A punctuated tale

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.

This one deserves a Booker Prize

I received a letter the other week from the people who manufactured my car. Well, not the actual workers. I think Jurgen and Klaus are probably a little too busy doing arcane things with arc-welders in a Bavarian factory to be engaging in customer correspondence.

Ok then. The company that made my car wrote to me. And although I'm used to corporate communications, I must admit this letter made be do the whole 'look once, do a double-take, then check your tea for strong liquor' routine that you normally only see in cartoons.

The letter was sent to tell me that they'd identified a problem with my car. Would I mind awfully taking it to the nearest dealership so Jurgen and Klaus's English equivalents could do equally arcane things to it with a set of spanners? But it was this bit of the letter that threw me. See if you can see the particular phrase that did the trick:

As part of an ongoing quality analysis, it has been established that an electrical short-circuit may occur in the area of the fuel filter on your vehicle. In unfavourable situations if a short-circuit occurs when the vehicle is in motion, this may lead to a thermal incident in the vehicle when it is switched off.

Whoa. Hold on a minute. Did you spot it? 'Thermal incident.' Thermal incident? Hang on a minute - what could that possibly mean? Something getting a little hot in an uncontrolled manner?

I tend to call that a 'fire'. Or, perhaps, if we'd like to be dramatic, 'explosion'.

You have to be sympathetic to the wordsmiths at the Bavarian Motor Works, though. They want drivers to take notice of these vehicle recall notices. But on the other hand, no-one's going to admit that their vehicles are all explode-y, are they? That's not the type of thing your lawyers want you to put in writing.

But if we accept this, where does it end? Here are some new phrases for the motor industry:

• Unplanned vehicular/arboreal interface - crashing into a tree
• Lack of rotational support - a wheel has fallen off
• Interior environmental supplement required - your Magic Tree needs replacing
• Sub-optimal motivational situation  - won't start
• Moisture-related cessation - you have driven into a lake

(And before you get worried - I have had the car looked at. You can safely accept a lift from me - this is an explosion-free zone).

This one goes up to 11

I spent most of last weekend with a ringing in my ears. In fact, that's not quite right. It was in my right ear more than the left. Which was odd. But I had no-one to blame but myself. You see, I'd been regressing, if not into childhood, then something pretty close.

I can do subtle when it comes to music. I really can. There's nothing quite like some celestial harmony, gentle counterpoint and clever lyrics to get my toes tapping. But, let's be straight. Putting yourself in front of some Marshall stacks and experiencing a gale force blast is good for the soul.

As part of brother number one's birthday present, I'd bought tickets to a night of gentle, sophisticated musical entertainment. Well, actually we went to see an evening of tribute bands covering Deep Purple, Rainbow and Whitesnake from the seventies and eighties. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, if I'm honest. While I was aware of the concept of the tribute band, I hadn't really experienced it first hand. Part of me wondered if this evening was going to be a little iffy, somewhat ragged around the edges, perhaps.

After all, what sort of people willingly set themselves up to copy 35-year-old acts for the amusement of others?

About ten seconds into Speed King I had my answer. Supremely talented ones. However, my right eardrum was already pleading for mercy. "Bloody hell," I said, to no-one in particular. The band soloed and riffed and did things that hard rock bands are wont to do. It was like the Montreux Rock Festival, just with Banks's Mild on draft and a counter selling chips with curry sauce. And the band played on, note perfect.

In the interval I looked at the other audience members. Acres of denim, the odd bit of leather. And hair. Lots of hair. Waist-length in some cases, permed here and there. Some of the women were even worse.



The quality was maintained by the other acts, direct covers of Rainbow and Deep Purple. Dungeons & Dragons from the former, pelvic thrusts from the latter.

As the ersatz 'Ronnie James Dio' sang his moon-and-star-spangled heart out, I was transported back to the family living room, circa 1980. It was a Sunday - it was always a Sunday. Dad would be sitting in the armchair, a column of pipesmoke rising from behind the newspaper. Brother number one would have convinced him to switch off the light classics he'd been playing on the radio so he could put his latest LP on. It was the same one pretty much every week. Or at least it seemed that way. We would sit through the onslaught of tracks like Gates of Babylon, Kill the King, Eyes of the World. The only other thing we would be able to hear, if we'd listened very closely, would be Dad's eyebrows rising gently as he scanned the Sunday Mercury.

