by giving birth in the supermarket. Tesco lived up to their promise, but his mother was less than happy. She’d been planning to visit Waitrose later that same day.
She didn’t give him that name, of course. That came from his time as the king of the bluesmen. After all, no-one in the delta would have taken him seriously with the name Craig Biggins. Apparently, according to the Blues Academy, your handle had to include a physical infirmity and refer to at least one US President. Dyspepsia was simply the next on the list. At least he wasn’t Syphilitic Bubba Washington.
His fame came easily enough. He had the blues and wanted people to know about them. He had a ready-made audience, hungry to hear what he had to say. A poet for the disaffected generation, Willie sang out loud and clear about the human condition. His first single, “Milk Carton Blues,” spoke of the frustrations of modern life.
Before too long, anyone who knew anything was name-checking Dyspeptic Willie Madison. His fame was rapidly followed by fortune. The houses, the cars. Life was good. Until the day he received a visitor.
“I am the Blues Angel,” said the mysterious stranger. “My name is unimportant, although you can refer to me as Hooch.”
“Hooch?” said Madison, reaching for the next bottle of Bollinger.
“You can blame Muddy Waters. Now then, Madison, I’ve come to talk to you about your life.”
“Things are going great, Hooch. Look, I’ve got everything I need.”
“Yes. You see, that’s the problem. You’re meant to be a bluesman. Your life is meant to be one long struggle. You get the blues, it runs your life, man. Your woman should do you wrong. The boss should be on your hide every day. Look at you – it just ain’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Robert Johnson fought a long battle with his demons,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “The only conflict you have is with the Planning Committee of Solihull Borough Council.”
“But they won’t let me build an orangery.”
“Enough of this. If you want to sing the blues, you need to feel some loss. I’m here to make things right.”
“But how?” asked Madison, his eyes widening.
“Just you leave it to me.” The angel clicked his long fingers.
The crystal flute of champagne dissolved from Madison’s fingers. As he stared, his designer clothes were replaced by beat-up denim. With a loud rumble, the walls around him started to crumble and fall. In seconds, there was nothing but expensive-looking rubble. Moments later, even this had faded away.
“You weren’t kidding,” said Madison.“I ain’t finished yet,” said the angel, pushing an old guitar into his hands. “Right,” he said. “Now you’ve really got the blues. Don’t you ever forget it.”
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
It's like the same thing all over again
In honour of today being Groundhog Day I was just going to repeat a post that you'd already seen before, but I thought that would be taking the proverbial. Besides, I have nothing about groundhogs. Swimming squirrels, yes, but not groundhogs.
It is the case, however, that in the town of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, they're relying on the local wildlife to predict the seasons. I'm led to believe that the mammal in question lives at Gobbler's Knob.
I have no further words to sensibly add in response to this particular bit of information.
Anyway, this year Punxsutawney Phil has not been able to see his shadow, which means that Spring is near. This will undoubtedly be good news to those people of American leaning I happen to know who are currently using snorkels as they walk about under eight-foot snowdrifts, saying "WTF?" to each other, knowingly.
What is less known is that the groundhog in question predicts far, far more than just the weather. A quick look at random February 2s over the past few decades shows some remarkable carryings-on:
2 February 1962 - Phil fails to see his shadow, but rattles his whiskers in an irritated manner. This has been seen as an accurate prediction of the invasion of English guitar-based pop groups.
2 February 1978 - Phil runs around in small circles. Flared trousers are due to go out of fashion.
2 February 1983 - Phil blinks fourteen times in rapid succession. Do not buy Betamax.
2 February 1984 - Phil tucks his front paws underneath his body. Experts aren't 100% sure whether this is a premonition of the decision of Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau to retire, or the ending of Happy Days.
2 February 1986 - Phil does 'jazz hands'. Later that year,a revival in musical theatre occurs.
2 February 1996 - Phil walks backwards for 20 seconds. Alanis Morissette wins a Grammy award a mere three weeks later.
2 February 2005 - Phil chirrups while facing the assembled crowd. Frosted cupcakes become inexplicably popular later that very same year.
The signs are there if you know what to look for.
It is the case, however, that in the town of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, they're relying on the local wildlife to predict the seasons. I'm led to believe that the mammal in question lives at Gobbler's Knob.
I have no further words to sensibly add in response to this particular bit of information.
Anyway, this year Punxsutawney Phil has not been able to see his shadow, which means that Spring is near. This will undoubtedly be good news to those people of American leaning I happen to know who are currently using snorkels as they walk about under eight-foot snowdrifts, saying "WTF?" to each other, knowingly.
What is less known is that the groundhog in question predicts far, far more than just the weather. A quick look at random February 2s over the past few decades shows some remarkable carryings-on:
2 February 1962 - Phil fails to see his shadow, but rattles his whiskers in an irritated manner. This has been seen as an accurate prediction of the invasion of English guitar-based pop groups.
2 February 1978 - Phil runs around in small circles. Flared trousers are due to go out of fashion.
2 February 1983 - Phil blinks fourteen times in rapid succession. Do not buy Betamax.
2 February 1984 - Phil tucks his front paws underneath his body. Experts aren't 100% sure whether this is a premonition of the decision of Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau to retire, or the ending of Happy Days.
2 February 1986 - Phil does 'jazz hands'. Later that year,a revival in musical theatre occurs.
2 February 1996 - Phil walks backwards for 20 seconds. Alanis Morissette wins a Grammy award a mere three weeks later.
2 February 2005 - Phil chirrups while facing the assembled crowd. Frosted cupcakes become inexplicably popular later that very same year.
The signs are there if you know what to look for.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Last roundabout before Bromsgrove
He was never sure of his way before he met her. He wasn’t completely hopeless, though. He knew the theory. On paper he was brilliant. But for many years he navigated by himself.
He’d travelled with others before. A few times, if we’re being honest. But it seemed that they had directional issues too. He couldn’t begin to count the number of times he found himself getting off at the last roundabout before Bromsgrove.
The journey is just as important as the final destination, so they say. But he never really knew what they were talking about until she came along. She showed him the way.
“You men are all the same,” she said with a resigned air. “Always too bloody proud to ask for directions.” He was a little uncertain at the ‘you men’ aspect of her little speech. How many fellow travellers had she known? But he had no time for further doubt as she produced a diagram and proceeded to direct him.
It was an education. He began to read the signs. Really read them, for the first time. He’d never realised that there was more than one way to get to the same place. Oh, there’s always the quick route. Which is fine, if that’s what you want, and sometimes that does the trick. But sometimes speed is the last thing on your mind.
And he learned that sometimes it helps to play close attention to the scenery. There’s more to the trip than the waypoints, she would tell him. Think about every bit in between the milestones. And don’t be scared, she would say, if you feel the need to step off the path every now and again.
It’s been a few months since they started travelling together. He doesn’t recognise himself these days. But that’s no bad thing. He knows where he’s going and how to get there. Nowadays he flies past that last roundabout without as much as a backwards glance. Which is just as well.
Because once you’ve been to Bromsgrove once, you want to go there again and again.
He’d travelled with others before. A few times, if we’re being honest. But it seemed that they had directional issues too. He couldn’t begin to count the number of times he found himself getting off at the last roundabout before Bromsgrove.
The journey is just as important as the final destination, so they say. But he never really knew what they were talking about until she came along. She showed him the way.
“You men are all the same,” she said with a resigned air. “Always too bloody proud to ask for directions.” He was a little uncertain at the ‘you men’ aspect of her little speech. How many fellow travellers had she known? But he had no time for further doubt as she produced a diagram and proceeded to direct him.
It was an education. He began to read the signs. Really read them, for the first time. He’d never realised that there was more than one way to get to the same place. Oh, there’s always the quick route. Which is fine, if that’s what you want, and sometimes that does the trick. But sometimes speed is the last thing on your mind.
And he learned that sometimes it helps to play close attention to the scenery. There’s more to the trip than the waypoints, she would tell him. Think about every bit in between the milestones. And don’t be scared, she would say, if you feel the need to step off the path every now and again.
It’s been a few months since they started travelling together. He doesn’t recognise himself these days. But that’s no bad thing. He knows where he’s going and how to get there. Nowadays he flies past that last roundabout without as much as a backwards glance. Which is just as well.
Because once you’ve been to Bromsgrove once, you want to go there again and again.
Monday, 20 December 2010
Arctic Struggles Under British Weather Conditions
The North Pole was experiencing chaos this weekend as it struggled to cope under unseasonably British weather.
