Monthly Archives: November 2014

Panic on the 2nd floor

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There are quite a lot of people who are pretty familiar with some quite intimate details about me – OCD after-wash sock-folding and the like – and I hesitate to provide a further insight into the murky depths of my life, not to mention further ammunition for certain people to extract the compost accelerator. Oh well, whatever.

Those of you who were at the Annual Dinner of the association that employs me at the annual conference in question will have seen – and no doubt admired from a distance (that location seemingly being preferable to some philistines) – the new snazzy waistcoat. I confess I like snazzy waistcoats, but there was a special reason for its last minute purchase the day before I travelled to Blackpool.

It’s my practice to try on the suit (yes, the suit: weddings, funerals, Annual Dinner) well before the trip, but I’d let things slip a bit – including a chunk of midriff as it turned out – and I hurriedly acquired some trouser waist extenders. I tried one on and soon realised that, even with a belt to cover up the buttonhole flap (aptly named as, unfettered, that’s what it did), the whole mechanism was untidy at best and unruly at worst, not to mention the zip problem. What? No, I said not to mention it. So, I had the brainwave of the snazzy waistcoat to cover the whole sorry mess up. I think I might have got away with it – until now, of course.

Anyway, to those few who were rather rude about it (“does your Mum know you nicked one of her tablecloths?”, “has someone been sick down your shirt?”, “why are you wearing a deck-chair?”) I would say that, sadly, style is obviously a concept entirely unfamiliar to them.

Oh yes, the panic. After stepping out of the shower about three quarters of an hour before going down to the wine reception, I realised I couldn’t find the very useful padded hinged box that I had brought as a convenient receptacle for a few small items. It took me thirty of those precious minutes to find it in the very safe place I had hidden it by which time I was very hot and bothered and my three-quarters-packed suitcase (forward planning – leaving the next morning) had reverted back to its empty state.

At first I thought the box had been stolen and I have to admit my fear was not for the loss of the solid gold matching cufflink and tie-clip set my Nan had given me for my 21st birthday, or the expensive gold neck chain Sheila had bought me for Christmas, but the trouser waist extender! Here’s a little tip: if you’ve got a memo facility on your phone, add things to it like seekrit hiding places, Chinese takeaway order numbers, PINs (disguised and hidden inside other characters), and items of shopping your wife asks you to get in Sainsbo’s while you’re in town. I know I can rely on you to keep these revelations to yourselves!

Cars and electrickery

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I think there is too much of it in cars these days and our technological expertise seems to be running away from us; the more there is, the more it’s likely something will go wrong.

So it seemed to be with my 2002 Citroën Xsara Picasso with 52,000 miles on the (electronical) clock – genuine low mileage. I had decided that, because the mobility of my left leg continues to be in a state of flux and, in case it deteriorates to the extent I might find it difficult to operate the clutch pedal, I should look for an automatic. I commenced a trawl of the internet and local advertising media (the latter often containing columns in the classified ads headed “Citreon” and, in one instance “Citron” – just lemon-coloured cars in this one) finally deciding that, being part of a family of Citroën devotees, I quite fancied a C4. I found a couple quite quickly at a main agent nearby and took the Picasso (car, not painting) to let them assess its part‑exchange value and to view the aforementioned C4s. The red one was quickly dismissed (nothing red allowed in our household – surely, you don’t need to ask why) and the Arctic Grey was settled upon, 2007 1.6SX 5-door hatchback model, only one owner and 12,000 miles on the clock (electronical, obviously). The deal was struck and I arranged to collect it the following Friday.

Anyway, I cleaned the Picasso out on the Monday but, when I went to move it, it wouldn’t start (first time in eight years and it had to be this week). My friendly local mechanic, having decided it looked like an electrical fault, sent an auto‑electrician round (an expert in car electrics, not a robot), who spent some time with his diagnostic box plugged in, concluding that the fault lay with the BSI (something-or-other Systems Interface) unit which was causing the immobiliser to kick in for some reason. At this point, I must come clean and admit that, although I have had the car from new, I never knew that there was an immobiliser lurking within the vehicle’s circuitry; you learn something new every day.

So, nothing could be done to rectify the problem and, at 7.30 a.m. on the morning following the electrician’s visit, I was given a rigid tow to the garage by my life-saving mechanic so they could determine how much they could fleece me to morph the car into something that moved of its own accord. They have concluded that it needs a new fuel pump, cost £316.41, inc. VAT, fitted. So that was how much the part-ex has been reduced (well, they let me off the 41p – decent of them). In view of their ultimate diagnosis, though, I just wish I hadn’t given a chap there my confident summation of the problem that had produced a fault code on the electrician’s diagnostic unit thus making them aware of a potential new problem. See? Electrickery – it trips you up.