"Well, that was, um, interesting," he'd say, with infinite patience as the final chords of Ritchie Blackmore's guitar faded away.

So, gentle reader, what I'm really trying to say is this. Even the most nonsensical, loud, overblown and pompous music has its place. Whether that's standing in a room, pint in hand, with 300 other blokes, or sitting at home before a huge Sunday dinner. Whatever works for you is fine.

Now if you don't mind, I need to shake my hairy head backwards and forwards. I need to get rid of this ringing, you see.
 

The write stuff

I may not have mentioned this before, but I'm a fan of the US TV series The West Wing. And when I say 'fan' I really mean it. I liked this show a lot when it was on. In fact, it's fair to say I loved it. I mean, really loved it. I would quite happily have married this show and had lots of little West Wing babies with it.

I think I've made my position relatively clear.

One of my favourite characters was Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director for the White House. He was great with words - as you'd expect from someone in that position - and was passionate about getting them right. In one episode, he'd been given the ostensibly simple task of writing a birthday message from the President to some middle-ranking government figure - a Deputy Transportation Secretary or some such. It was by all accounts a quick message, but he just couldn't get it right. Over the course of the episode we saw Seaborn - a man used to writing the State of the Nation Address - descending ever further into frustration as he struggles to find the right words for a slightly-glorified birthday card note.

I loved that portrayal because I know exactly how that feels.

The other day I spent best part of an hour struggling over the creation of a 70-word section of text at work. It was a little more important than someone's birthday message, but nevertheless I was having no luck. I had it at 120 words. It said everything that it needed to say. No important points were missed. But it needed to be shorter - the page for which it was intended was tight on space as it was. But I was struggling. I couldn't edit it down without missing some of the piece's vital meaning. I re-read it. I got up and paced around. It just wouldn't work.

Eventually I got it right. But it was painful. It said everything that needed to be said, and I didn't have to reduce it to stupid point size in order to get it to fit. Because that would have been cheating.

But when I sat back and looked at the words, I remembered that it was this part of my job that I enjoyed. I still consider myself lucky that a large part of my paid employment involves writing. No-one - least of all me - is going to claim that the stuff I produce between 9 and 5 is going to change the course of human history. But I like to think of writing as crystallised thoughts. What goes on in your head is put down in words and sentences, preserved for posterity and communicated far and wide. Or, in my case, sent to people who sell mortgages for a living. Look, it pays the bills, OK?

The other thing it reminded me was that I have a manuscript of a novel that I need to dust off and edit so I can show it to other people without dying of embarrassment.

It's like the whole 'tree falling in a forest with no-one to hear it' thing. If a book gets written, but is never read by anyone, does it actually exist?

Time to get the red pen out.

 

Not fit for purpose

Many years ago I was a member of a gym. I'll wait for a moment for the hilarity to die down. It's true - not only was I a member, but I actually went there on a regular basis. And I didn't just used to sit in the juice bar with a towel around my shoulders, making out that I was 'cooling down' - I actually went and used the equipment.

I had a proper routine, all worked out for me by a young chap who was a supreme physical specimen. If aliens had landed at the time he was assessing me, they'd have thought we were two different species. Over a course of six months or so I attended regularly. I used the cardio machines and the weight-lifting apparatus. I didn't use the free weight area as it seemed to be populated by lots of muscle-bound gentlemen who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at each other in the wall-to-wall mirror. Each to his own.

Briefly I attained a level of fitness that had otherwise eluded me. Well, I say 'level of fitness'. Essentially, I could walk up some stairs without getting out of breath. Ah, the memories.

The gym in question was part of a chain called Fitness First. That seemed a little counter-intuitive to me - I had no discernable fitness at first. In my case, 'Fitness Eventually' might have been more appropriate. In common with many people, over time my interest levels dropped and at the end of the contract period I cancelled, in order to spend more time with my sofa. The company needed a little persuasion for them to understand that I was no longer going to be visiting, but eventually they took the hint and stopped trying to take the monthly fees out of my bank account.

I was reminded of this when I read this story today. In summary, it was about a couple of members of another gym chain - in this case LA Fitness. He had been made redundant, she was eight months pregnant. They were living on benefits and were about to be made homeless. LA Fitness were refusing to allow them to cancel their contract and were insisting that this couple continued to make the payments for a membership they were no longer using.

