tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1861964269891215012024-02-20T10:36:31.108+00:00Moptops PitstopTaking the T out of TwitterMoptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.comBlogger205125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-71312345554637204072011-09-12T21:39:00.000+01:002011-09-12T21:39:48.389+01:00Mother (Cooked) Goose?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GUvuG4tVSJMilJNXjO2lGLNRy1RxuK06lNmyHWCgdXKyeLvsYG4cQwAxxI0MSS4m28weYehGiN5tNQ5IyNbWuqGHYFQh56f9xuOrJgXQYwz7FIljLbV3iF1Uk2EQN2C5iAfY-61dmQtK/s1600/a+georgie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GUvuG4tVSJMilJNXjO2lGLNRy1RxuK06lNmyHWCgdXKyeLvsYG4cQwAxxI0MSS4m28weYehGiN5tNQ5IyNbWuqGHYFQh56f9xuOrJgXQYwz7FIljLbV3iF1Uk2EQN2C5iAfY-61dmQtK/s1600/a+georgie.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Saucy <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2036563/George-Osborne-took-cocaine-says-escort-girl-Natalie-Rowe.html">Georgie</a>, cocaine and lie,</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">kissed a girl. (She made him cry.)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Andy Coulson came to stay;</div><div style="text-align: center;">made Georgie’s story fade away.</div>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-64382609678002418532011-08-25T23:33:00.000+01:002011-08-25T23:33:20.586+01:00Overheard Conversations #26<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfObngqJk_Lv9OfAwmVgnBFQ6kr2biw3nSUqiX65JGxlvkFukSpLWEFk2i761IPr7kMYbRUbrET19UnwK73b5tQgcLf2nMwQjBT5-xPyiQT3BF7jI4jk7kC4zuxNrVyBSEAkzLgei1mm3H/s1600/a+salon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfObngqJk_Lv9OfAwmVgnBFQ6kr2biw3nSUqiX65JGxlvkFukSpLWEFk2i761IPr7kMYbRUbrET19UnwK73b5tQgcLf2nMwQjBT5-xPyiQT3BF7jI4jk7kC4zuxNrVyBSEAkzLgei1mm3H/s320/a+salon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>Location</strong>: hairdressing salon<br />
<strong>Characters</strong>: Lisa - mid-twenties, brandishing a hairdryer. Amy - seventeen, brandishing her pocket money.<br />
<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: I love doing your hair. Look how shiny it is now.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Oh, er, thanks.<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: I was in a right mood before. Half an hour with your head and I'm all relaxed again.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Er -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: Did I tell you I moved in with my boyfriend last week?<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: No.<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: But I'm moving out tonight.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Why?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: He bloody made me a packed lunch this morning, didn't he?<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Aww -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: He shouted down the stairs 'There's a packed lunch for you in the fridge'.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: He's -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: 'Cheese and ham' he shouted.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Don't you like -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: And then at lunch time he sent me a text, didn't he?<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: A text?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: Yes, it said 'Look inside the sandwich'.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Was it a ring?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: A ring?<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: An engagement ring?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: No. (BEAT.) I peeled back the bread and there's this message on the ham.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Message?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: He'd cut the cheese into letters.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Letters?<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: He'd written <em>I love you</em> inside my sandwich.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: Awww ...<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: In cheese.<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: But -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: <em>I love you</em> in bloody cheddar!<br />
<strong>Amy</strong>: It was a nice -<br />
<strong>Lisa</strong>: Cheddar! Cheddar cheese! I said to him 'I'm not having anyone saying anything to me in cheddar! I'm going back to me mum's!' (BEAT.) Anyway, love, do you want serum on your hair?<br />