The situation was actually not quite as bad as it sounds – I had previously managed to get the salesman to give me an additional £250 in part-exchange than he offered originally, subject to the road tax remaining being part of the deal. A nice touch and, in the end, satisfaction all round.

It’s a shame that, less than two weeks later, some bastard drove into the back of it while it was parked in a car park in the centre of Malmesbury, Wilts. No note under the wipers, no CCTV, no response to my whingeing letter in the North Wilts Gazette &Herald. £225, thank you very much! That took care of my winter fuel allowance – I had to wear extra clothes after that.

Lege et Lacrima II

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAVah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur – Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.

I just wanted to remind you of the campaign I proposed a short while ago, in case you had forgotten about it. I’m still keen to revive the so-called dead language and you may remember my outlining the distinct advantages (and some pitfalls, unfortunately) of resurrecting its universal usage.

One of the unfortunate advantages (at least from the standpoint of the drive for awareness) is that, on the assumption that he/she is not fluent (as you are) you can be quite rude to or dismissive of someone without them realising. In fact, because, as I have mentioned before, however banal, surreal or outlandish the statement, Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur – Anything said in Latin sounds profound.

For example – oops, e.g. – Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt – I have twits like you for breakfast; Tua mater tam antiquior ut linguam latine loquatur – Your mother is so old she speaks Latin; Sic friatur crustum dulce – That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Nowhere is it more demonstrable then in phrases such as Ubi est mea anaticula cumminosa? – Where is my rubber duck? Semper ubi sub ubi ubique – Always wear underwear everywhere; Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure – I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear; Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras! – I forgot to polish the clocks! Omnes lagani pistrinae gelate male sapiunt – All frozen pizzas taste lousy; In dentibus anticis frustrum magnum spiniciae habes – You have a large piece of spinach in your front teeth; Loqueris excrementum – You are talking shit.

I have considerable support for the renaissance advocated, in the person of the great Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18) – Ovid to you – who once said: Rident stolidi verba latina – Fools laugh at the Latin language – and everyone, but everyone, always used to listen to him. And they still do – you only have to look at any public school curriculum (see? You can’t get away from it).

In my earlier treatise, I suggested that the dialogue in films could be considerably romanticised by speaking them in Latin; I have found a few more examples to bolster this contention: Ire fortiter quo nemo ante iit – To boldly go where no man has gone before; Te capiam, cunicule sceleste! – I’ll get you, you wascally wabbit!  Tu, rattus turpis! – You dirty rat! Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert – Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn; Luke sum ipse patrem te – Luke, I am your father; Revelare pecunia! – Show me the money! Pistrix! Pistrix! – Shark! Shark! (shouted in Jaws, surely?); Farrago fatigans! – Suffering succotash! Latro! fremo! – Woof woof! Grrrr! (Lassie).

You may remember that jokes relying on the vagaries of the English language don’t work (remember I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream?); well, neither do tongue twisters: Quantum silvam modio picus si posset picus silvam modio? – How much wood would a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck wood? Pietro Fistulator lectis modii capsicum conditaneum, ubi modii capsicum conditaneum  quod lectis Petro Fistulator? – Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper, where’s the peck of pickled pepper Peter Piper picked?  Corio rubeus, corio flava, corio rubeus, corio flava… – Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather… Vendit concha mare in litum marum – She sells seashells on the seashore;  Vigilum publicorum Lethium nos dimitte – The Leith police dismisseth us. See? Almost ridiculously easy to enunciate, I think you’ll agree.

Well, there you are, keep practising the lingo (from the Latin lingua – tongue or language); It’s got a lot to answer for, hasn’t it?

Lege et Lacrima I

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latin-writingI would like to share with you some linguistical research I have been undertaking and talk to you about (and, at several junctures, in) Latin. I hold up my hands and admit that, although I am guilty of most of the English phrases, I am not responsible for the actual translations.

Some say it’s a dead language, but only its usage is dead and I think it should be revived by dragging it into the 21st Century. It’s all very well for people like René Descartes to come up with stuff like cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I am) and in probably quite a smug way, as if to say when people looked mystified, bene, cum Latine nescias, nolo manus meas in te maculare (well, if you don’t understand plain Latin, I’m not going to dirty my hands on you). Or even more ancient bores like Horace: aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem (remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even). What we should be doing is looking at ways to modernise Latin which, you have to agree, has a wonderfully profound feel to it no matter what its meaning: sic transit gloria mundi (so passes the glory of the world) looks and sounds as impressively romantic as sona si latine loqueris (honk if you speak Latin) or braccae illae virides cum subucula rosea et tunica caledoniaquam eleganter concinnatur! (those green trousers go really well with that pink shirt and plaid jacket!)