Even when a journalist from a national paper intervened, LA Fitness continued to demand payment. After an inordinate amount of pressure, the company eventually decided to reduce the contract term. So instead of demanding £780 from an unemployed couple, they only wanted £360 from an unemployed couple.

I'm not making this up.

That's when social media sprang into action. There's nothing quite like a Twitter outrage, is there? Hundreds, possibly thousands of people weighed in to let LA Fitness know exactly what they thought of them. Which, to be honest, wasn't terribly much. A whole new vein of swearing was mined.

Let's be straight. Most of these chain gyms would like you to think they are there to change your body for the better. It would appear, however, that they are subscription-generating factories, using Nautilus machines as bait. Here's the thing: any contract that is sufficiently weighted in favour of one party to the detriment of the other may not be enforceable. I know this because of what I do for a living, but when it's January and you can't fit into your jeans, are you going to look at the small print when you waddle through the doors of your local gym? They know you won't.

Eventually, this evening, a rather curt stream of messages from LA Fitness' Twitter account told us that they had written to the couple to waive the contract. But the fact that it had to get this far should tell us something about the attitude LA Fitness has towards its customers. Seriously, guys, if you couldn't find it in your heart to be nicer, your head should at least have remembered your pocket.

I mention this not because I'm about to join a gym. That would indeed be a cause for comment. If anything, this confirms my long-held opinion that gyms are evil places that should be avoided at all costs. Let's be honest - the chance of me spending any more money at LA Fitness was remote even before today. But some of you out there might be about to enrol with a gym. That's fine. But there are others out there that might understand the concept of human decency.

Remember. If a company shows contempt for its customers, it does not deserve to have any.

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.

Nine lives

I didn't mention it at the time, but December was a pretty crappy month at Fatboyfat Towers. I didn't mention it because everyone else was busy walking in their own winter wonderlands, jingling their bells and dinging their dongs merrily on high.You all have your various parades. And you don't need me raining upon them.

It started on early in the month when we noticed the cat was limping heavily. Bodie was ten years old and had been with us since we'd adopted him and his brother Doyle as kittens. Doyle hadn't made it out of kittenhood, unfortunately, which illustrated to us the folly of naming any pair of animals after a well-known double act. But Bodie was relatively healthy, in a feline way.

The fact that I've used the past tense a lot in that last paragraph should tell you where this is going, shouldn't it?

It was me that took the phone call. That call. The fact that it was from The Nice Irish Vet That Katie Quite Fancies did little to lessen the blow. Bodie had an inoperable mass under his rear nearside and there wasn't terribly much we could do.

I had to go for a walk around the block. There was something in my eye, you see.

Circumstances meant that there was about a two-week period of time before we were able to take the final sad little visit to the vet. That was a horrible fortnight. We knew what was coming, but had to continue as normal. He was on pain relief, but even so he would look at us sometimes in a knowing way.  I often had things in my eye over those two weeks.

People who don't have pets find this sort of thing difficult to understand. But these animals worm they way into your heart, you see. You can't bear to think of them suffering. But even more, you can't bear to think of them gone.

A week or so before Christmas we took that visit to the vet. It was very quick. Although I got something in my eye again.

Christmas passed. The house seemed empty. We went away to Cornwall for the New Year, which was a nice pasty-filled distraction.

Then last week I was looking at the local Cats Protection League website. In fairness, Katie had pretty much favourited the site and was spending much of her waking hours on it. But alongside the cute kittens at the local Centre there were slightly older cats being looked after by members of the public.

On Saturday we drove to the suburb of Harborne to meet Slinky, an 18-month-old male who'd been taken in by a lady called Caroline who makes maps for a living. I've never met a cartographer before, so that's one thing to cross off the list. As we sat next to Slinky on the sofa he purred gently and proceeded to sink his claws into my left hand in a calm and considered way. Blood dripping onto my wrist, Katie and I exchanged looks. I got the cat carrier out of the car.

Less than 12 hours later and Slinky had become Eric. This is mainly because he looks like an Eric. It is partly the effect of a bottle or two of some bloody good New Zealand Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc.

Last night I came home from work and parked in the driveway. Walking up to the door I looked in the front window to see the unmistakable shape of a pair of triangular ears poking up above the window ledge.

And it occurred to me. I wasn't standing outside a house. I was standing outside a home once more.

Dammit. Something in my eyes again.