<br />
<em>Roll credits</em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-12929349504366419432011-08-16T23:28:00.000+01:002011-08-16T23:28:39.866+01:00Ecclesiastes 1:9<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS7t-dE_eKROgNGFPHX8CVkxYaqAkMlEoBIhJ73kCQRogWV7B2T7YUDXK_orhlz95efrhNBhsbtiJCgfErxfJlAX2E2tQpgnCfcq5apQ9lZgPs5hQtYShS7lLnR0P-rsyijqyjOMhQ4EH/s1600/a+cable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS7t-dE_eKROgNGFPHX8CVkxYaqAkMlEoBIhJ73kCQRogWV7B2T7YUDXK_orhlz95efrhNBhsbtiJCgfErxfJlAX2E2tQpgnCfcq5apQ9lZgPs5hQtYShS7lLnR0P-rsyijqyjOMhQ4EH/s320/a+cable.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><br />
This afternoon, whilst my wrinkled old retainer was working his way through the <em>to be filed</em> pile, he came across a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telegraphy">cablegram</a> received in 1938*. Once he'd wiped it down, we read it.<br />
<br />
URGENT STOP LORD BURDOCK IGNORANT OF ALL <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2011/aug/16/phone-hacking-letters-denials-evasion">INTERCEPTED CABLES</a><br />
STOP DENY DENY DENY STOP HE ON HOLIDAY EXCLAMATION MARK STOP AND WASN'T LISTENING ANYWAY STOP RUBBISH SCOOP IN DAILY BRUTE STOP UPFOLLOW URGENTLIEST WITH NEW STORY STOP RUSH UNREST ESSENTIALEST STOP PM FRANKLY QUESTION MARK STOP CONTINUE CABLING UNREST BRACKET BETTER STILL WARS CLOSE BRACKET OPEN BRACKET BETTER STILL VICTORIES CLOSE BRACKET UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE STOP ED.<br />
<br />
Honestly, you couldn't make it up.<br />
<br />
* <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>He might be slow but he's very slapdash.</em></span>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-46557792230485072322011-08-15T23:15:00.002+01:002011-08-16T12:53:35.295+01:00Howdee, Howdee, Howdee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlih9VmJfT9Tz3piU-P66hE6MLTlR7rv2TSwBE3rC8nVUbCPTqMFfk6c-Wmf85jz2V65_2mnIxNJeQhWBisCE6vtlAmwGlX1RwLFnCjbCx7tqf3_OUMuzUSZTppvsr1kr6rKrcGgzSLcr/s1600/A+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlih9VmJfT9Tz3piU-P66hE6MLTlR7rv2TSwBE3rC8nVUbCPTqMFfk6c-Wmf85jz2V65_2mnIxNJeQhWBisCE6vtlAmwGlX1RwLFnCjbCx7tqf3_OUMuzUSZTppvsr1kr6rKrcGgzSLcr/s320/A+horse.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br />
Transcript of top secret, <em>long distance</em> telephone conversation leaked to Moptop Towers by an underground mole*. <br />
<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Mr Bratwurst, frankly I am delighted that you have made the time to talk to me.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Mr President, I have many happy memories of the Ukraine, the Beatles in particular.<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: The peasants have been revolting and, frankly, I've had enough.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Shoot 'em. What do you guys call it? <em>The Glorious Twelfth</em>?<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: <em>Peasants</em>! Oiks, yobs and hooligans - I mean, hoodlums.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Ya wan' me to shoot 'em for ya?<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: I want your advice. We have a problem with gangs.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Uh-huh?<br />
<strong>David</strong>: Do you know that since 2009 we've had thirteen gang-related murders in London?<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Thirteen?<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Dreadful, isn't it?<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: A pissant <em>thirteen</em> murders? That <em>all</em>? Why, we had <em>one hundred and fifty seven</em>. And LA has <em>half </em>the population of London Town. You guys are freakin' amateurs. No offence, Mr President.<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Yes, well, that's why I'd like you <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/aug/14/bill-bratton-police-crisis-cuts?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487">on board</a>. We'll do whatever it takes - <br />
<strong>Georgie-O</strong>: (HISSES) - As long as we don't have to fund any youth clubs.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: How many were killed last week?<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Sadly, five.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: I can see ya problem from here. Ya wanna issue officers with semi-automatic weapons. Why, in 1992 my officers shot <em>double</em> that number in LA alone.<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: (HASTILY) Er, we'd rather not talk about police shooting the public. Frankly.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: The Mayor of New York raised taxes - gave me an extra five thousand police officers.<br />
