Author Archives: Nigel Hurll

Cutting it fine

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surgery-knifeThere was a long questionnaire doing the internet rounds a while ago, Question 60 of which was “Have you ever posed nude in front of strangers?” I was going to respond in the affirmative, on the same basis as that of a friend who thought that she had, since having a baby possibly met the criteria, although she did recall wearing a T-shirt at the time.

I thought I may have achieved the required status upon the occasion of my vasectomy some years ago – I would argue that, as a man, you probably couldn’t get much nuder than that in front of strangers – and the following account would not have sat well merely as an adjunct to a piffling piece of internet silliness; I thought it more deserving of a separate blog, but make up your own mind about that.

Those of a nervous disposition may like to squint a bit whilst reading. I would like to mention that I had a pre-op examination a few days before and it is the first time in my life (and the last, I hasten to assure you) that I have shaken the hand of an Australian, two digits of which, within seconds, were thrust unceremoniously up my arse. But I digress.

Although I was told the operation would be carried out under a local anaesthetic (phew!), it was a day surgery job, so I was only at the hospital from about 9 a.m. until my sister-in-law picked me up late afternoon. I recall one or two incidents both during the day and the subsequent month I had to take off work. Eh? Well, because of the clot. Yes, the clumsy bugger with the knife and the, er, other one. Think of a tennis ball. On second thoughts, don’t remind me. For ten days, I had to sleep downstairs on the settee because I was unable to negotiate the stairs. And they made me take hot baths with salt and told me to squeeze clotted blood out. Excuse me while I wipe my eyes.

Anyway, I got a Good Boy Certificate from one of the nurses who said that I had burbled incessantly before I was fully anaesthetised and, afterwards, I was wheeled into a recovery room with about eight other men, most of whom had had the same operation. A buxom sister would come in frequently and check our, um, bits. By her third visit, we were, in true Folies Bergères style, lifting our gowns in perfect unison – even the bloke in the bed next to me despite the fact he had only had an ingrowing toenail removed.

All in all, a rather painful episode of my life which could possibly have been made less so had my sister-in-law not driven me home at about 60mph round bend-ridden country roads with me trying to take my weight on one or other buttock – and failing miserably. She meant well.

When I got back to work, a friend asked me where I had had the operation. When I told him “Salisbury,” he replied “what, Market?”

Oh, ha ha.

Ferry ‘cross to Jersey

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Channel Islands Jersey Mont Orgyueil Castle GoreySee what I did there? Anyway, something has awakened nostalgia in me and reminded me of my first (and, as I have just realised, my only) visit to the lovely island of Jersey (if I remember rightly, it was in 1972). It would be remiss of me not to inform you that my companions were my very good friends Andy, Bob, Colin and Dave. I won’t bore the pants off you with a full account but there are salient features of that holiday which are indelibly imprinted in my memory.

We arrive at Weymouth by train to catch a Sealink ferry. Never having been on any kind of ship before, I am apprehensive about the ability of my stomach to retain its contents for any appreciable period. I am even more apprehensive when we encounter a bloke who paints a black picture of Jersey following the recent murder of a young nurse in St Helier, condemning all aspects of life on the island as “bad noos”.

Having consumed a good deal of beer both prior to arriving at the ferry port and on the ferry itself, my earlier apprehension proves not to have been groundless and I am sick at about midnight, amid jeers from my companions (including Bad Noos, of whom we were unable to rid ourselves). However, this has been a groundbreaking (seabreaking, surely?) voyage for me and one which appears to have given me sea legs, because I have never been seasick since, and, at about 7 a.m. as we approach St Helier, one by one, all my friends disappear on vomiting duties while I consume a hearty breakfast of tomato juice, kippers and toast!

We hire an “Economy 5” (Austin 1100) from a Lancashire immigrant, Tug Wilson, and wonder how that dilapidated excuse for a vehicle could have engendered such enthusiasm in him (“Eeh, lads! This caaar…”).

We had arranged for the tent and all associated equipment – consigned to a large wooden crate – to be transported to the Rose Farm Campsite in St Brelade to coincide with our arrival. Amazingly, it worked!

We had been spending a lot of time on one of Bournemouth’s beaches prior to the trip. The tent (and a lot of the equipment) was Colin’s and, as he was the only one who knew how to erect the tent, it was unfortunate that Dave had to take him to hospital, suffering from sunstroke. It was dark (and late) when we eventually put it up.