Wave after wave of nondescript meteorological conditions are battering the region, from Baffin Bay to Finland. "We're not entirely sure what's causing it," said Bernard Derriere, a leading Canadian climatologist, "but it's weird. I've never seen drizzle like it before."
There are concerns that the native indigenous population might be adversely affected. "Yes, it is true that my people have sixty-three words for snow," commented Albert Grimes, an Inuit elder. "However, up until now we hadn't really needed any terms for endless monotonous grey sky. What's that all about?"
At least the people can adapt. "This is pissing me off something chronic," muttered Colin, 12, a Polar Bear. "I'm stuck on this ice flow, every time I sit down to have something to eat a mild breeze kicks up and it gets a little-nippy-but-not-quite-so-nippy-for-a-coat. And to cap it all, my family have naffed off somewhere else."
"I'm pretty sure Mom's gone to Iceland."
Explorers are having to change their plans, it is rumoured, with the traditional thermal fleeces and snow boots being ditched in favour of sensible tweed jackets and wellies. Lord Montague Knee, noted Arctic specialist, commented: "Huskies don't operate very well in light mist. We're currently training up whippets, but it's just not the same."
Perhaps our final word should come from another member of the animal kingdom. "You think you've got problems," said Jeremy, a clearly distressed Emperor Penguin. "This has thrown me right out. I think I might be a little lost."
Wave after wave of nondescript meteorological conditions are battering the region, from Baffin Bay to Finland. "We're not entirely sure what's causing it," said Bernard Derriere, a leading Canadian climatologist, "but it's weird. I've never seen drizzle like it before."
There are concerns that the native indigenous population might be adversely affected. "Yes, it is true that my people have sixty-three words for snow," commented Albert Grimes, an Inuit elder. "However, up until now we hadn't really needed any terms for endless monotonous grey sky. What's that all about?"
At least the people can adapt. "This is pissing me off something chronic," muttered Colin, 12, a Polar Bear. "I'm stuck on this ice flow, every time I sit down to have something to eat a mild breeze kicks up and it gets a little-nippy-but-not-quite-so-nippy-for-a-coat. And to cap it all, my family have naffed off somewhere else."
"I'm pretty sure Mom's gone to Iceland."
Explorers are having to change their plans, it is rumoured, with the traditional thermal fleeces and snow boots being ditched in favour of sensible tweed jackets and wellies. Lord Montague Knee, noted Arctic specialist, commented: "Huskies don't operate very well in light mist. We're currently training up whippets, but it's just not the same."
Perhaps our final word should come from another member of the animal kingdom. "You think you've got problems," said Jeremy, a clearly distressed Emperor Penguin. "This has thrown me right out. I think I might be a little lost."
Monday, 1 November 2010
The morning after the E'en before
It was just past midnight, the first day of November, and the ladies were relaxing once more.
"Thank goodness that's over for another year," sighed Deirdre.
"I know what you mean," said Bridget, "every year I say I'm looking forward to it, but, well, I don't know.." Her voice trailed off as she focused on the liquid, gently bubbling away in an iron pot in front of them.
The younger of the trio piped up. "I just don't understand mortals any more."
"It's not just you, Hilda, I think we all feel the same," said Bridget, stirring the brew gently. "Time was when Halloween really meant something."
"Now I think it's just like any other festival. It's definitely gone commercial."
Deirdre pulled the cape closely around her thin shoulders and stared glumly into the glowing coals. "I remember when it was different," she muttered darkly. "I bet you a winter's kindling that none of those humans we saw tonight could even bloody pronounce Samhain, let alone understand its true meaning."
"I know, dear, I know."
"I mean, what's this 'trick-or-treat' malarkey supposed to be all about? It just seems to be an excuse to push sugar on unsuspecting kids. They'll ruin their teeth. I mean, none of us have perfect teeth..."
"I'll have you know my tooth has done me very well this last 800 years, Deirdre."
"But it's different for us, Bridget. We are witches, after all. We're supposed to be, well, crone-like."
"And what is it with the costumes they're wearing these days?"
"I know! I remember when you could at least get the odd bit of witchiness going on. You know, pointy hat, black cape, maybe even a hazel broom if the parents were being sufficiently middle-class about the whole endeavour. But now it's so random. I swear I saw twelve Spidermen last night. It was like a Fathers For Justice conference."
The three ladies paused as the fire crackled and sparked. Deirdre reached out and carefully decanted the now-boiling contents of the vessel into three broad cups.
"Right. Who's for milk and sugar?"
"Thank goodness that's over for another year," sighed Deirdre.
"I know what you mean," said Bridget, "every year I say I'm looking forward to it, but, well, I don't know.." Her voice trailed off as she focused on the liquid, gently bubbling away in an iron pot in front of them.
The younger of the trio piped up. "I just don't understand mortals any more."
"It's not just you, Hilda, I think we all feel the same," said Bridget, stirring the brew gently. "Time was when Halloween really meant something."
"Now I think it's just like any other festival. It's definitely gone commercial."
Deirdre pulled the cape closely around her thin shoulders and stared glumly into the glowing coals. "I remember when it was different," she muttered darkly. "I bet you a winter's kindling that none of those humans we saw tonight could even bloody pronounce Samhain, let alone understand its true meaning."
"I know, dear, I know."
"I mean, what's this 'trick-or-treat' malarkey supposed to be all about? It just seems to be an excuse to push sugar on unsuspecting kids. They'll ruin their teeth. I mean, none of us have perfect teeth..."
"I'll have you know my tooth has done me very well this last 800 years, Deirdre."
"But it's different for us, Bridget. We are witches, after all. We're supposed to be, well, crone-like."
"And what is it with the costumes they're wearing these days?"
"I know! I remember when you could at least get the odd bit of witchiness going on. You know, pointy hat, black cape, maybe even a hazel broom if the parents were being sufficiently middle-class about the whole endeavour. But now it's so random. I swear I saw twelve Spidermen last night. It was like a Fathers For Justice conference."
The three ladies paused as the fire crackled and sparked. Deirdre reached out and carefully decanted the now-boiling contents of the vessel into three broad cups.
"Right. Who's for milk and sugar?"
Monday, 12 July 2010
Joining the Club
A basement. The dingy space under a well-used building. Darkness gathers around the pools of light created by neon strips. Suffocating. Deadening. All-enveloping.
I don't know any of the others. But I recognise a couple. That man there; he works in the hardware store at the end of the street. The fellow in the black coat - I'm sure he drives a taxi uptown somewhere. We're looking at each other, but avoiding eye contact at the same time.
Another man steps out of the shadows. He is younger than most of us. Blond. Square jawed. He addresses the group.
"Welcome to Flan Club. The first rule of Flan Club is: you do not talk about Flan Club. The second rule of Flan Club is: you DO NOT talk about Flan Club! Third rule of Flan Club: if someone yells "stop!", goes limp, or taps out, you get to have their flan. Fourth rule: only two guys to a flan. Fifth rule: one flan at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the flans are double-baked. No pre-mix, no shop-bought flan cases, no squirty cream. Seventh rule: flans will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Flan Club, you have to eat flan."
"Erm, excuse me?" It's the hardware guy.
"What?"
"Weren't the first two rules essentially the same?"
Blond guy sighs.
"Gentlemen. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. And, like all the others, you're going to end up quite partial to flan."
Now it's the taxi driver's turn to speak. "Is quiche alright?"
"I beg your pardon?" Blond guy's voice is almost inaudible under the hum of the city.
"Well, it's just that I quite like to have a savoury option. My doctor says..."
"Enough!" Blond guy erupts. He walks over to a table, laden with a selection of custard-based delights.
"Gentlemen, tonight we will have the finest flan mankind has seen. From a basic Spanish flan to this delightful chocolate variety from the Mexican plains."
He turns to regard the group. His eyes narrow once more. "It has cinnamon."
One by one we step up, an unheard signal driving us forwards. As a newbie I am expected to be in the first wave. I take it all in. "I don't know where to start," I mutter to myself.
Blond guy hears me. He tilts his head as he speaks. "A guy who came to Flan Club for the first time, he was carved out of wood at the beginning. After a few weeks his ass was a wad of cookie dough. Try the English Custard. I made it myself." His eyes shine now. "Whole milk makes all the difference. Don't let anyone try to fob you off with semi-skimmed."
I eat. The creamy egg and milk texture coats my willing tongue. The crust is light, yet hearty. And then, something happens. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom, amongst the flan. I run. I run until my muscles burn and my veins pump battery acid. Then I run some more.
After flan, everything else in your life is like the volume has been turned down.
