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Dear Marge,
I’ve decided that I want to be Scandinavian. They have the most well behaved people, the finest cycle paths, and Abba. Not to mention the fjords, saunas and smorgesbords.
I’ve also realised that, after half a lifetime of using PCs, Macs are better.
Am I having a mid-life crisis?
Dave.
When does a “Brit” become a “Scot”? As far as the English media are concerned, it seems to be when he fails to win the US Open tennis tournament…
It was my birthday yesterday (51? Shome mishtake, surely?!), and for my treat we went to the zoo. I’ve always loved Bristol Zoo, one of the oldest and best in the UK – there’s something so reassuringly old-fashioned and well-mannered about it. When our boys were little, we had a season ticket, and we would often pop in for an hour or so, to see the new arrivals, catch up with old friends, or just play on the grass (which, ironically, was one of the few green spaces in Bristol guaranteed to be free of animal shit).
There’s inevitably a tension in zoos between the thrill of seeing beautiful, sometimes scary beasts in the flesh, and worrying about their imprisonment, but Bristol has always had a very progressive approach to the welfare of its animals, and they certainly seem well cared for and healthy. I especially enjoyed the seals yesterday, in their new enclosure complete with wave machine and underwater viewing area (I never realised before that seals seem to swim mainly on their back), and the Butterfly Forest, where they hatch all kinds of beautiful butterflies and release them into a big humid polytunnel which visitors stroll through, resisting the temptation to swat the butterflies when they get too close. I was glad to learn that it’s an urban myth that butterflies live only for a day – their life expectancy actually ranges from 2 to 12 weeks.
All of which reminded me of my birthdays when I was a boy, which also often featured a family trip to the zoo. In those days it was Chessington Zoo, only a couple of miles from where I grew up, which was part-zoo, part-funfair. Once we had seen the animals, the favourite ride for my sister and me was the “Boomps-a-Daisy”, which consisted basically of a tractor pulling a garishly painted open trailer. For a small fee, one could sit in the trailer and be towed along a track around the zoo. The fun part was that the cart had no suspension, and the track was very uneven, so the kids in the back would be thrown all over the place, squealing with delight as we incurred all kinds of bruises, gashes and fractures. The place is still there, but it’s now called “Chessington World of Adventures”. It’s become a theme park, complete with rollercoasters and people dressed up in cartoon character costumes, and although I quite like theme parks, I have such happy memories of the old zoo that I don’t really want to go back to see what it’s become. One thing’s for certain – health and safety rules will have ensured that the Boomps-A-Daisy is no longer there, long since replaced by something much more “scary”, but infinitely safer and much less fun.
One of my fish, a catfish, aged about 7¾, passed away during the night. So farewell, old friend. Nobody really liked you, and I suppose we both have to accept that you weren’t the prettiest of god’s creatures. But, as the song goes, they all have a place in the choir, and you did a great job of cleaning up the other fishes’ crap from the bottom of the tank. What a life you had – unloved and ugly, doomed to life imprisonment (and life really did mean life, didn’t it?) with nothing to eat but your cellmates’ shit.
I think that I was the only one who really loved you (in a purely platonic way, you understand). Visiting children were terrified of you, whilst others laughed at your Godzilla-wannabee looks. My son Daniel was the most vitriolic in his loathing of you, claiming that he felt physically sick just looking at you. Many’s the time I found pieces of paper stuck to the aquarium glass, preventing you, poor old thing, from being seen by the outside world – Dan maintained that the sight of you eating put him off his breakfast (but we know it was actually the other round, don’t we?). That must have really hurt, to be shunned and reviled, screened off from the outside world like some sort of aquatic Quasimodo.
Of course, what really set Daniel against you is that the aquarium occupies the place in our kitchen that was designed to accommodate a microwave oven. (It was hardly your fault that the boys regard themselves to have been deprived in the most extreme way by having spent their childhood without access to a microwave and all the shite food that it can process.) So Dan will be dancing on your grave (which could be difficult, given Dan’s dancing style and the fact that I buried you in the wheelie bin). Meanwhile, I feel just a little bit upset, and I’m missing you. People ask me if I’ll get another. Possibly, I tell them, but not just yet. At least not until the bin’s been emptied.