<strong>Georgie-O</strong>: <em>Raised taxes??</em><br />
<strong>David C</strong>: We probably won't fill the current vacancies at The Metropolitan Police - <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-14180043">Police Commissioner</a>, Assistant Police Commissioner, that sort of thing. <a href="http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/local-national/uk/sir-hugh-orde-and-theresa-may-the-rift-wdens-16036522.html">Theresa's</a> doing a marvellous job. You know how good the ladies are at multi-tasking.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: Poker.<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: (HORRIFIED) <em>Theresa??</em><br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: It's about keepin' a straight face and playing the hand you're dealt. Mr President, I've been an outsider in every department I've worked in -<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Excellent. Just the ticket.<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: - 'Cause Trigger couldn't manage the steps.<br />
<strong>David C</strong>: Trigger?<br />
<strong>Bill Bratwurst</strong>: My horse flies Club.<br />
<br />
* <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Where else would it be? - Ed.</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-14582657083061583302011-08-13T20:43:00.000+01:002011-08-13T20:43:28.468+01:00About Four Euros a Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUfGmBEnqsiylEjuLV79tfBbQim7uTuKR-icHrAXr0leJrALrc5JflBcPS_kmmyr6fd35VY1BP9mOLOzQUb4Q_rgXEi0DcKcgr7odG69DT2dakk7ashC6XSnTR94aidB4RCLyW5DzMnDC/s1600/a+Vladimir-Putin-carries-hi-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUfGmBEnqsiylEjuLV79tfBbQim7uTuKR-icHrAXr0leJrALrc5JflBcPS_kmmyr6fd35VY1BP9mOLOzQUb4Q_rgXEi0DcKcgr7odG69DT2dakk7ashC6XSnTR94aidB4RCLyW5DzMnDC/s320/a+Vladimir-Putin-carries-hi-007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Dear Mr Cameron<br />
<br />
Have you ever engaged in the genteel sport of snorkelling? I ask because I know your holiday was cut tragically short and you had to <a href="http://travel.uk.msn.com/blog/travel-blogpost.aspx?post=fd7b2c55-dce4-4dec-a05f-321b401ad8b0">restore your socks</a> toot-sweet. <br />
<br />
The Youth has been revolting again and you must be at your wit's end. (I surmise that the singular possessive apostrophe is correct.) <br />
<br />
The pallid complexion disguised by the expensive Tuscan tan doesn't fool me for a second, Sir! You need the oxygen of good publicity. A few favourable headlines in The Daily Beast, what? And, of course, now you've been forced to disown Mr Murdoch (père et fils) these headlines aren't quite so easy to come by.<br />
<br />
I feel your pain.<br />
<br />
So, tomorrow morning pop along to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serpentine_(lake)">Serpentine</a> in your <a href="http://blogimages.project76.tv/blog/old/cameron080806.jpg">Boden trunks</a>, belly flop into the shallow end by the - <em>sshhh!</em> - <span style="font-size: xx-small;">duck house</span>, splash around for a few minutes - <em>feather-footed through the plashy fens</em> - and just under the rusting Coke can and the empty packet of <a href="http://web176.extendcp.co.uk/lansdells.co.uk/images/SCAMPI%20FRIES.jpg">Scampi Fries</a> you'll find a large stash of Roman jewellery. Rings, bangles, buckles, cigarette cases and those things they wrapped around their upper arms - I forget the name. I got them all from <a href="http://www.pasttimes.com/">Past Times</a> and they are guaranteed genuine reproductions.<br />
<br />
(I've gone for jewellery as cracked vases will leave you open to various media wags chanting <em>What's a Greek urn? </em>Best avoided, eh?)<br />
<br />
Anyway, take care not to drown as I can't imagine the Police Diving Squad will be all that swift in coming to your assistance after <em><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/aug/09/david-cameron-police-riots-relations?INTCMP=SRCH">those remarks</a></em> you made. <br />
<br />
I've been on the blower to an Assistant Chief Constable and he's already sold the info to Fleet Street's Finest so, Mr C., remember to look surprised when the flashbulbs go off.<br />
<br />
It's worked for <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/aug/12/vladimir-putin-greek-urns-ridicule">Vlad</a> and it'll work for you, mark my words.<br />
<br />
All best wishes &c, &c<br />
<br />