I don't know any of the others. But I recognise a couple. That man there; he works in the hardware store at the end of the street. The fellow in the black coat - I'm sure he drives a taxi uptown somewhere. We're looking at each other, but avoiding eye contact at the same time.
Another man steps out of the shadows. He is younger than most of us. Blond. Square jawed. He addresses the group.
"Welcome to Flan Club. The first rule of Flan Club is: you do not talk about Flan Club. The second rule of Flan Club is: you DO NOT talk about Flan Club! Third rule of Flan Club: if someone yells "stop!", goes limp, or taps out, you get to have their flan. Fourth rule: only two guys to a flan. Fifth rule: one flan at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the flans are double-baked. No pre-mix, no shop-bought flan cases, no squirty cream. Seventh rule: flans will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Flan Club, you have to eat flan."
"Erm, excuse me?" It's the hardware guy.
"What?"
"Weren't the first two rules essentially the same?"
Blond guy sighs.
"Gentlemen. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. And, like all the others, you're going to end up quite partial to flan."
Now it's the taxi driver's turn to speak. "Is quiche alright?"
"I beg your pardon?" Blond guy's voice is almost inaudible under the hum of the city.
"Well, it's just that I quite like to have a savoury option. My doctor says..."
"Enough!" Blond guy erupts. He walks over to a table, laden with a selection of custard-based delights.
"Gentlemen, tonight we will have the finest flan mankind has seen. From a basic Spanish flan to this delightful chocolate variety from the Mexican plains."
He turns to regard the group. His eyes narrow once more. "It has cinnamon."
One by one we step up, an unheard signal driving us forwards. As a newbie I am expected to be in the first wave. I take it all in. "I don't know where to start," I mutter to myself.
Blond guy hears me. He tilts his head as he speaks. "A guy who came to Flan Club for the first time, he was carved out of wood at the beginning. After a few weeks his ass was a wad of cookie dough. Try the English Custard. I made it myself." His eyes shine now. "Whole milk makes all the difference. Don't let anyone try to fob you off with semi-skimmed."
I eat. The creamy egg and milk texture coats my willing tongue. The crust is light, yet hearty. And then, something happens. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom, amongst the flan. I run. I run until my muscles burn and my veins pump battery acid. Then I run some more.
After flan, everything else in your life is like the volume has been turned down.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Pay Another Day
Bond strode purposefully towards the workshop, pausing only to cast his homburg at the hat stand in the corner with pin-point accuracy.
“Ah Commander Bond,” announced a voice from the doorway, irascible and hurried. “There you are at last. How good of you to grace us with your presence.”
Bond regarded the older man. “Good morning Q. What have you been working on for me this time?”
“Come on through to the Armoury, Bond, and we’ll see what’s what.”
Stepping through the threshold, Bond regarded the familiar low-ceilinged workshop. The white-coated assistants bustling around, weaponry clamped down for bench-testing, a low shape at the far end covered with a grey dustsheet.
“I see nothing much has changed, Q.”
“Don’t you believe it, 007.”
Bond raised a quizzical eyebrow as the Q continued.
“We’re operating in straightened circumstances, don’t you know.”
“Straightened circumstances?”
“Pay attention, Bond,” Q sounded exasperated. “Don’t you ever read the newspapers? There’s a financial crisis afoot. We can’t be seen to be spending willy-nilly, even at MI6. The papers would have a field day. Sometimes I wish the Cold War was still on.”
Bond wasn’t giving his Quartermaster the benefit of his full attention. Instead, he focused on a ballpoint pen held in a jeweller’s vice. “Hullo, what’s this?” he asked as he loosened the vice and held the instrument aloft.
“Hmmm? Oh, Bond. Please don’t touch that.”
“What have we here?” Bond waved away Q’s protests. “No, don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s a location finder. No, a laser device, perhaps. Or maybe some form of dart gun? What if I pull this switch on the barrel?”
“Then you will find that you’re writing with black ink instead of blue. Look, Bond, sometimes a pen is just a pen. Like I’ve been trying to tell you, times are hard.”
“Just a pen, eh? Well, I suppose it’s mightier than the sword,” Bond sniffed.
“We’re in a different world, Bond. You can’t act like you have in the past.”
“I suppose I can rely on my trusty firearm. My Walther PPK?”
“Sorry, Bond, that’s had to go. Do you know how pricey those things are? Here, you’ll have to use this instead,” he grunted as he heaved over a hessian sack.
“What’s in there?” asked an incredulous Bond.
“Honda 750 motorcycle chain. One of the most devastating close-combat weapons known to man. No, don’t interrupt me, Commander. Think yourself lucky. 006 has had to make do with a Super Soaker. 008 is getting a length of two-by-four next week. It’s the financially responsible way.”
Bond motioned towards the shape nestling under the dustsheet. “I see you’ve been working on some transport for me, though.”
“Ah, yes, we’re quite proud of that one. Stand on that side while I remove the covers.”
Bond allowed his eyes to rest on the bodywork. “What.....is that?”
“That, Commander, is a Ford Fiesta. A 2003 model. We got a very good deal.”
“But what about the Aston Martin?”
“Have you any concept of cost, Commander? To say nothing of the insurance. You lost your no-claims bonus years ago – you’re not exactly the safest of drivers, Bond. The depreciation alone made M weep.”
“But...”
“Now pay attention. The Fiesta gets good mileage, has plenty of room in the back and is actually quite nippy around town. Think of the Benefit In Kind tables.”
“But I can hardly pull up to the Ritz in Monaco in one of these, can I?”
“Ah, that’s the next bit of news,” said Q. “Overseas travel is a definite no-no at the moment, I’m afraid. Your next assignment is to Swindon.”
“Swindon? But I normally arrive at my jobs by seaplane or mountain pass. Tootling down the M4 just won’t be the same.”
“Bond, you’re going to have to face reality. Times are hard. We can hardly afford to have you swanning around the world, quaffing vodka martinis. We’ve had to make Miss Moneypenny redundant; her job’s now being performed by a Call Centre in Mumbai. If you don’t want to be next, you’re going to have to tighten your belt a bit.”
Bond’s steely eyes narrowed as he turned away. He was the best. In his time he’d faced down all enemies, from the Stasi to SMERSH, renegade nuclear scientists to megalomaniac media barons. But there was one thing he couldn’t beat. The Accounts Department. Were they trying to force him out? He turned back to Q.
“Do you expect me to walk?”
“No, Bond, I expect you to get receipts.”
“Ah Commander Bond,” announced a voice from the doorway, irascible and hurried. “There you are at last. How good of you to grace us with your presence.”
Bond regarded the older man. “Good morning Q. What have you been working on for me this time?”
“Come on through to the Armoury, Bond, and we’ll see what’s what.”
Stepping through the threshold, Bond regarded the familiar low-ceilinged workshop. The white-coated assistants bustling around, weaponry clamped down for bench-testing, a low shape at the far end covered with a grey dustsheet.
“I see nothing much has changed, Q.”
“Don’t you believe it, 007.”
Bond raised a quizzical eyebrow as the Q continued.
“We’re operating in straightened circumstances, don’t you know.”
“Straightened circumstances?”
“Pay attention, Bond,” Q sounded exasperated. “Don’t you ever read the newspapers? There’s a financial crisis afoot. We can’t be seen to be spending willy-nilly, even at MI6. The papers would have a field day. Sometimes I wish the Cold War was still on.”
Bond wasn’t giving his Quartermaster the benefit of his full attention. Instead, he focused on a ballpoint pen held in a jeweller’s vice. “Hullo, what’s this?” he asked as he loosened the vice and held the instrument aloft.
“Hmmm? Oh, Bond. Please don’t touch that.”
“What have we here?” Bond waved away Q’s protests. “No, don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s a location finder. No, a laser device, perhaps. Or maybe some form of dart gun? What if I pull this switch on the barrel?”
“Then you will find that you’re writing with black ink instead of blue. Look, Bond, sometimes a pen is just a pen. Like I’ve been trying to tell you, times are hard.”
“Just a pen, eh? Well, I suppose it’s mightier than the sword,” Bond sniffed.
“We’re in a different world, Bond. You can’t act like you have in the past.”
“I suppose I can rely on my trusty firearm. My Walther PPK?”
“Sorry, Bond, that’s had to go. Do you know how pricey those things are? Here, you’ll have to use this instead,” he grunted as he heaved over a hessian sack.
“What’s in there?” asked an incredulous Bond.
“Honda 750 motorcycle chain. One of the most devastating close-combat weapons known to man. No, don’t interrupt me, Commander. Think yourself lucky. 006 has had to make do with a Super Soaker. 008 is getting a length of two-by-four next week. It’s the financially responsible way.”
Bond motioned towards the shape nestling under the dustsheet. “I see you’ve been working on some transport for me, though.”
“Ah, yes, we’re quite proud of that one. Stand on that side while I remove the covers.”
Bond allowed his eyes to rest on the bodywork. “What.....is that?”
“That, Commander, is a Ford Fiesta. A 2003 model. We got a very good deal.”
“But what about the Aston Martin?”
“Have you any concept of cost, Commander? To say nothing of the insurance. You lost your no-claims bonus years ago – you’re not exactly the safest of drivers, Bond. The depreciation alone made M weep.”
“But...”
“Now pay attention. The Fiesta gets good mileage, has plenty of room in the back and is actually quite nippy around town. Think of the Benefit In Kind tables.”
“But I can hardly pull up to the Ritz in Monaco in one of these, can I?”
“Ah, that’s the next bit of news,” said Q. “Overseas travel is a definite no-no at the moment, I’m afraid. Your next assignment is to Swindon.”
“Swindon? But I normally arrive at my jobs by seaplane or mountain pass. Tootling down the M4 just won’t be the same.”
“Bond, you’re going to have to face reality. Times are hard. We can hardly afford to have you swanning around the world, quaffing vodka martinis. We’ve had to make Miss Moneypenny redundant; her job’s now being performed by a Call Centre in Mumbai. If you don’t want to be next, you’re going to have to tighten your belt a bit.”
Bond’s steely eyes narrowed as he turned away. He was the best. In his time he’d faced down all enemies, from the Stasi to SMERSH, renegade nuclear scientists to megalomaniac media barons. But there was one thing he couldn’t beat. The Accounts Department. Were they trying to force him out? He turned back to Q.
“Do you expect me to walk?”
“No, Bond, I expect you to get receipts.”
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
200-word story #1
Endgame
It was gradual, but inevitable. Thirty years at the breakfast table. The dimples that had charmed him as a younger man repulsed him now. The lilt at the end of each question that she’d found fascinating three decades ago just grated with her these days.
They’d smile at each other. All was fine on the surface. But they cringed underneath. Underneath was a swirling mass of regret. Wasted years and missed opportunities. Moving from passion, through acceptance, to the long dark autumn of cold, quiet contempt.
He slurped his coffee for the millionth time. She no longer flinched these days. Anyway, today was different.
“More coffee dear?” she asked brightly. She filled his mug, offered wordlessly from behind the newspaper, from a fresh pot.
Slurp.
It would take seconds, she told herself. Relatively painless, too. No need to make a fuss. Her passport was upstairs, next to the bank book. A few seconds unpleasantness, then Rio was ready and waiting. She sipped her Earl Grey like it was a Mojito.
A cough. Chair legs scraped across the floor. Thud. Over.
Her smile froze as her own throat began to tighten. Her eyes bulged. Oh no. Surely not the tea?
It was gradual, but inevitable. Thirty years at the breakfast table. The dimples that had charmed him as a younger man repulsed him now. The lilt at the end of each question that she’d found fascinating three decades ago just grated with her these days.
They’d smile at each other. All was fine on the surface. But they cringed underneath. Underneath was a swirling mass of regret. Wasted years and missed opportunities. Moving from passion, through acceptance, to the long dark autumn of cold, quiet contempt.
He slurped his coffee for the millionth time. She no longer flinched these days. Anyway, today was different.
“More coffee dear?” she asked brightly. She filled his mug, offered wordlessly from behind the newspaper, from a fresh pot.
Slurp.
It would take seconds, she told herself. Relatively painless, too. No need to make a fuss. Her passport was upstairs, next to the bank book. A few seconds unpleasantness, then Rio was ready and waiting. She sipped her Earl Grey like it was a Mojito.
A cough. Chair legs scraped across the floor. Thud. Over.
Her smile froze as her own throat began to tighten. Her eyes bulged. Oh no. Surely not the tea?
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Shoe protests: a spotter's guide
In recent months we've all seen a new weapon in the armoury of your common-or-garden political activist. The shoe protest. It's been a perennial favourite among the shouty classes in certain countries for some time, but a couple of recent events have helped to push footwear fulmination into the stratosphere.
First there was the Iraqi journalist slinging his slip-ons at previous US President George W 'The Decider' Bush. And most recently we've had some home-grown high jinks, with the Chinese prime minister being on the receiving end of a rather poorly-aimed training shoe while giving a speech at Cambridge University.
I suppose it was too much to expect an Oxford brogue.
Having said that, such a choice in payload would have said more about the sender than the recipient. A hand-tooled shoe with heavyweight welted sole denotes the more thoughtful type of protester. The type whose main gripe might be the scheduling on Radio 4 or the willingness, or otherwise, of the local deli to stock free-range couscous.
And so, as a service to political leaders behind lecterns worldwide, and following the tradition for which this blog is known, I offer below a guide to translating the message behind the shoe.
The Croc - quite frankly, whatever the thrower is protesting about, you can happily disregard them. They clearly let slip the bonds of sanity some time ago.
The deck shoe - hmm. Have you threatened to close down a marina recently?
The Nike High-Top - are you John Lithgow and have you recently banned dancing in your local town? In which case, look out for Kevin Bacon in the audience.
The Manolo Blahnik slingback - actually, this might not be a protest at all, more of a request to join the thrower in the bar afterwards for a Cosmopolitan.
The Doctor Marten boot - you've pissed off a Goth. He'll probably be too dissolute to do too much else. But be careful in case there's a patchouli oil follow-on.
The sandal - a tricky one, this. It depends very much on where you are. If you're standing at a lectern in a temperate climate, then this is a bit of a classic, if stereotypical, case. Expect something involving furry creatures or CO2. However, if you're in a warmer country, somewhere sandy, perhaps, then quite frankly you're on your own, sunshine.
Any shoes in a pair - this isn't a protest. You have taken a job in a bowling alley.
First there was the Iraqi journalist slinging his slip-ons at previous US President George W 'The Decider' Bush. And most recently we've had some home-grown high jinks, with the Chinese prime minister being on the receiving end of a rather poorly-aimed training shoe while giving a speech at Cambridge University.
I suppose it was too much to expect an Oxford brogue.
Having said that, such a choice in payload would have said more about the sender than the recipient. A hand-tooled shoe with heavyweight welted sole denotes the more thoughtful type of protester. The type whose main gripe might be the scheduling on Radio 4 or the willingness, or otherwise, of the local deli to stock free-range couscous.
And so, as a service to political leaders behind lecterns worldwide, and following the tradition for which this blog is known, I offer below a guide to translating the message behind the shoe.
The Croc - quite frankly, whatever the thrower is protesting about, you can happily disregard them. They clearly let slip the bonds of sanity some time ago.
The deck shoe - hmm. Have you threatened to close down a marina recently?
The Nike High-Top - are you John Lithgow and have you recently banned dancing in your local town? In which case, look out for Kevin Bacon in the audience.
The Manolo Blahnik slingback - actually, this might not be a protest at all, more of a request to join the thrower in the bar afterwards for a Cosmopolitan.
The Doctor Marten boot - you've pissed off a Goth. He'll probably be too dissolute to do too much else. But be careful in case there's a patchouli oil follow-on.
The sandal - a tricky one, this. It depends very much on where you are. If you're standing at a lectern in a temperate climate, then this is a bit of a classic, if stereotypical, case. Expect something involving furry creatures or CO2. However, if you're in a warmer country, somewhere sandy, perhaps, then quite frankly you're on your own, sunshine.
Any shoes in a pair - this isn't a protest. You have taken a job in a bowling alley.
Thursday, 4 December 2008
It might just work
Dear Oxfam
I've been looking at your website, with the gift ideas for animal lovers. Now don't worry, I'm not one of those people who thinks that for £95 I get to keep my own camel. I'm well aware that it goes towards someone far more needy.
It goes like this; I pay £95, you use the money to provide a camel to someone in a developing country. Preferably someone who wants a camel, of course. You're a respectable organisation, after all. I can't see you pushing ungulates on unsuspecting rice-farmers.
No, I know that I don't get to keep the camel. I couldn't put one in my garden, for starters. I mean, what about the smell? I guess the camel wouldn't mind.
That's just my little joke.
Anyway, I'm sure you've heard there's a recession going on. I know the people who you deal with are normally at the other end of the financial scale. After all, your clients can't exactly cancel their Sky subscription when the crop fails.
But the ones here, in what we call, with no sense of irony, 'the developed world', might have a bit of a problem with shelling out £95 on a camel. Or even two ponies for a donkey. So I wonder if you should think about broadening your product range a bit? Going for the budget market.
Hamsters.
No, don't screw this letter up. Bear with me. Hamsters cost, what, a few quid each? You could knock them out at a fiver a piece. Mom and dad get to solve junior's constant whining, teach them a story about the beauty of giving, and someone several thousand miles away gets to have an addition to their livestock.
Of course, your typical hamster is no use as a beast of burden. I know that. Even the Siberian hamster will struggle to carry more than a gallon of water from the pump. But have you considered the energy generation angle?
At night, your clients just pop their Oxfam-provided hamster onto its wheel and get it going. Hook up a generator and hey presto - instant, effortless, carbon-free electricity! OK, I accept that a single hamster isn't going to give the village much in the way of power - maybe a 60watt bulb at a time. But bear with me. You need to realise of the power of networking.
Imagine, if you will, a hundred, no, wait, a thousand hamsters, all in their wheels merrily providing all their owners' night-time energy needs. I can't help smiling when I imagine it. I suspect you're picturing it right now, and a grin is playing across your features, isn't it?
I don't blame you. It's a beautiful image. Hamsters are the future.
And when they get too old to generate electricity, they're apparently quite nice baked in a shortcrust pastry.
I've been looking at your website, with the gift ideas for animal lovers. Now don't worry, I'm not one of those people who thinks that for £95 I get to keep my own camel. I'm well aware that it goes towards someone far more needy.
It goes like this; I pay £95, you use the money to provide a camel to someone in a developing country. Preferably someone who wants a camel, of course. You're a respectable organisation, after all. I can't see you pushing ungulates on unsuspecting rice-farmers.
No, I know that I don't get to keep the camel. I couldn't put one in my garden, for starters. I mean, what about the smell? I guess the camel wouldn't mind.
That's just my little joke.
Anyway, I'm sure you've heard there's a recession going on. I know the people who you deal with are normally at the other end of the financial scale. After all, your clients can't exactly cancel their Sky subscription when the crop fails.
But the ones here, in what we call, with no sense of irony, 'the developed world', might have a bit of a problem with shelling out £95 on a camel. Or even two ponies for a donkey. So I wonder if you should think about broadening your product range a bit? Going for the budget market.
Hamsters.
No, don't screw this letter up. Bear with me. Hamsters cost, what, a few quid each? You could knock them out at a fiver a piece. Mom and dad get to solve junior's constant whining, teach them a story about the beauty of giving, and someone several thousand miles away gets to have an addition to their livestock.
Of course, your typical hamster is no use as a beast of burden. I know that. Even the Siberian hamster will struggle to carry more than a gallon of water from the pump. But have you considered the energy generation angle?
At night, your clients just pop their Oxfam-provided hamster onto its wheel and get it going. Hook up a generator and hey presto - instant, effortless, carbon-free electricity! OK, I accept that a single hamster isn't going to give the village much in the way of power - maybe a 60watt bulb at a time. But bear with me. You need to realise of the power of networking.
Imagine, if you will, a hundred, no, wait, a thousand hamsters, all in their wheels merrily providing all their owners' night-time energy needs. I can't help smiling when I imagine it. I suspect you're picturing it right now, and a grin is playing across your features, isn't it?
I don't blame you. It's a beautiful image. Hamsters are the future.
And when they get too old to generate electricity, they're apparently quite nice baked in a shortcrust pastry.
Monday, 17 November 2008
And an infinite number of bananas, too
It was the smell that hit me first.
From the instant the big, heavy, double-height doors swung open, I was assailed by the smell. Sweet, musty, strangely warm in its impact. Rotting soft fruit, shot through with more earthy undertones I couldn't place.
I didn't have much time to react before the noise. "Noise" was perhaps not the right word. There was a mixture of sounds competing for my attention. And not ones I'd ever heard before, a little like someone chainsawing a herd of donkeys. There were hoots, screams, mutterings.
And the clattering. Always the clattering.
Smell and hearing had leapt in because, quite frankly, sight was out to lunch. My eyes saw the room. My eyes regarded the desks. My eyes took in the office chairs, the reams of paper, the banana skins.
But my brain was struggling with the monkeys. Dozens of monkeys. Scores of monkeys. Hundreds, thousands. Millions. Monkeys as far as the eye could see.
I realised that although I'd observed the room, I hadn't actually seen the far wall. I couldn't focus on it. There was a distant haze, but I couldn't make it out.
In any case, I'd been distracted. Not just by monkeys. But by typewriters. One placed squarely on every desk, ranks of which stretched off to the horizon. Most monkeys ignored them. A few had ripped the paper from the open typewriter carriages and fashioned nests. Some simply crouched, slumped on the keyboards. A number, though, showed a sort of simian interest. They added clatter to the background as they struck keys with fists, heads and feet.
As I walked between some desks, there was a tug at my trouser hem. A capuchin sat there, his thin fingers curled around some torn-off foolscap. Chestnut eyes fixed mine with a questioning look. I took the scrap:
From the instant the big, heavy, double-height doors swung open, I was assailed by the smell. Sweet, musty, strangely warm in its impact. Rotting soft fruit, shot through with more earthy undertones I couldn't place.
I didn't have much time to react before the noise. "Noise" was perhaps not the right word. There was a mixture of sounds competing for my attention. And not ones I'd ever heard before, a little like someone chainsawing a herd of donkeys. There were hoots, screams, mutterings.
And the clattering. Always the clattering.
Smell and hearing had leapt in because, quite frankly, sight was out to lunch. My eyes saw the room. My eyes regarded the desks. My eyes took in the office chairs, the reams of paper, the banana skins.
But my brain was struggling with the monkeys. Dozens of monkeys. Scores of monkeys. Hundreds, thousands. Millions. Monkeys as far as the eye could see.
I realised that although I'd observed the room, I hadn't actually seen the far wall. I couldn't focus on it. There was a distant haze, but I couldn't make it out.
In any case, I'd been distracted. Not just by monkeys. But by typewriters. One placed squarely on every desk, ranks of which stretched off to the horizon. Most monkeys ignored them. A few had ripped the paper from the open typewriter carriages and fashioned nests. Some simply crouched, slumped on the keyboards. A number, though, showed a sort of simian interest. They added clatter to the background as they struck keys with fists, heads and feet.
As I walked between some desks, there was a tug at my trouser hem. A capuchin sat there, his thin fingers curled around some torn-off foolscap. Chestnut eyes fixed mine with a questioning look. I took the scrap:
cddhuidhunihy8n udpa8di d jnjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj cjdijj\ jdic\jcikxo4ifkc aouhuikI was puzzled. I read on.
cbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhdbih\djisdjkenckjneakfle ke\jdemk edjKXMMDJDMKMKWhat did it mean? What was it supposed to mean?
ncjxhgcud nj989jmncaTo be, or not to be--that is the question:whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--No more--and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That fleshhcduhdn duchdunw vcndwjb nvejhce cxn fhrI had my answer. It was possible after all.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Stop carping on
"It's a vile slur," he declared, very angrily for someone who was patently behind glass. "I tell you now. I'm heartily sick of it all."
To be honest, my visit to the Sea Life had taken an unexpected turn. I hadn't quite expected the inhabitants to answer back.
"I'll have you know, that 30-seconds-memory thing is absolute rubbish, too."
The crisp Chinese accent was a little unsettling. Perhaps an unnecessary detail, seeing as it was coming from the mouth of an ornamental goldfish, but it's one of those things that tends to stay with you. That, and the fact that it was a talking fish.
"Test me, why don't you? Go on, you nose-breather, test me."
I think I was being insulted by an Oranda.
"Erm." I ventured confidently.
"FA Cup Winners from 1970: Arsenal, Leeds United, Sunderland, Liverpool, West Ham United, Southampton, Manchest..."
"I never accused you of having a short-term memory. Oh God. I don't believe this. I'm arguing with a fish. Anyway. It's not my fault."
"Not convinced, warm-blood? OK then, let me see. Oh yes, Restoration Kings & Queens: Charles II, James II, William III, Mary II..."
"What are you doing?" I asked. Things seemed to be going downhill. I was getting a history lesson from something with scales.
"Excuse me?" He waved his dorsal fin in what I suppose was a questioning way. Never having had one waved at me before, I was having to guess a little. "You mammals think you're all that. It's all 'Look at us with our opposable thumbs' all the time. Well, I'm sick of it. I'm very well-read. I can retain information with the best of them. Test me on the Laws of Motion. Go on, test me."
"I'm not going to test a goldfish on A-level physics. It's not right." I turned to leave.
"Oi! Bottom-feeder! Come back here and let me recite pi to 500 decimal places. 3.1415926......"
I could take no more. I had to run away. I had to flee, get myself to a place of safety, get my befuddled head together.
And just to be certain, I made sure to travel via Mr Sunny's Fried Fish Bar.
To be honest, my visit to the Sea Life had taken an unexpected turn. I hadn't quite expected the inhabitants to answer back.
"I'll have you know, that 30-seconds-memory thing is absolute rubbish, too."
The crisp Chinese accent was a little unsettling. Perhaps an unnecessary detail, seeing as it was coming from the mouth of an ornamental goldfish, but it's one of those things that tends to stay with you. That, and the fact that it was a talking fish.
"Test me, why don't you? Go on, you nose-breather, test me."
I think I was being insulted by an Oranda.
"Erm." I ventured confidently.
"FA Cup Winners from 1970: Arsenal, Leeds United, Sunderland, Liverpool, West Ham United, Southampton, Manchest..."
"I never accused you of having a short-term memory. Oh God. I don't believe this. I'm arguing with a fish. Anyway. It's not my fault."
"Not convinced, warm-blood? OK then, let me see. Oh yes, Restoration Kings & Queens: Charles II, James II, William III, Mary II..."
"What are you doing?" I asked. Things seemed to be going downhill. I was getting a history lesson from something with scales.
"Excuse me?" He waved his dorsal fin in what I suppose was a questioning way. Never having had one waved at me before, I was having to guess a little. "You mammals think you're all that. It's all 'Look at us with our opposable thumbs' all the time. Well, I'm sick of it. I'm very well-read. I can retain information with the best of them. Test me on the Laws of Motion. Go on, test me."
"I'm not going to test a goldfish on A-level physics. It's not right." I turned to leave.
"Oi! Bottom-feeder! Come back here and let me recite pi to 500 decimal places. 3.1415926......"
I could take no more. I had to run away. I had to flee, get myself to a place of safety, get my befuddled head together.
And just to be certain, I made sure to travel via Mr Sunny's Fried Fish Bar.
Monday, 3 November 2008
...and how did you find the deckchair arrangements?
Erm. Hello. Could everyone stop crying for a moment, please and pay attention? Settle down if you will, ladies and gentlemen.
For those of you I haven't met on the voyage so far, my name is George Trugwarn. Purser Second Class, and part of the customer engagement team for White Star Line. I recognise some of you from the orientation exercise at Southampton on the 10th. Yes, I thought we'd be doing this at New York too, sir. When life gives you lemons, and all that.
Yes, madam, I'm well aware that it's three in the morning and we're in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic, but at White Star, customer satisfaction is key. If you can help me with my Customer Pathway Survey, we can resume trying to find the RMS Carpathia and get on with the rest of the day.
Lovely. Right, first things first, can I get your opinion about last night's dinner selection?
Please. Stop screaming. We'll come to open responses in a bit.
On a scale of one to five, where one is "Strongly Agree" and five is "Strongly Disagree," can you give me your view on the following statements, please, ladies and gentlemen?
The poached salmon with Mousseline sauce - appropriate for an April dinner? Hmm. The filet mignons Lili. A little heavy going? I see. The Waldorf Pudding. A fitting finish? Oh, wonderful. Chef will be delighted. Well, if we ever find him, of course. Last time I saw him he was playing "Nearer My God To Thee" on an oboe. Never mind.
Right, now feedback on your the rest of your voyage. As you were, ladies and gentlemen, one to five, please.
Enough with the whistles, already, that's really not helping my data collection, folks.
Your cabins. Comfortable and spacious? Riiight. Some of you had dampness issues. I understand, really I do. It's been a humdinger of a night for all of us. Let's move on to the final section, shall we?
The alarm calls. How prompt for you? I see. And the evacuation instructions? Oh, I see, you wanted a Spanish option. I'm sorry, I'll note that down for the crew on RMS Olympic. You see, this whole experience has been worth it after all, hasn't it?
Now some quick customer segmentation statistics, please. Just a show of hands will do. First class? Uh-huh. Second? Right. Third? Good.
And Steerage? Steerage? Oh bother. Well, that's going to throw my demographics right out.
For those of you I haven't met on the voyage so far, my name is George Trugwarn. Purser Second Class, and part of the customer engagement team for White Star Line. I recognise some of you from the orientation exercise at Southampton on the 10th. Yes, I thought we'd be doing this at New York too, sir. When life gives you lemons, and all that.
Yes, madam, I'm well aware that it's three in the morning and we're in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic, but at White Star, customer satisfaction is key. If you can help me with my Customer Pathway Survey, we can resume trying to find the RMS Carpathia and get on with the rest of the day.
Lovely. Right, first things first, can I get your opinion about last night's dinner selection?
Please. Stop screaming. We'll come to open responses in a bit.
On a scale of one to five, where one is "Strongly Agree" and five is "Strongly Disagree," can you give me your view on the following statements, please, ladies and gentlemen?
The poached salmon with Mousseline sauce - appropriate for an April dinner? Hmm. The filet mignons Lili. A little heavy going? I see. The Waldorf Pudding. A fitting finish? Oh, wonderful. Chef will be delighted. Well, if we ever find him, of course. Last time I saw him he was playing "Nearer My God To Thee" on an oboe. Never mind.
Right, now feedback on your the rest of your voyage. As you were, ladies and gentlemen, one to five, please.
Enough with the whistles, already, that's really not helping my data collection, folks.
Your cabins. Comfortable and spacious? Riiight. Some of you had dampness issues. I understand, really I do. It's been a humdinger of a night for all of us. Let's move on to the final section, shall we?
The alarm calls. How prompt for you? I see. And the evacuation instructions? Oh, I see, you wanted a Spanish option. I'm sorry, I'll note that down for the crew on RMS Olympic. You see, this whole experience has been worth it after all, hasn't it?
Now some quick customer segmentation statistics, please. Just a show of hands will do. First class? Uh-huh. Second? Right. Third? Good.
And Steerage? Steerage? Oh bother. Well, that's going to throw my demographics right out.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
The call of the wild
One of the less well-known impacts of the digital revolution is its affect on wild animals.
In the past, creatures used every method at their disposal to communicate with each other. Furry thing would speak unto furry thing, using a collection of calls, hoots, grunts and squeaks. A litany of gestures, dances and expressions would be sufficient to pass on all emotion.
But not now. Just like their human counterparts, animals are finding it impossible to resist the lure of the mobile phone.
Hard to believe, I know. But true.
It started with the big cats. It's just too much trouble to co-ordinate a pride of lions when hunting for prey. Especially in the long grass. Need your brother to edge up on the left hand flank of that herd of antelope? No problem - flip open the trusty Nokia: "Oi, Barry! Pick it up, sunshine, that one's limping over there. You think you can be trusted not to balls this one up? Oh, and save a bit of the neck for mother, will you, or we'll never hear the end of it."
Some species started to have issues with calling while running, however. Even the fastest cheetah was somewhat hamstrung, having to zone in on an ibex while using three legs, desperately trying to pick up his voicemail.
The solution? Bluetooth earpieces, of course. Not a great option for your average elephant, I'll grant you, but the cats get along just fine.
The primates took to it all naturally. Apart from some of the gorillas. But as soon as someone set up caller ID and taught the silverback the art of call filtering, all was well. Nothing worse than those call plan spam calls when you've got a whole bunch of other stuff to do. That fur doesn't groom itself, does it?
Down at the watering hole, the inhabitants have learnt the art of texting. Mind you, they're not exactly adding to the sum of reptilian knowledge. It's all "CUL8R alligator", but it's a start.
And on the African veldt, the bison can be heard as they trundle along under the baking sun: "I'm on the plain!"
In the past, creatures used every method at their disposal to communicate with each other. Furry thing would speak unto furry thing, using a collection of calls, hoots, grunts and squeaks. A litany of gestures, dances and expressions would be sufficient to pass on all emotion.
But not now. Just like their human counterparts, animals are finding it impossible to resist the lure of the mobile phone.
Hard to believe, I know. But true.
It started with the big cats. It's just too much trouble to co-ordinate a pride of lions when hunting for prey. Especially in the long grass. Need your brother to edge up on the left hand flank of that herd of antelope? No problem - flip open the trusty Nokia: "Oi, Barry! Pick it up, sunshine, that one's limping over there. You think you can be trusted not to balls this one up? Oh, and save a bit of the neck for mother, will you, or we'll never hear the end of it."