There was an interview with some bloke in the paper the other day, in which he said, rather teasingly, that his most treasured posession is a “Chris Craft Runabout”. The name led me to believe that it was some form of transport, but beyond that I had no idea. A few google-seconds later, I knew that it was a beautiful vintage speedboat, and had a picture to prove it. In fact, I found so much information about the Chris Craft Runabout that I was left feeling somewhat ignorant and unworldly, and with the distinct impression that I was part of a very small band of dullards who didn’t know about this legendary style icon, the only other members being a few isolated tribes in Papua New Guinea. It also made me wonder how long it would have taken me to uncover this piece of trivia in the “olden days”, and realised that in that other reality that was life before Google, I wouldn’t have even bothered to try. So let’s hear it for the Internet, making us more knowledgeable by the day, albeit in often useless ways. (I did enjoy the picture of the boat, and it brought back fond memories of thrilling speedboat rides at Bognor Regis with my Dad and my sister, on our annual summer holiday. Happy days indeed, in Jolly Bognor.)
I’ve been fairly addicted to Masterchef recently, especially the earlier rounds when there were some spectacular disasters, notably the poor sod who put baking beans directly onto the uncooked pastry case (i.e. without a greaseproof paper liner), found that the beans sank into the pastry as it cooked, had to start again with 5 minutes to go, and then inevitably served up raw pastry. Mmmmm, nice!
Not even the 3 finalists, who begin the final week tomorrow, are immune from basic mistakes. In the semi-final, one contestant’s floppy chips nearly earned him elimination, to be saved only by another’s collapsed soufflée. “Cooking doesn’t get any tougher than this“, shouts one of the judges during the open credits, and I think he’s right. The remaining contestants are:
- Jonny (he of the floppy chips), from Northern Ireland, who gets rather sweaty and flustered,
- the remarkable Emily, who’s 18 and turns out incredibly imaginative food – only a year older than my son, who couldn’t boil an egg,
- and floppy-haired James, who’s partner has just had a baby, which seems to have made him realise that his dream in life is to work 18 hour shifts in a kitchen – can fatherhood have been such a disappointment to him?
My money’s on James, so his poor child can expect to see not very much of him for a few years. Nor will we see much of these three, whoever they are:
I know fast food can be a pretty frightening experience, but their kebabs must have been truly awful.
January was a pig of a month, and, without wanting to wish my life away, I’m glad to see the back of it. And now it’s February, the sun’s been shining for most of the day, and, what’s more, it’s still daylight at 4:55 – marvellous! When the days are as short and cold as they are in the middle of the dark bit, I find it hard to imagine playing golf at 9:30 in the evening, and cycling to work in a tee shirt. But that magical “coming round again” thing has happened 50 times before to my certain knowledge, and probably more (although that’s just hearsay), so I think we can rely on it again this year. Especially as the daffs and snowdrops are beginning to show – they never get it wrong.
I read a really odd story the other day, which made my eyes water, my teeth clench and my legs cross. A woman has been jailed for 2 years for pulling off the testicle of her ex-boyfriend with her bare hands.
Several things amaze me about this:
- Testicles, although intrinsically dangly, are not removable. The plums are fairly well attached to the tree, and, moreover, housed in a handy pouch. When I last checked, the pouch does not come with a zip, drawstring, or other opening device. How the hell did she gain access, especially given that it seems the poor sod was wearing clothes at the time?
- Having detached it, she then tried to eat the testicle, then choked on it and spat it out. What?!
- A friend of the now uni-testicled man then picked up the testicle from the floor and gave it back to its owner (or should that be “former owner”? When do you stop being the owner of detached organs?). Did this bloke just happen to be standing around? Did he witness the whole thing? Did he think of intervening, or did he just put it down to a “domestic”?
- But, most amazing of all, this happened in Crosby, Merseyside. I know Crosby, quite well (my in-laws live there). It’s a leafy suburb of Liverpool, and the epitome of the sort of place where NOTHING happens. And now this!!
Anyway, if you can bring yourself to read it, here’s the full story, courtesy of the BBC.
Interesting bit in the paper the other day. Psychologists reckon that if you decide to do something and it turns out badly, you’ll be less upset than if things turn out badly after you’ve decided to do nothing. The example given is the pair of investors – one moves their money from one investment and it bombs, whilst the other leaves the money where it is, and it bombs. The first investor will be happier than the second – or, at least, less unhappy.
So the moral of the story is to be brave, take risks, and live with the consequences. Obviously the argument against this is that if you twist and go bust, you’ll be a lot more pissed off than if you stick and win, but as a strategy in 50-50 situations, it sounds like a good idea.
I do find that, as a 50 year old, I have more and more “Mosquito Coast moments”. One happened the other day in Sainsbury’s – they’re selling Mulberry spice washing up liquid, especially for the Christmas wash-up. Aaaarrghh…!
And another thing. In Barton Hill, where I work, they had a “Fight Night” last night, which consisted of children hitting each other for the entertainment of adults, who had paid to watch. Apologists for boxing claim that the amateur sport is fine, because the participants wear head guards, it’s all about technique, blah blah. But the fact remains that the aim of the game is to hurt the other person, and, whilst I accept that many people really enjoy participating in it, both as competitors or spectators, I do question whether it has a place in civilised society.
I’ve been following the reports about possible sightings of a Great White Shark in Cornwall. The fact that these sightings coincided with a screening of “Jaws” on ITV, and that most of the coverage has been in The Sun and other tabloids, leads me to take it all with a pinch of salt. It was also amusing that, in an attempt to reassure anxious tourists who might be put off spending their wet summer holidays there, the authorities in St Ives paraded a small dead shark that somebody had caught, saying “Don’t worry, we’ve got it, no more sharks around here, all perfectly safe”, thus emulating exactly the plotline of the film. We’re gonna need a bigger boat…
Yesterday, I went for physiotherapy for my aching neck and shoulders, and the bloke more or less said “what do you expect at your age – it’s downhill all the way now mate”, before giving me a very painful pummelling for my £29. And then told me I had to go back for more next week. Years ago, I had physiotherapy for a torn Achilles tendon, and the pain of the injury was nothing compared with the pain inflicted by the physio, who seemed really to be enjoying his work. Could it be that it’s a profession that attracts sadists?
I went to a pub last night, for the first time since the ban on smoking in enclosed spaces became law. Lovely! But I’m now worried that, because it makes pubs even nicer places to be, it’s going to increase significantly the amount of time and money that I spend in pubs and bars. Which, of course, doesn’t mean that the ban wasn’t one of the bravest and most welcome bits of legislation of the Blair years, which will have a seriously beneficial impact.
Hot on the heals of a narrow victory, Bedminster U15s suffered an equally narrow defeat at home the other day. The game was spookily symmetrical with the previous one, with the visiting team needing 12 runs off the final over for victory. And they got the winning runs with a 4 off the penultimate ball. If all cricket games were so exciting, it could catch on. Despite being on the losing side this time, Dan played well again, smashing the ball all over the place with the bat, and getting a couple of wickets when bowling. Proud Dad, that’s me.
But I also saw the ugly side of kids’ sport. One of the visiting players was clearly not cut out to be a cricketer – tall but rather overweight, a throw even worse than mine, and quite unable (or unwilling?) to catch or even stop the ball when it came near him (in fact, altogether very like me at 15). Everyone assumed his strengths lay with the willow, so an expectant hush came over the crowd as he approached the crease to bat. Clean bowled, second ball, for nought. But at least he tried.
The ugly part, though, was his mother, who proceded to berate him for his carelessness, for letting the side down, etc. And when he turned to walk away, her response was “Don’t turn you back on me or I’ll f***ing beat you”. By this point, all eyes were on her – if looks could kill, she’d have died many deaths. I got the impression that she was well accustomed to the disapproval of others, perhaps even enjoyed it, but my heart really went out to her poor, lumbering son and his quivering lip.
My son Daniel blew a large chunk of his 15th birthday money on a pair of jeans. They were Dolce and Gabanna, don’t you know, and white, which means they were dead posh (as in “Beckham chavvy posh”). Although actually they were dead scruffy, but deliberately scruffy – they had these worn, threadbare bits all over them, so beloved of today’s young people, and designed to become holes within weeks (that’s a good thing). Somebody in China or Vietnam is probably paid 2 quid a year to make the jeans in the first place, then someone else is paid another quid to operate a machine which makes those threadbare bits. And the punchline is that a shop in downtown Bristol charges £89, yes, 89 sodding quid, for these crap trousers made deliberately crapper. Dear oh dear.
But the REAL punchline is that the jeans had a fake leather patch on them, to tell the world that they are really are “D and G”. And the first time you wash the jeans, which I did, yesterday, this patch bleeds shit-brown dye. This dye ruins not only the overpriced crap jeans that the patch is attached too, but also various items that they’re next to in the washing machine.