During our stay, an Irishman called Dennis arrived at the site, carrying a suitcase. Much amusement ensued when he opened it and extracted a small one-man tent. An awful lot more amusement ensued when he slept in it: most of his legs protruded from one end. When I say most of his legs, I don’t mean he had loads of legs, but that a fair proportion of the two he had at the time were sticking out.

We visited St Aubin, Gorey, La Corbière, the German Underground Hospital, Portelet Bay, Grouville, Mont Orgeuil Castle, spent a lot of time in St Helier and on the beach at St Brelade and marvelled at the ability to drink during the afternoon, yes, the afternoon! They used to chuck us out at about half-past four for half an hour while they swept up. We also marvelled at the prices! It’s a shame I can’t remember the name of the bar overlooking St Brelade Bay where we spent many a happy hour. It’ll come to me.

None of us was romantically challenged at that time except Dave, who was engaged. I remember he used to sit in the *wiggles two sets of two fingers next to ears* car, while we were in the club roistering the night away.

Whatever triggered those memories – thanks!

The old paperclip cure

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paper-clip-toeWhen we first moved to the New Forest market town of Ringwood, our first house there had a ground-floor extension with a patio door. One day (it was Sheila’s birthday and we were going out for a meal at a local restaurant that evening), I came home from work to find that the older lad (a mere four-year old whippersnapper at that time – the younger would not appear on the scene for four years) had somehow wedged some small plastic balls inside the track behind the sliding door.

This created two problems: (1) they were stopping the door from closing, and (2) the door would have to be removed to get them out. Well, I am by no stretch of the imagination the King of DIY so you can understand how proud I was of myself when I managed to get the door off; you can perhaps also understand how proud I wasn’t when I dropped it on my big toe. It hurt. A lot. Didn’t you wonder what that noise was? You must remember it: September 14th 1982? A very loud screaming? Yes, that was me!

Well, the pain did subside a little and we went to the restaurant. It was not long, however, before the toe had swollen up to the extent that I could not keep my shoe on, so I took it off and spent most of the evening with it hidden under the table (the shoe, that is). This was considerably less embarrassing than having to limp out of the crowded restaurant carrying it.

Anyway, over the course of the next few days, I sought medical advice, discovering the bone at the top of the toe had been broken. It was only a minor fracture (so I didn’t wallop the little lad too hard) and there was little to do but wait for it to mend itself.

After another few days (those of you of a squeamish disposition should probably get ready to look away), the pressure under the toe-nail became unbearable, so I rushed (bah!) to the Health Centre where a nurse performed a minor miracle. She part-straightened a paperclip and, holding the curly end with a clothes peg, heated it until it was red hot. She then inserted (look away now, I did at the time) the red hot end slowly through the toe-nail. If you’ve ever been with a blacksmith while he was shoeing a horse, you’ll be very familiar with the smell. But oh, the blessed relief when all the blood that had built up underneath was released! Marvellous! It was a shame that the nurse got a bollocking from the doctor when he got back from lunch. Presumably, this was not a recognised clinical procedure in the Manual; what the hell, it worked.

So, the moral of this story is: don’t throw paperclips away, you never know when you’ll drop a patio door on your foot.

Attack of the hundred-foot caterpillars

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oak-processionaryI mean they had a hundred feet, not that they were a hundred feet long, of course. Or is that centipedes? Anyway, are you sitting comfortably, mes enfants?

Thaumetopoea processionea is a complete bastard, whether it has a hundred feet or not. The Wikipedia article does not actually refer to the Oak Processionary Caterpillar in those terms but you may take it from me that it undoubtedly merits that base epithet – and probably a lot baser. It inhabits oak trees; guess which type of trees were growing next to our mobile home in France? Ooh, good guess. As you will see if you bothered to follow the Wikipedia link, they have up to 63,000 fine hairs (the caterpillars, not the trees) which are easily shed (usually in the direction of holidaymakers from Hampshire, a fact unhelpfully not reported by Wikipedia) and which contain a substance poisonous to humans.

Most of us only came out in several tiny spots on arms, legs and neck (strictly speaking, necks, I suppose), but my younger son is more susceptible to allergies, being a hay-fever sufferer, and I ended up having to take him to the local doctor who prescribed some cream, anti-histamine tablets and – to the boy’s horror – some special soap to be used in the shower twice a day! It was fun watching firemen shinning up ladders, though, with a kind of mini-flame-thrower, burning the nests. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear the inhabitants screaming, probably because they had already been killed by the chemical spray administered prior to our arrival at the site.

In other holiday news, it only rained twice: once from the 14th June (the day of our arrival) to the 18th (the 19th was dry and sunny) and once from the 20th June to the 27th. I went in the pool once and we barbecued once. Guess which day? Ooh, good guess. My older son had organised a tournament for everyone to take part in, having drawn up elaborate rules for each individual element of it; there was table-tennis, pool, petanque, two separate mini-golf games on the site (the brilliantly conceived Birdie Seeker and the Best Score From Three Rounds), a team guessing game called “Who’s In The Bag” and the Apremont Open (a mini-golf game at Apremont next to a café at the inland lake there, traditionally played every time we camp in the Vendée); we even had a cup for the eventual winner.

Well, the weather put paid to the petanque and the hairy bastards mentioned above put paid to the mini-golf on the site, which was closed off because it is surrounded by certain kinds of tree; guess which? Ooh, good guess. Apathy and late rising on the part of some of the competitors (I’m not saying which) and, to a lesser degree, the rain, as the tables were under cover, although your balls got wet when they shot out of the covered area through the open side – stop sniggering – put paid to the table-tennis, which involved playing everybody twice. Next year, we may continue with the tournament, but include some more appropriate events, like The Least Time Taken To Suck Out Snake Venom, perhaps, or The Most Number Of Festering Boils On Two Arms.

Au revoir!

Keeling Schedules

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Does anyone know what Keeling Schedules are? If you are familiar with the law, you probably will. Put simply, they comprise the text of a piece of legislation with bits in bold showing any wording inserted by a subsequent piece of legislation and drawing a line through what’s been taken out. With me so far? I thought I might find out a bit more about Keeling Schedules so I could pass on some interesting information to members of the association for whom I work, via my weekly newsletter, especially since one of these extraordinarily useful devices had recently been issued which was of significant interest to them, what with the European elections looming and all.

I reckoned they must have been named in honour of the chap who came up with the idea and so, very early one Friday morning (about 10, I think), I commenced using the power of the internet to assist my investigations. I got quite excited when I came across the name of Dr. David Keeling linked to Schedules, only to be disappointed to discover that he is merely the head of the Department of Geography and Geology at West Kentucky University, and the Schedules are simply his term timetable; why they are not called that as opposed to “semester schedules” (pron. skedules) is beyond me. I glossed over the flight schedule for the Jet Charter and Air Charter Service to and from Cocos Keeling Island (no, neither do I) as being irrelevant, as was the list of TV Schedules for Liise Keeling, who is, apparently, a stunt woman who has performed in many films and TV series from 2001 to date, including the memorable “Monk”; unfortunately, imdb.com fails to tell us what role she played in the episode “Mr Monk Meets Dale the Whale” (2002). Her listings reveal that she was mostly a “stunt double”, “stunt performer” or “stunt driver” but I did wonder what particular qualities were necessary to bring to the set of the 2008 film The Rocker as a “stunt waitress”. Perhaps, as most American waitresses are, she was adept at juggling with eggs over easy, pastrami on rye, bagels, cookies, and interminable steaming jugs of black coffee, all probably whilst wearing roller skates.

I was becoming a little dispirited by now and the only vaguely interesting information I could come up with was the schedule of rowing events in the 2008 Olympics, involving the South African, Shaun Keeling, all you would ever need to know about scheduling a conference call between the Cocos Keeling Islands and Luxembourg (bearing in mind the time difference) and the service schedule of the funeral for Jimmy Keeling in Allegre, Kentucky, in July 2008. Finally, I had some success. Wikipedia – of all things – tells us that Keeling was the MP for Twickenham between 1935 and 1954, the year of his death. I am unsure of the circumstances surrounding the development of his Schedule (pron. “shedule”) but I found one or two references, despite being riddled with mental fatigue by then. The well-known work Legislative Drafting by V. C. R. A. C. Crabbe explains (at p. 147) that the device is named after Mr E H Keeling (later Sir Edward Keeling) who, with Mr R P Croom‑Johnson (later Mr Justice Croom-Johnson) came up with the proposal.

A bloke called Bennion who subsequently rubbished Keeling’s system in Statute Law (at pp. 278-9) came up with something called a Jamaica Schedule, but I reckon he was just jealous and I dismissed that out of hand as well as a summary of Montesquieu’s Principles, Thring’s Rules and Ilbert’s Questions and Advice. In my book, Keeling is a hero and anyone who can come up with something that can be used to demonstrate the practical effect of the Loan Relationships and Derivative Contracts (Disregard and Bringing Into Account of Profits and Losses) Regulations 2004 and the effect of the Deregulation (Weights & Measures) Order on the Weights and Measures Act 1985 has to be worthy of commemoration.

That’s what I think anyway. Don’t you?

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?