M.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">P.S. Apols to any comment-makers. Blogger has declared me persona non grata and won't let me reply to any comments.</span></em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-61760023065066165502011-07-13T21:50:00.000+01:002011-07-13T21:50:01.221+01:00Overheard Tannoy Announcement #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgK37w0Jt4YPhlPxnem9VcwTn9OTVDrozQFynOYaZiqLF0Kdx5vr1_9FjSZT0TUbf4ecB8k2RPChFJfH6CBiJbmo6jCW5D-TCM_tpjP0pgOGGADzFsSe81D6BbV-L4H4TS_RVK3WwlfV1T/s1600/a+a+tannoy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgK37w0Jt4YPhlPxnem9VcwTn9OTVDrozQFynOYaZiqLF0Kdx5vr1_9FjSZT0TUbf4ecB8k2RPChFJfH6CBiJbmo6jCW5D-TCM_tpjP0pgOGGADzFsSe81D6BbV-L4H4TS_RVK3WwlfV1T/s320/a+a+tannoy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Location: The Southport to Liverpool train - 13th July 2011.<br />
<br />
<br />
(CLICK. WEARY SIGH. MALE VOICE. BROAD LANCASHIRE ACCENT)<br />
<br />
" 'Ello. It's Wednesday. I know it's Wednesday 'cos this morning I woke up and 'eard on the radio that one lucky winner in this country 'ad won <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/8634548/EuroMillions-161-jackpot-previous-record-breaking-British-wins.html">£161 million</a> on t' Euro Lottery.<br />
<br />
" For just that moment I dared believe it could've been me. I went downstairs and checked on t' Internet and all my dreams came crashing down.<br />
<br />
"I 'adn't won a dam' thing an' I would 'ave to come into work this afternoon.<br />
<br />
"Lookin' on the bright side, at least comin' into work got me away from the mother-in-law. Because if I 'ad won that lottery I'd have 'ad to spend the afternoon with 'er.<br />
<br />
(BIG SIGH. CLICK)<br />
<br />
(CLICK AGAIN) Oh, yes this is the 16.30 to Hunts Cross calling at - well, all the stations inbetween."Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-45157369480855328482011-07-06T21:57:00.001+01:002011-07-07T12:42:35.594+01:00Hacked Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7ZCm9iBKpH_D9OUTgm8ndqM9xjnjCKyrXuCHeljTg9GWlFn9qe57yhPEgEWO2uHPuo6l33fTfMmxI21munu1oH6LUUW7Xt0Ril1diifFFyPBtO8yXaxYcWC8VIfG9taEx6kifmBfwjiO/s1600/a+brooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7ZCm9iBKpH_D9OUTgm8ndqM9xjnjCKyrXuCHeljTg9GWlFn9qe57yhPEgEWO2uHPuo6l33fTfMmxI21munu1oH6LUUW7Xt0Ril1diifFFyPBtO8yXaxYcWC8VIfG9taEx6kifmBfwjiO/s320/a+brooks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
To Whom it May Concern ~<br />
<br />
In my defence, none of <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/greenslade/2011/jul/06/rupert-murdoch-phone-hacking">this </a>- <em>any of it</em> - was my fault because I was <em>on holiday</em> at the time.<br />
<br />
I think that you will find this to be a water-tight defence.<br />
<br />
Sack the solicitor, lay off the lawyer,* and banish the barrister. <br />
<br />
<em>I was on holiday</em> is defence enough for murder, mayhem or - ahem - ever so illegal phone-hacking. In fact, the only phone-hacking I know anything at all about is the percussion section of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonzo_Dog_Doo-Dah_Band">Bonzo Dog Doodah Band</a>, track two, featuring phone-hacking, tub-thumping, and gooseberry-jamming. All of which I listened to whilst I was <em>on holiday</em>.<br />
<br />
Yours sincerely/wish you were here etc. etc.<br />
<br />
RB<br />
<br />
* <em><span style="font-size: x-small;">This item of Political Birdfeed is sponsored by the Oxford Comma.</span></em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-7578353000876867912011-05-23T21:51:00.000+01:002011-05-23T21:51:52.249+01:00We're all Irish now ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKf8zaNoEs4rfFVDzWF77G5W0y8V8HspHxE8WCNmC_Uk5SnT0zggxb4FXL35yCKlsoFjrIVggTkEBBUaViAoC9GvWlEfAb4nIddM-7hLDfmECAm5D9F7Fpc4R3O0NFf3eCt4J-62H15br1/s1600/o_bama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKf8zaNoEs4rfFVDzWF77G5W0y8V8HspHxE8WCNmC_Uk5SnT0zggxb4FXL35yCKlsoFjrIVggTkEBBUaViAoC9GvWlEfAb4nIddM-7hLDfmECAm5D9F7Fpc4R3O0NFf3eCt4J-62H15br1/s320/o_bama.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Having climbed the family tree for several hundred years, I have discovered that the 44th American President and I share an Irish heritage. <br />
<br />
Gosh.<br />
<br />
Barack is to be known as O'Obama - or O'Bama for short (and ease of speech). <br />
<br />
Inspired by him, I should like to welcome you to O'Moptop's Pitstop.<br />
<br />
Be assured, I will eventually devise a more Irish first name, once I find the Scrabble set. Irish is another of those Celtic languages (like Welsh) that takes a very <em>liberal</em> approach to spelling. