Sounds like…

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Now I love the English language, and I feel really sorry for any Johnny Foreigner who’s trying to learn it. There are such subtle nuances in pronunciation and spelling and so many things you can do to manipulate it. I mean, you can pepper food with salt, ponder whether Jonah did in fact have a whale of a time, consider that a good way of making the Vatican smell nice might be to spread a good bit of pot-pourri: go on, say it out loud quick!

Here are just some of many questions that may or not require answers:-

  • If the Prince of Wales had his name embossed on an item of underwear, would you have an Heir On A G-string’? Pardon? No, ‘Basque In The Sun’ does NOT work
  • Are Girls Allowed to sing?
  • If nobody knows about it, how would you be able to hear a Secret Policeman’s Bawl?
  • Should I feel privileged to have been able to listen as a child to Billy Cotton’s Banned Show?
  • Should a large baby be given a Wide Birth?
  • Should young swans become members of a Cygnet Ring?
  • Would a hymn dedicated to Wyatt Earp’s famous battle be called ‘Gunfight At The OK Chorale’?
  • Could pigeons topple a government by means of a Coo d’Etat?
  • To Maid Marian, was Robin Hood simply a ‘Beau And Arrow’?
  • Should Gorilla Warfare even appear on this list?

Finally, if you support Liverpool but are a little lax in the personal hygiene department, you know what they’ll chant at you? “You Never Wore Cologne”.

Buy for now!

Stars in my eyes

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astrology-signsThe following are extracts from a spoof “Your Stars This Month” feature which I did a few years ago for our pub newsletter as resident astrologer Horace Cope, all with the devilishly cunning intention of inducing people to visit the pub (which we used to own, actually) as often as possible. More of the same some other time perhaps.

TAURUS (20 Apr – 20 May)
Why Taureans should insist on staying at home watching TV and doing household chores when there is a risk of their ceiling joists collapsing on top of them is beyond me. It is far safer to be at the pub where the only event likely to weaken the ceiling is Matt leaving the bath taps on in the flat on Quiz Night. Take out that well-stocked wallet and get down there post-haste. You know it makes sense.
Lucky Sign: Plus                   Lucky Ladybug: The Four Seasons

GEMINI (21 May – 21 June)
The sign of the Twins is very appropriate at the moment, as unusually virulent sun-spot activity will enable all of you born under this sign to “twin” with the pub, requiring many more than the usual number of visits to that friendly establishment. However, if you do not manage to remain seated at the table near the fireplace for thirteen and a half minutes without being evicted by the dominoes players, your body will be covered in unsightly warts for six weeks. If it is covered in unsightly warts already, then you needn’t worry about sitting somewhere else.
Lucky Film: 35mm            Lucky Book: Deuteronomy

CANCER (22 June – 22 July)
Most Cancerians will inexplicably suffer from a mild form of frostbite at some point during the next couple of months, possibly caused by falling asleep with their feet in the freezer. All I can suggest is that they quickly make their way to the pub (not hot-foot, obviously), spend a few quid, take off their socks or tights – oh, or stockings (come on, Dave, be a man!) – lie down and wave their feet around in the kitchen when the oven and all the deep-fat fryers are turned on.
Lucky stone: 14 pounds                              Lucky Jim: Morrison

LEO (23 July – 22 Aug)
You will win a big prize in the National Lottery next Wednesday week but, to precipitate this, you will have to go to the pub every Saturday night, take a table and four chairs, put them right where the regulars are dancing and sit down, preferably with your arms folded defiantly. The more defiant the pose you strike, the more money you will win. Good luck!
Lucky Dip: Cheese and chive                    Lucky Day: Doris 

VIRGO (23 Aug – 22 Sept)
Daily visits to the pub during the fortnight after you read this are clearly indicated in the stars for all you Virgoans because you could contract a particularly virulent infection of the intestinal variety if you do not heed this advice. It will attack without warning, so you should keep on your toes throughout the period indicated. If I were you, I would point them in the direction of the pub and move them very quickly forwards.
Lucky Room: Toilet         Lucky Paper: Toilet

LIBRA (23 Sept – 23 Oct)
Listen very carefully to the local BBC radio station over the next ten days between 6pm and 8pm; when you hear your name mentioned – and I can assure you it will happen – rush to the pub and claim two free drinks. You will have 15 minutes to get there so, don’t forget, keep listening! The only restriction on this staggeringly attractive promotional offer is that you must subsequently buy five more drinks (plus one for the landlord)
Lucky Ear: Left                      Lucky Channel: English

SAGITTARIUS (22 Nov – 21 Dec)
The arrows of Sagittarius fly true to their target this month and, unfortunately, you will be shot in the leg with one. Every cloud has a silver lining, though, because the injury will not be serious and you will be quickly patched up and signed off for five weeks with an explicit instruction to be wheeled regularly to the pub for repeated doses of the healing liquid of your choice.
Lucky Archer: Grace                                    Lucky Bow: Cross

Making the connection

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connectionYou may remember reading about the rivetingly interesting car number plate game which I invented. Well, the other day, I recalled reading in a book once about another game (not invented by me this time) which I cannot remember the name of just at the moment, where one person says a word and the other person has to say a word with absolutely no connection with the first person’s word. Now you may think that sounds quite boring, but the fun part of the game is the challenge! The challenge, that is, of the first person who must maintain that there actually is a connection and proceeds to describe the thought processes involved in linking the first and second words with, of course, hilarious consequences. Hopefully.

For example, the first person might say “Camilla”. Now, clearly, the second person could not say “horse’s bottom”, for example, but he (or she) could say “Tiger”, fondly imagining that the first person would certainly fail in the attempt to establish any kind of link between the two. The first person, however, is probably made of sterner stuff and, although possibly stumped momentarily, would undoubtedly respond in magnificent fashion by revealing the following intricate mental itinerary not envisioned by the second person: Camilla – Parker Bowles – Bowls – Woods – Tiger. Get the idea? Oh, please yourselves; you can’t help some folk.

 

Food for thought

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pork-and-apple-burgerSome little while ago, I was temporarily laid low with a rather unpIeasant stomach bug and I wrote an imaginary conversation that I had with the likely suspects.

Me: “Look, this is about the tenth time today I’ve had to dash to the little boys’ room. And it’s all your fault.”

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “I’m sorry, it most certainly was not my fault; there is obviously some problem with your digestive system. We have to undergo the most rigorous Quality Control procedures following manufacture and then the ignominy of spot checks by Mr Waitrose and his bullies.”

Me: “I can assure you there is definitely nothing wrong with my system – I’ve got the constitution of an ox, and I hardly ever get stomach upsets.”

Lamb, Mint and Redcurrant Burger: “You cannot verify that to any acceptable standard of proof. I’ve only got your word for it.”

Me: “Well, if it wasn’t you, it was you! (points at Pork, Sage and Apple Burger accusingly). You actually tasted quite odd, now I come to think of it.”

Pork, Sage and Apple Burger: “Oi! Don’t try and blame me. As my colleague has explained to you, the processes to which we are subjected prevent harmful bacteria from being present among our ingredients to any substantive degree. And we are extremely conscientious about hygiene. We certainly don’t want Mr Waitrose and his trained thugs working us over.”

Me: “I don’t accept that; I haven’t eaten anything else all day, so what other conclusion can I draw?”

Pork, Sage and Apple Burger: “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I would suggest you should look for the culprit a little closer to home. You’re just looking for a scapegoat.”

Me: “Scapegoat? No thankyoueversomuch, I think I’ve had enough meat for one day! I’m obviously wasting my time arguing with the two of you.”

I think I may have eaten something that disagreed with me.