Some species started to have issues with calling while running, however. Even the fastest cheetah was somewhat hamstrung, having to zone in on an ibex while using three legs, desperately trying to pick up his voicemail.
The solution? Bluetooth earpieces, of course. Not a great option for your average elephant, I'll grant you, but the cats get along just fine.
The primates took to it all naturally. Apart from some of the gorillas. But as soon as someone set up caller ID and taught the silverback the art of call filtering, all was well. Nothing worse than those call plan spam calls when you've got a whole bunch of other stuff to do. That fur doesn't groom itself, does it?
Down at the watering hole, the inhabitants have learnt the art of texting. Mind you, they're not exactly adding to the sum of reptilian knowledge. It's all "CUL8R alligator", but it's a start.
And on the African veldt, the bison can be heard as they trundle along under the baking sun: "I'm on the plain!"
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Corrosive influence
"Irony, schmirony," spat Skelton, before draining the last of his protein drink. For a man who typically keeps his emotions close to his 50-inch chest, this was to be the beginning of quite an outpouring of rage.
Simon Skelton is a man who feels wronged by the world. And he's just about had all he can take.
We'd agreed to meet at his gym, the Buns o' Steel in downtown Redditch. An unassuming exterior hides a veritable powerhouse of activity. Entering through its portals, I was struck by the almost academic, monastic air of its inhabitants, committed as they were to a lifetime of self-improvement.
And there was Skelton, bench-pressing 100k in rep sets of 25 at a time.
For many years Skelton has been a mysterious, mythical figure. The subject of many a pub-quiz question - "Who first played Mr Muscle in the TV adverts for the oven-cleaner of the same name?" - for ten years he's been out of the public gaze. Perhaps the time has come for his story to be told.
"It all started when the advertising agency put out a casting call for a typical nine-stone weakling," starts Skelton, after vigorously towelling himself dry. "They thought it would be fun for a product named 'Mr Muscle' to be fronted by some puny guy. I was the typical facial recipient for kicked beach sand at that time, so I fitted straight in."
The early years were a whirlwind of ad shoots and public appearances. "I'm not proud of everything that happened," he admits. "But there was a pretence to be kept up. We had to make sure I couldn't bulk up, so I took to hanging around with jockeys and supermodels for diet tips. And let me tell you, when you've spent a weekend locked in a Travel Lodge hotel room with only Andrex toilet paper to eat, you've reached the bottom."
Skelton tried to convince the powers-that-be to take the character in another direction. "I told them, oven cleaner purchasers don't need irony, but they wouldn't listen. So I decided to do something about it myself."
Before too long Skelton was arranging clandestine meetings with shady suppliers. "It was at that time I was mainlining Met-RX, slipping away from my minders whenever I could to work a few routines with dumbbells."
But his operators were getting suspicious. The break point had to come. But even Skelton was unprepared for the viciousness that followed. "The midnight raid is etched on my memory. Masked goons from the ad company broke into my place and confiscated all my stuff. The Mens Health back issues first. Then the Bullworker." His eyes brim with tears at the memory. "Have you ever tried unblocking your sink after it's had whey protein poured down it? I ask you."
By now he was persona-non-grata. The word went round that they were going to recast the role. In desperation, he crashed the audition, determined to show that his new, buff, body was just what they needed. "But they'd bottled it, and given the part to some weedy bloke straight from Central Casting."
He tried suing: "I was willing to go all the way to the House of Lords - this was flagrant discrimination. But my lawyers told me no-one with 20-inch biceps and rippling abs was going to get sympathy in the courtroom."
So now Simon Skelton cuts a lonely, if somewhat large, figure. In a world where there's a place for everyone, this gentle giant just wants acceptance.
"I had my 20 minutes," he concludes. "But then they wiped me off with a lint-free cloth afterwards."
Simon Skelton is a man who feels wronged by the world. And he's just about had all he can take.
We'd agreed to meet at his gym, the Buns o' Steel in downtown Redditch. An unassuming exterior hides a veritable powerhouse of activity. Entering through its portals, I was struck by the almost academic, monastic air of its inhabitants, committed as they were to a lifetime of self-improvement.
And there was Skelton, bench-pressing 100k in rep sets of 25 at a time.
For many years Skelton has been a mysterious, mythical figure. The subject of many a pub-quiz question - "Who first played Mr Muscle in the TV adverts for the oven-cleaner of the same name?" - for ten years he's been out of the public gaze. Perhaps the time has come for his story to be told.
"It all started when the advertising agency put out a casting call for a typical nine-stone weakling," starts Skelton, after vigorously towelling himself dry. "They thought it would be fun for a product named 'Mr Muscle' to be fronted by some puny guy. I was the typical facial recipient for kicked beach sand at that time, so I fitted straight in."
The early years were a whirlwind of ad shoots and public appearances. "I'm not proud of everything that happened," he admits. "But there was a pretence to be kept up. We had to make sure I couldn't bulk up, so I took to hanging around with jockeys and supermodels for diet tips. And let me tell you, when you've spent a weekend locked in a Travel Lodge hotel room with only Andrex toilet paper to eat, you've reached the bottom."
Skelton tried to convince the powers-that-be to take the character in another direction. "I told them, oven cleaner purchasers don't need irony, but they wouldn't listen. So I decided to do something about it myself."
Before too long Skelton was arranging clandestine meetings with shady suppliers. "It was at that time I was mainlining Met-RX, slipping away from my minders whenever I could to work a few routines with dumbbells."
But his operators were getting suspicious. The break point had to come. But even Skelton was unprepared for the viciousness that followed. "The midnight raid is etched on my memory. Masked goons from the ad company broke into my place and confiscated all my stuff. The Mens Health back issues first. Then the Bullworker." His eyes brim with tears at the memory. "Have you ever tried unblocking your sink after it's had whey protein poured down it? I ask you."
By now he was persona-non-grata. The word went round that they were going to recast the role. In desperation, he crashed the audition, determined to show that his new, buff, body was just what they needed. "But they'd bottled it, and given the part to some weedy bloke straight from Central Casting."
He tried suing: "I was willing to go all the way to the House of Lords - this was flagrant discrimination. But my lawyers told me no-one with 20-inch biceps and rippling abs was going to get sympathy in the courtroom."
So now Simon Skelton cuts a lonely, if somewhat large, figure. In a world where there's a place for everyone, this gentle giant just wants acceptance.
"I had my 20 minutes," he concludes. "But then they wiped me off with a lint-free cloth afterwards."
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Shouting lager lager lager lager
Quiet please, class 2B. Thank you. Yes, thank you.Right. I take it you've all brought in permissions slips from your parents, so this morning we're starting Alcohol Education.
Would you like to share the joke with the rest of us, Ben? Thought not. Now behave.
You're very lucky people. This is the first year AlcEd has been a featured part of the formal syllabus. In years gone by this would have been a parental responsibility, however it now forms a key stage in your Health and Social Studies GCSE coursework for the year, so I'd like you all to take this seriously.
That includes you, Sharon. Face the front, please. No, I'm not interested in what Kimberly called you, and neither is the rest of the class.
Right. Today we're going to be covering a few basics. In front of each of you are a number of containers. John, please don't touch until I tell you to. I don't care what Liam said. If Liam told you to jump out of the window, would you?
Jessica. Don't do that, please.
OK, we're going to look at the various types of alcoholic drink on the market. First of all, open the can on the left. Can someone help Kevin? Thank you, Michael. Right. This is Carling Black Label. After three, everyone take a sip. One, two, three. And stop.
Jessica. Stop when I say so, please.
Now, Carling Black Label is what we call a lager. This is basically a cold drink designed, should you drink enough of it, to bring about feelings of drunkenness without being encumbered with any discernible taste. It goes well with fried food and, well, more lager.
Yes Ben, it is gassy. That was indeed quite tuneful. See me afterwards, please.
Now open the next container. You'll see that this is a large plastic bottle with a lightning strike on the side. This is what we call cider. No, Naomi, there are no glasses with this one as it's designed to be drunk straight from the bottle. One, two, three. And, stop.
Jessica. I'm watching you.
For most of you cider and lager will be enough to get you a pass, to be honest. However, we're lucky to have some additional exercises for those of you going for a merit pass. If you move onto the next bottle, you'll see it's filled with a dark red liquid. Pour some into the bottom of the large round glass there. This is called wine, and its main effect is to make the drinker extremely witty. One, two, three. And stop. Yes, Simon, I'm sure you are 'getting blackcurrant'. NO-one likes a show-off.
Jessica. I won't tell you again.
Now for our final exercise, pull the cork from the clear bottle with the yellowy liquid and pour a small amount into the flat-bottomed tumbler. This is called whisky, and is designed specifically to scare you senseless until a party when your dad leaves his drinks cabinet unlocked. Yes, Justin, I'm aware that it's Famous Grouse. Well, if you wanted single malt you should have done better in your Eleven Plus and made it to Grammar School. Are we ready? One, two, three. And stop.
The bell's for me, not for you. Sit down please.
Right. Asking your parents to introduce you to this stuff responsibly is clearly pointless. Quite frankly, if you're out of the house they couldn't give a monkey's. And the drinks companies aren't helping, with supermarket deals on slabs of Stella bringing tears of joy to the eyes of everyone. Even old soaks like me.
So as a result, these lessons will be as much use as Mr Neil's sessions with you all on quadratic equations. By the end of next term, most of you will know more about WKD Blue than W.H. Auden. But targets are targets.
Ah. Can someone see to Jessica, please?
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Away with the fairies
There is unrest in the forest. There is trouble in the trees. It's been brewing for some time. And, to be quite honest, The Man hasn't been doing much to help matters.
The whispers of discontent are there, if you're willing and able to hear them. There they are again. Do you hear them? No, not the jingly bells, those have always been there. Listen out for the whispers.
"It's quite simple," says Wimple McGrew, "we're getting misrepresented." As spokes-being for the League of Fantasy Characters, McGrew hasn't had too many challenges to date. And as a mere stripling - only 87 next November - he can't remember the last time there's been this much disquiet.
"It got out of hand a few years ago with that bloody Peter Jackson. Here we'd been since time immemorial, us elves, quietly minding our own business. A bit of a jingle here, the odd 'hey nonny no' there. We weren't hurting anybody. But all of a sudden, with his Lord of the sodding Rings trilogy, he got everyone's expectations up. I mean, that Elvish language nonsense? You do realise that was just human actors speaking very poor Welsh, don't you?"
"All of a sudden we elves were expected to be all cool and catlike and mysterious. All that firing-off-three-arrows-at-once palaver. You ever tried that with a small bell attached to the pointy tip of your hat? Didn't think so."
It's not just his elven brethren McGrew is inclined to defend, either. "The dwarves are seriously pissed off, I don't mind telling you. They'd only just overcome the stereotyping from that Disney bloke and now everyone expects them to be carrying battleaxes and rolling their r's all the time."
In recent years the League has grown from a raggle-taggle group concerned mainly with mead production quotas and cheap lyre imports to the focussed lobbying group it is today. "We've had no end of arguments with the management, " sighs a Middle-Earth-weary McGrew, "Pretty much every time I go in to see Inhuman Resources I know I'm in for a torrid time. But if we don't act together, we're doomed."
Favouritism is the latest accusation to fall from every mouth and horn. "The Tooth Fairy gets all the glory, but all she does is swan about and put 50p pieces under some gappy kids' pillowcases. But do we ever hear the end of it? And at the same time, no-one's exactly holding ticker-tape parades for the Ear-wax Elf or the Navel-fluff Gnome, are they?"
In all of this, it's the Orcs that have come out worst. Small, timid, peace-loving creatures, much taken to whimsy and folk-dancing, their reputation is now shot. "It's a travesty. There was a time when you'd be happy to have an Orcish family as your neighbours. But just one unfair representation of them as war-hungry monsters and all of a sudden you can't move for 'Orcs Out' placards."
"I blame the Hobbits. Vicious gits, the lot of them."
The whispers of discontent are there, if you're willing and able to hear them. There they are again. Do you hear them? No, not the jingly bells, those have always been there. Listen out for the whispers.
"It's quite simple," says Wimple McGrew, "we're getting misrepresented." As spokes-being for the League of Fantasy Characters, McGrew hasn't had too many challenges to date. And as a mere stripling - only 87 next November - he can't remember the last time there's been this much disquiet.
"It got out of hand a few years ago with that bloody Peter Jackson. Here we'd been since time immemorial, us elves, quietly minding our own business. A bit of a jingle here, the odd 'hey nonny no' there. We weren't hurting anybody. But all of a sudden, with his Lord of the sodding Rings trilogy, he got everyone's expectations up. I mean, that Elvish language nonsense? You do realise that was just human actors speaking very poor Welsh, don't you?"
"All of a sudden we elves were expected to be all cool and catlike and mysterious. All that firing-off-three-arrows-at-once palaver. You ever tried that with a small bell attached to the pointy tip of your hat? Didn't think so."
It's not just his elven brethren McGrew is inclined to defend, either. "The dwarves are seriously pissed off, I don't mind telling you. They'd only just overcome the stereotyping from that Disney bloke and now everyone expects them to be carrying battleaxes and rolling their r's all the time."
In recent years the League has grown from a raggle-taggle group concerned mainly with mead production quotas and cheap lyre imports to the focussed lobbying group it is today. "We've had no end of arguments with the management, " sighs a Middle-Earth-weary McGrew, "Pretty much every time I go in to see Inhuman Resources I know I'm in for a torrid time. But if we don't act together, we're doomed."
Favouritism is the latest accusation to fall from every mouth and horn. "The Tooth Fairy gets all the glory, but all she does is swan about and put 50p pieces under some gappy kids' pillowcases. But do we ever hear the end of it? And at the same time, no-one's exactly holding ticker-tape parades for the Ear-wax Elf or the Navel-fluff Gnome, are they?"
In all of this, it's the Orcs that have come out worst. Small, timid, peace-loving creatures, much taken to whimsy and folk-dancing, their reputation is now shot. "It's a travesty. There was a time when you'd be happy to have an Orcish family as your neighbours. But just one unfair representation of them as war-hungry monsters and all of a sudden you can't move for 'Orcs Out' placards."
"I blame the Hobbits. Vicious gits, the lot of them."
Sunday, 11 May 2008
It's all going down in the garden
I always imagined that the flowers led quiet lives - just sitting there, doing that twisting around to face the sun thing and generally annoying the bejesus out of hayfever sufferers. But no. It appears that the beds are hopping. Herbaceous happenings border on the obscene. According to recent research, flowers even wave at passing insects to get their loving attention.
Of course, you can't believe everything you read, especially on the Internet. So I thought I'd do a little research, to understand the truth. And get some answers, right from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Luckily we're blessed with some very candid camelias, talkative tulips and mouthy marigolds around here. The roses are a little standoffish, to be honest, and the poppies just too giggly. But I was amazed at what I learned.
The honeysuckles are the worst. They're anyone's for a bit of bee action. And by all accounts, not too fussy, either. "They're no better than they ought to be," said a chrysanthemum, all prissy in its terracotta pot. The poor erysimum barely get a look in, but I suppose you should expect that from wallflowers.
It's made no easier by the bees themselves - the insects these days show no respect. It's all "Buzz buzz, thank you ma'am. Or sir. Or ma'am/sir depending upon your hermaphrodite tendencies," with no wiping of the feet before or afterwards. Or, for that matter, during. Which is missing the point, surely.
The poor geraniums don't stand a chance - most of them still have identity issues and can be heard muttering, "Geranium, pelargonium, geranium, pelargonium..." over and over again, each one the horticultural equivalent of Raymond Babbit.
And as for the Busy Lizzies, they're not exactly backward when it comes to being forward, either. Still, impatiens is as impatiens does.
(Normal service will be resumed once the sunstroke wears off).
Of course, you can't believe everything you read, especially on the Internet. So I thought I'd do a little research, to understand the truth. And get some answers, right from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Luckily we're blessed with some very candid camelias, talkative tulips and mouthy marigolds around here. The roses are a little standoffish, to be honest, and the poppies just too giggly. But I was amazed at what I learned.
The honeysuckles are the worst. They're anyone's for a bit of bee action. And by all accounts, not too fussy, either. "They're no better than they ought to be," said a chrysanthemum, all prissy in its terracotta pot. The poor erysimum barely get a look in, but I suppose you should expect that from wallflowers.
It's made no easier by the bees themselves - the insects these days show no respect. It's all "Buzz buzz, thank you ma'am. Or sir. Or ma'am/sir depending upon your hermaphrodite tendencies," with no wiping of the feet before or afterwards. Or, for that matter, during. Which is missing the point, surely.
The poor geraniums don't stand a chance - most of them still have identity issues and can be heard muttering, "Geranium, pelargonium, geranium, pelargonium..." over and over again, each one the horticultural equivalent of Raymond Babbit.
And as for the Busy Lizzies, they're not exactly backward when it comes to being forward, either. Still, impatiens is as impatiens does.
(Normal service will be resumed once the sunstroke wears off).
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