The tale actually ends happily for Daniel, who, with my help, was able to get a full refund for the crap jeans. He was then able to re-spend the £89 on a further collection of crap clothes, so at least he now realises that by buying one stupidly overpriced item every now and then, he can get a whole new outfit every couple of weeks.
I read the other day about the judge, one Peter Openshaw, who called a halt to the trial of 3 alleged “cyber-terrorists” because he didn’t know what a website was. I suppose it was quite brave of him really – was he tempted to bluff it out, and bang these people up, regardless of (or perhaps because of) his ignorance? Anyway, they called in a trainer to give His Justice a run-through of the rudiments of internet technology (not just any old trainer, mind, but a proper job professor), and now the trial continues.
Mind you, there’s nothing new about judges being not entirely up to date with their general knowledge. Prompted by Mr Openshaw’s honesty about his own ignorance, several extraordinary quotes have emerged in the past few days. “What are The Beatles?“, asked one judge. “How can a bed be turned into a sofa?“, asked Judge Seddon Cripps about a futon. But first prize must go Lord Irvine of Lairg, who was Lord Chancellor and head of the judiciary when he asked “What is B & Q?“.
It’s almost enough to give you confidence in the jury system.
Well, Brendan starts his GCSEs today, so the nerves are really starting to show (mine, that is – B’s his usual bright and breezy self, just another day, etc.). He kicks off with RE, and I’m sure he’ll be fine, as with all the subjects based on words and ideas – he could write convincingly all day long about Judaism and Islam, without really knowing much about either of them. We’ve still got a few weeks before his first Maths exam, which is just as well, given that we’ve still barely scratched the surface. In a revision question the other day, he was asked to “name these 3 geometric shapes” – he called them Rupert, Gerald and Veronica.
We had a good time on the Art Trail at the weekend – lots of nice stuff to see, people to bump into, rain to shelter from (I actually quite like rain when it’s proper rain, the straight down, ploppy kind, and when I’m equipped with a good umbrella). Our own installation, “A Car Boot Tale”, was great fun, with several residents of the street turning their car boots into mini-installations. Ours was called “Stowaways”, and consisted of 30 photos of people’s eyes, “hiding” in the boot, dimly lit beneath a blackout cloth. The effect was quite eery, but it brought more smiles than alarm, so that was nice.
The Eurovision Song Contest resulted in the usual travesty, with the UK entry getting votes from only Ireland and Cyprus, and the rest of “Europe” using the opportunity to give Tony “Warmonger” Blair the finger. So once again, we finished in penultimate position, without even the jokey distinction of coming last with nul points. I’m old enough to remember the golden age of the UK’s involvement in the contest in the 60s – Sandie Shaw with no shoes, Clodagh Rogers bouncing up and down on her spring, Lulu, Sir Cliff… ahhh, those were the days.
My son Brendan is a week away from his GCSEs, so I’ve been helping him with his Maths revision. Now I’m no great shakes at Maths, in fact I have strong memories of being reduced to tears at the age of 8 by my Maths teacher, simply for failing to understand. (Dear Mr. Straker, you’re probably long dead by now, but if by any chance you’re reading this at the age of 103, you really were a vindictive bastard. And why did you think that making children cry was a good substitute for explanation?). But I am at least available, and usually contain my occasional urge to shout at Brendan during our sessions on algebra, Pythagoras (now there’s a clever bloke), and indices. The last time Bren and I went through this was for his SATS tests 2 years ago, and I have to say I’m gobsmacked by how little he has learned since then. And I’m rather disappointed that, in school, the notion of enjoyment of the subject through imparting a real understanding of numbers has been replaced by the rather more old-fashioned approach of “you can’t possibly expect to understand this stuff, so you’d better just learn it”. OK, the Revision Guide that we’re working from presents it in a matey, chatty style, but essentially that’s the message. So if anyone can tell me why a negative number multiplied by a negative number gives us a positive, please do. But don’t shout if I don’t get it.
The weather’s been so good the past couple of weeks, you can almost hear the plants growing…
In China, property developers are sometimes frustrated by the refusal of a house owner to sell and vacate their house. These houses are known as “nail houses”, and this property, standing above a huge construction site in Chongqing, south west China, has become famous as the “hardest” example in the country.
It’s owned by 51 year old Yang Wu, who has stayed in the house during the 2 years since his 280 neighbours moved out. He has been without electricity and water during that time, and is demanding some 20 million Yuan (about a million quid) from the developers in compensation. Their offer is about a tenth of this figure, so an early resolution seems unlikely!