Reading things out of proportion

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reading-trainOne of the bewildering twists and turns of my 37-year local government career actually resulted in my going berserk at Reading (Berks) – as opposed to Reading (Books). It was a simple chain of events. Oh, and the Books thing was just a cheap joke.

I worked at Rochdale MBC for six years in the seventies then went back to Bournemouth, where I was born and had begun an illustrious local government career in October 1966! Upon my return, there was a recession in the North West and thousands of workers were suffering a three-day week. The property market was therefore pretty stagnant in that area and I spent the next two years (the time it took to sell our house) travelling backwards and forwards on trains. The one I mostly caught (on every other Friday) was the daily 09.26 service (or was it the 09.24? it seemed to matter in them days) from Bournemouth Central to Manchester Piccadilly, which took a cross-country route (thus involving no changes in London) and took six hours or thereabouts.

One of the scheduled stops was Reading and, if my memory serves me right (it very often does on more than one level!), it was not long after the introduction of the whizzo Inter-City 125 service (so-called because the trains actually went 125 mph – well, when there wasn’t dust or jam on the tracks), one of which passed through Reading (without stopping) on the way from London to Exeter. It was quite impressive to see one of these new machines thundering through the station!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, going berserk. On my first journey on the jolly old 09.26, we duly arrived at Reading (forwards). Can you see where this is going? I thought I was going to be able to at the time. After some rather unnerving joltings, the train began to leave – backwards. Coupled with the need (entirely whimsical, I accept) to sit facing the direction of travel and the resumption of the journey in a direction completely opposite to that which had been hitherto prevalent, my senses took a turn for the berserkness. I could not understand why we were going in the opposite direction – obviously I was on the wrong train and goodness knows where I would end up, or how much more it would cost me (times were hard). For a short time, I ran amok with a mental machete, chopping the heads off passengers and an assortment of British Rail (remember them?) employees for not telling me I was on a train that was going anywhere other than my desired destination.

After I found out that Reading was where the diesel engine was replaced with an electric one and, via a system of intricate points and other nifty railway-type devices, we ended up going in a north-westerly direction as planned, my running amokness subsided and I returned to my seat, mentally apologising to all the people I had hacked to death in my information vacuum.

When all’s said and done, it had been an unnerving experience. Funny how the mind plays tricks.

Travelling Companion

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fast-asleepOn the sad occasion of Sheila’s stepfather’s funeral a few years ago, I had to drive up to my mother-in-law’s in Manchester; Sheila had already been there for a week, keeping her mother company. I thought it would be a good idea if Matt came with me, instead of going in the evening with his brother, his brother’s girl-friend and his cousin, so he could be company for me on the 250-mile journey.

Well, he was company in the sense that he was in the car. For the first two and a half hours, he watched ’24’ on his portable DVD player, then, when the battery failed, he made me stop at Warwick Services so he could get his CDs from his bag in the boot. My heart sank, for I knew then that Blink 182 were about to rattle my head, thus rendering all conversation impossible.

The next incident of note was his descent into a fairly deep sleep, to wake up only when we were five minutes away from my mother-in-law’s house.

So that was nice.

The Sausage and Mash Award

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sausage-mashI wrote this in memory of a visit to Letchworth for a work meeting and, in particular, to a supper at the nearby hotel where I stayed overnight. Imagine a ceremony similar to the Oscars.

Gorgeous lady presenter: “And the Award For Having To Eat The Most Disgusting Sausage And Mash goes to……”

(pause for suspenseful effect)

“……Mr Hants Bluepants!” (raucous cheers, gorgeous presenter takes a deep breath and kisses me)

Me: “I just can’t believe it!” (I kiss the gorgeous lady presenter again). “This means so much to me. I was hoping that the hotel in Letchworth where I partook of the meal in question could have allowed the chef to attend tonight but he is busy poisoning some other unsuspecting diners or helping to clean up the customers’ vomit.

I would like to thank the first waitress who obviously misheard me when I consulted the Menu and ordered the ‘Sausages and Mash In A Yummy Gravy’ since she got the kitchen to rustle me up a dish of sewage instead.

Thanks are also due to the second waitress who brought the steaming, er, dish to me and asked if I wanted some tomato ketchup on it! On reflection, it might have improved the taste considerably.

I must take the opportunity of expressing my gratitude to the knife and fork – it couldn’t have been easy for them. And I couldn’t possibly have accomplished any eating at all without the help of extreme food deprivation brought about by a lack of lunch.

And when the first waitress came to collect my dish, she asked if everything had been all right. I cleverly avoided giving her a direct answer by asking if I could please pay the bill. What I should have said was that, yes, everything had been all right, inasmuch as it is all right to give someone food that has only marginally more flavour than industrial effluent, and actually resembles it, but it was 7.30pm and I was quite tired and emotional from a four-hour journey that should have only taken two and a half.

Thank you so much! I love you all!” (holds golden sausage aloft, gorgeous lady presenter backs away)

That really happened – except the award ceremony.

 

The Refreshment Break Scam

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bread-rollsWhen you first started in local government (and, I suspect, any other similar job), you were the lowest form of life, namely the office junior. You did everyone else’s filing, had to go to the public counter when someone buzzed, answer the telephones and nip out to buy fags for a superior. However, all this administrative drudgery paled into insignificance when compared to the brilliantly conceived but frighteningly simple Refreshment Break Scam. The former junior (promoted to Plan Folding once you had arrived) would instruct you in the finer points of this lucrative process which would supplement your salary of £385 per annum. Oi! I don’t look that old!

It is probably best explained with an actual worked example and, as I recall the details for the purpose of this account, it has just struck me that, of the 16 employees in this particular office, none were female (well, not during normal working hours anyway) – a fact that has never occurred to me before. But that is not part of my tale.

You took orders for tea, coffee, plain buttered rolls and cheese rolls in the morning and only tea in the afternoon, then took a tray with teapot/coffeepot to the canteen across the back yard of the building where your orders were filled by Alice, the cook, who always had a cigarette hanging from her mouth, the ash always at the point where it was about to drop (and frequently did into whatever she was cooking, presumably). I don’t know who was worse, Alice or her successor, Betty. After Alice left, you always knew if suet pudding was going to be on the lunch menu when Betty wore only one elastic stocking. Well, I believed it at the time – I was only a young lad, after all. But I digress.

Suppose you had taken orders for 10 teas, 6 coffees, 5 buttered rolls and 8 cheese rolls. You would actually order 7 teas, 4 coffees (measuring quantities was by no means an exact science), 8 buttered rolls and 5 cheese rolls. On the way back from the canteen, you would redistribute the cheese from the cheese rolls to populate the 3 buttered rolls needed to make up the number of cheese rolls ordered. When you returned, you always had enough tea and coffee to fulfil the number ordered in the office and the right mix of plain and cheese rolls. Thus, you made a tidy profit and the poor fools suspected nothing!

I suppose I ought to have kept quiet about this – or does cheese fall within the statute of limitations?

Voyages Around the Leicestershire Countryside

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cow-friendlyI recall a weekend visit a few years ago to a friend who lived at the time in Houghton‑on-the-Hill, Leicestershire. I shall call him Simon (it is his name, after all) and I had driven up with another friend, Pete, who lives in Romsey. Far be it from me to rubbish anyone but, with my hand on my heart, I could not swear that Simon is an incredibly competent driver with an unerring sense of direction.

When we arrived, we found he had arranged an evening rendezvous with another couple of friends at an establishment he insisted was called “The Ewes”. Knowing Simon, acting upon an educated hunch, and having confirmed my doubts as to the likelihood of the owners of “The Yews” naming their premises after some sheep, its location at nearby Great Glen was established. Or, as we subsequently discovered on our sojourns round the Leicestershire countryside (some being duplicated, to the extent that we began to recognise cows as old friends), it wasn’t.