There will inevitably be some drawbacks to achieving the renaissance I am advocating and I think we’ll have to forget some of the jokes that rely on the idiosyncracies of the English language as they simpy don’t translate effectively: for example, clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis (I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream) – it’s a great shame! However, this sad state of affairs is rescued to a degree by the nature of some of the more bizarre insults I’ve come across in my research, apparently in common use in the ancient Roman culture: such as mater tua criceta fuit, et pater tuo redoluit bacarum sambucus (your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries); or ripostes to recalcitrant Roman teenagers: antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem (in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).

It would be nice to be able to cover many of life’s modern eventualities with a choice Latin phrase; here is a selection of some common ones: Balaenae nobis conservandae sunt! (Save the whales!); Braccae tuae aperiuntur (Your flies are undone); Capillamentum? Haudquaquam conieci esse! (A wig? I never would have guessed!); Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam (I have a catapult. Give me all your money, or I will propel an enormous rock at your head); Da mihi sis bubulae frustrum assae, solana tuberosa in modo gallico fricta, ac quassum lactatum coagulatum crassum (Give me a hamburger, french fries, and a thick milk shake); Die dulci freure (Have a nice day); Ducator meus nihil agit sine lagunculae leynidae accedunt (My calculator does not work without batteries); Duco ergo sum (I calculate therefore I am); Cogito ergo doleo (I think therefore I am depressed); Veni vidi visa (I came, I saw, I shopped); Interdum feror cupidine partium magnarum europe vincendarum (Sometimes I get this urge to conquer large parts of Europe).

So why not join me in attempting to revive a flagging interest in the language and bring it into everyday conversation? When you need an excuse to leave, say Cum homine de cane debeo congredi (Excuse me, I’ve got to see a man about a dog); after you’ve tried to contact someone unsuccessfully: Sane ego te vocavi. Forsitan capedictum tuum desit (I did call. Maybe your answering machine is broken); when you want to make a wise pronouncement at a summer barbecue party with friends: Animadvertistine, ubicumque stes, fumum recta in faciem ferri? (Have you ever noticed how, wherever you stand, the smoke goes right into your face?); or just an introductory platitude (definitely not a chat-up line, though) Vidistine nuper imagines moventes bonas? (Seen any good movies lately?). On the subject of movies, wouldn’t it be much better if the dialogue was in Latin? “Certe, toto, sentio nos in kansate non iam adesse” (“You know, Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore”); Credidi me felem vidisse! (I tought I taw a puddy tat!); Me transmitte sursum, caledoni (Beam me up, Scotty).

By the way, the heading means “read it and weep” – too late a warning, I suspect.

Road to Hell

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m6_stokeI could bang on about my disgust and displeasure with road travel, particularly on the M6, until the cows come home (as long as they didn’t use the M6 – otherwise I’d be banging on for ever); the notorious section just before Junction 15 to Stoke‑on‑Trent and Newcastle‑under‑Lyme is pictured here with, I think I’m right in saying, most of the traffic somewhat disingenuously Photoshopped out. I just can’t help it – if you ask me (though I know you won’t) it should be called the M666 (or, if you are a pedantic devotee of QI, the M616) but giving one of England’s main cross‑country arteries a bad name is not my current purpose – not this time, anyway.

Some people might think that, whilst driving north and south up and down the highways and byways of the country, all I do is spend my time thinking about what vitriol I can pen in another highway-related diatribe, and that’s why I have to get Sheila to read out the Daily Telegraph crossword clues several times before properly taking them in. No, no, not at all, I can’t hear them because of the ambient noise of the radio coupled with the constant hum of tyre on road (that’s what I tell her anyway). We finished both crosswords on the way up one Monday, but only one and a half on the way back on the Tuesday (I think I had the radio on louder and possibly some more decent resurfacing is required on the southward leg).

The following are simply observations on one or two new initiatives introduced by my very good friends at the Highways Agency (HA) and spotted during our latest trip – quite uneventful as it turned out. The signs which used to say: “Queue Ahead” now read: “Queue Caution” – this has been done, apparently, as too many motorists had been regarding the former as an instruction.

The HA has also instigated new signs at several locations which say: “Bin Your Litter – Other People Do”. The first three words are an admirable suggestion but their effectiveness is considerably lessened by virtue of the accompanying statement which is based, in my view, upon the thinnest evidence. Rather, they ought to say: “Bin Your Litter Even Though Most People Don’t And The Bins At Motorway Services Get So Full That They Quickly Become A Health Hazard What With All The Rubbish Blowing Around The Car Park And Everything Not To Mention Wasps Etc”. I suppose if the signs were too lengthy, everyone would have to slow down considerably or even park up to read them. In which case, maybe they could give us advance warning by changing the signs at appropriate intervals to read “Queue Ahead To Read Next Sign”.

Right, how many words in the answer to 12 down? Sorry? What?

Complete and utter iWash

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phone_bogI’m not sure if I’ve told you about the disaster which befell my brand new iPhone in a bathroom-based incident a while ago, after I’d had it barely a week – which just goes to show the verisimilitude of the statistic pointed out to me by several piss-takers well-wishers that two of the most common forms of damage caused to iPhones is the screen cracking and that occasioned by submersion in water. Mine fell into the *ahem* latter category.

And no, I didn’t undertake the immersion-in-a-pouch-of-rice treatment afterwards; I was too upset and actually quite concerned that  a family member might find it and think it was a boil-in-the-bag ready meal, potentially making matters even worse.

Smarting from the incident, I wandered around the house in a daze, wondering what iniquitous deed I had perpetrated in my past which had rendered me deserving of such a harsh gadgetry-related punishment. Suddenly, I remembered; in an episode of The IT Crowd, precisely the same thing had happened to one of the main characters (Moss), after he had put his phone in that most conveniently placed of locations, the top shirt pocket – and I had laughed out loud.

My tweet to the show’s writer Graham Linehan, demanding compensation, elicited no response, so I turned my attention to my buildings and contents insurance, administered by a certain company from whom I could possibly have obtained a claim form in person if I had bothered to take the 20½-hour journey via Brittany Ferries from Plymouth. No, there isn’t a prize.

My first telephone conversation was with a very friendly and helpful young lady who, I realised after a subsequent conversation with another equally helpful young lady four days later (which was on the Friday afternoon), had done absolutely nothing she had promised, i.e. passed the matter to the company who dealt with damage repairs on their behalf.  So the second young lady made the same promise and, all things considered, I couldn’t help feeling rather pessimistic about the outcome. However, I had a call within a couple of hours, giving me a reference number and informing me that DPD would be collecting the phone for repair or replacement on the Monday, between 9.00am and 6.30pm.

I had a text message on Monday morning saying that the phone would be collected – bizarrely – between 12.18pm and 1.18pm! It was therefore with a strange but totally unfounded disappointment that I welcomed the DPD bloke at 12.21pm.

The company dealing with the phone had told me it was repairable and would be returned via Royal Mail within 7 to 10 working days. Given that Royal Mail make a habit of doing things like ditching first-class post, conveniently forgetting to tell everyone about it, and bearing in mind the onset of Christmas mail, I was not all that optimistic.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was forced to make four more telephone calls, the repairing company decided the phone couldn’t be mended, the insurer coughed up the full amount for a new replacement (less £35 excess) and, as soon as the dosh appeared in my bank account, I hastened down to the nearest iPhone merchant and bought one.

I’d had a Blackberry for almost three years (which my employer provided) but I finally decided enough was enough (I hated it) and that, after a good deal of research, I was desperate to have an iPhone. This is called an Apple turnover.*

*I’ll get me coat

Exciting and really quite amusing games #1

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sky-epgYou can play this game without moving off your settee, as long as you have Sky TV and access to its electronical programme guide.

I spotted the fun potential of this quite a long time ago but, although almost my entire family are very familiar with (and unsurprisingly quite exasperated by) the concept, I think there are exciting possibilities, as you will soon see.

I’ll give you some examples and you will imagine the hilarity that ensues when a group of people visualise what’s missing from the title of the programme and call out their suggestions – it’s a bit like the missing words round on Have I Got News For You, but obviously much better. When you bring up the Programme Guide on the TV screen, sometimes the names of the programmes are too long to appear in full and only the first part is displayed followed by a few dots. All you have to do is surmise the name of the programme armed with just a segment of it. Over the course of the last few weeks, I’ve been scanning the listings for suitable candidates for treatment.

Christmas Day with Ale… A perfectly reasonable idea, you might think, and there’s really no need to suggest that there may be anything missing from such an admirable statement until you realise with horror when selecting the programme that it’s Christmas Day with Aled Jones. *shudder*

The Librarian – The C… This surely had the makings of a particularly boring documentary about the …Chap who collects and issues your library books; an admirable calling, of course, but hardly a topic for peak time seasonal viewing. To my relief, it was another of those Indiana Jones type thrillers: The Librarian – The Curse of the Judas Chalice. It’s got Noah Wyle off ER and everything.