The trip was not entirely without incident (well, we were with Simon): a man with no legs (driving an elaborate go-kart device with hand-operated pedals) was just one of three near misses, the other two being a man on a bicycle with all of his legs (only narrowly managing to retain them, no thanks to Simon) and a car, all of which, whilst on the face of it negotiating the highway in a perfectly legitimate manner, thoughtlessly arrived at a particular point a fraction of a second before they were about to negotiate a blind corner, and a fraction of a second after we had arrived at the same corner travelling in the opposite direction – still with me? Thank goodness for the open fields abutting the roadway. It’s all right, we didn’t frighten the cows, they knew us.

At one of several places where Simon decided that we may have been travelling in the wrong direction, he endeavoured to execute a rapid three-point turn, which probably ought to have been more correctly called a two-point-one-kerb-collision-point turn. It was a fairly high, robust kerb and I had seen it coming. Pete, in the back seat, however, had not, and was entirely unprepared for the not insignificant jolt. Only the layers of sandwich cases, pizza boxes, food bags and chocolate wrappers saved him from being severely injured.

However, after sheer perseverance, a soupçon of panic, and a fair amount of clever guesswork, we found The Yews. Life’s never boring.

A little light relief

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streetlightMost Thursday lunch-times, I meet some friends at my local and we have a few games of pool, a foaming brew or two, and a laugh. My friend Roy gives me a lift and picks me up at noon every week. On this particular occasion, he arrived as usual and, as I left the house, I saw a man strolling up and down the close wearing a luminous yellow jacket and a safety helmet. He came over and asked me if there used to be a street light on the verge next to our house. I said no, not in the 24 years we had been living there. It was designated Number 5, it seemed, and he had had instructions to replace it. He showed me his map, on which a street light was clearly marked but which I assured him had never been in situ. He then wandered off, still forlornly seeking the elusive Lamp-post Number 5. We thought no more of it especially as he did not appear to have a replacement street light about his person and went to the pub. We related the incident to our friends with great merriment until, about five minutes later, we saw a lorry go past, in the direction of my house, with a street lighting column on the back. I wondered if, perhaps, Mr Yellow Coat had misunderstood his instructions and the order was for installation rather than replacement.

Shortly afterwards, my wife phoned me to say that she had had a conversation with Mr Yellow Coat after she looked out of the window and noticed he was erecting a lamp-post. As far as I could ascertain, her conversation with him involved her ascertaining what exactly he was doing and him telling her what exactly he was doing, viz. replacing Lamp-post Number 5, her explaining to him that there never had been one there so technically it could not be replaced, her informing him that she didn’t want a street light shining into the bedroom all night, and him informing her that, on the contrary, it would only be shining downwards and, anyway, there was no electricity with which to power it. The whole thing was becoming farcical.

Resigned to our enlightened fate, my wife went indoors and telephoned Hampshire County Council Highways Department, where a very helpful lady was, er, very helpful, and even rang back as promised. Apparently, the previous (non-existent) street lighting column had to be replaced for safety reasons as it was too close to the road. The new one is now closer than the old (non-existent) one was – or, rather, wasn’t. I hope you’re keeping up. Apart from that, our drop kerb access will have to be dug up to have electricity installed – we will only be inconvenienced for about a couple of hours, apparently. With our house at the centre, there will now be five street lights within a radius of 150 yards. It’ll probably be like living on the Golden Mile; no offence to my friends on the Fylde coast.

A couple of days later, I had to attend a conference in Brighton for three days and, apparently, during my absence, further conversations had taken place between my wife and a gentleman in the Highways Department who confessed to being quite puzzled – in fact, he couldn’t shed any light on the mystery at all, despite the Council’s commendable efforts to do so. Anyway, when I returned home last Wednesday, the brand spanking new street lighting column had been dug up and taken away! The only problem I have now is trying to convince everyone that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing!

I wish I’d taken a picture.