The Sheriffs are C… I would dearly love to elaborate upon the possibilities here but children are watching; they always used to be Cowboys, of course. Damn! They’re Coming, apparently.

Sun, Sex and Suspicious Pa… Given the content of this show, it really ought to be Pant-stains but, somewhat disappointingly and, I suppose, inevitably, it’s Parents.

Nursing th… I did think this might have been another one of those cringeworthy documentaries about young Brits in Ibiza acting like idiots, casting off their inhibitions and, frequently, their underwear, being very unkind to their livers and very kind to the bank balances of the owners of bars and clubs, nursing th…e Mother of all Hangovers practically every day. Instead of which, it’s a much more delightful televisual offering looking at the work of district nurses, called Nursing the Nation. Hurrah, for a change!

The Treasures of Ancient R… Apparently there are no treasures of any appreciable interest from ancient Reading, Rotherham, or even Ragged Appleshaw, Hampshire (N51.23 W01.55,  SU3148). Of course, you knew it was R…ome, didn’t you?

Get the idea? Now, the rules are simple. As you’re likely to be the sole participant (I usually am), you’ll earn points for all your suggestions, unless some disgruntled member of your family turns off the television and goes to bed. You won’t even be able to carry on playing by yourself as they will have taken the remote control with them. And, just to make sure, they’ll switch off the electricity supply*. Some people are real spoilsports.

*I’m not sure how they do it but they turn 3G/4G off as well.

More than a tea dance

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stripping-pensioners

This is an extract from a letter in the Metro newspaper. When I first read it, I found myself in a melange of emotions: shock and disgust at the revelation that there are, seemingly, many old folk who, because of the straitened circumstances in which they find themselves, are reduced to taking off their clothes to earn money for necessaries, wonder at the fact there may be an audience out there that relishes this wholesale degradation of a vulnerable section of society, and, after the righteous indignation subsided, concern that the old dears are being adequately compensated for the humiliation of displaying their week’s ironing to the perverts of the parish and that they are managing their self-assessment tax returns.

Perhaps the government has at last realised that, by paying special allowances to the wrinkled ecdysiasts, it demonstrates a tacit acceptance of this vile and exploitative industry, and so have decided to have a long hard look at them. The allowances, that is, not the performances. That would be above and beyond.

Right, off to Westminster we go. Chant loudly after me:

“What do we want?”
“FAIR PAY.”

“When do we want it?”
“WHAT?”

You can’t help some folk.

The road goes ever on and on

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long-journeyApologies to J R R Tolkein. In The Lord of the Rings (one of my favourite books), there is a song with the above title that sums up a section of the utterly wretched A34 (actually, that’s how it makes me feel), which I have regularly traversed on my trips to and from the north-west. It’s strange, but the home leg always seems more interminable than the outward.

As many of you may know, there are actually three versions of the song in that great work: one which Bilbo sings as he sets off from the Shire, the second (which only has one word change) is spoken by Frodo as he and his companions pause at the Shire’s borders looking toward lands none of them had ever seen, and the third spoken by Bilbo in Rivendell (the closest version to my own). Anyway, I felt compelled to write it; as I’ve mentioned on a previous occasion, it’s hard to stop me from doing things like this!

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the M40 where I began;
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
Please let me off, I’m not a fan.

Let others’ journeys yet begin,
But I at last with aching back
Will turn towards the lighted inn;
A glass or two, then hit the sack.

Not quite up to JRRT’s standard, I know, but it kept me quiet for a bit.

There is actually an original version of the song which Bilbo recites at the end of The Hobbit, and which starts “Roads go ever ever on”. Here’s a stab at the opening lines of the first verse of that one:

Roads go ever ever on
Over rock and under tree;
Like this one, too, I drive upon
While pining for the old M3.

I curse the Highways Agency
‘Til all my vicious words are done
But, finally, a sense of glee,
The end is nigh: A31.

Truth to tell, I’ve never actually experienced a sense of glee or any other similar emotion upon encountering the A31, especially when westbound on a Friday afternoon but, after several rewrites of the last two lines, desperation set in.

What’s it all about?

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writer-clipart

Not an awful lot, really; much of the material on this blog will be familiar to some dear old friends who have followed earlier ramblings of mine on the intermanet, although what has been repeated has been subject to judicious amendment, necessary updating and blatant omission; there will be some new material as well from time to time [you mean about every three years or so, don’t you? Ed.] Everything is a work in progress but I am conscious of the fact that I have been extremely remiss with regard to adding material on a regular basis. I will try to improve, but can’t promise, although I hope you enjoy whatever you choose to read.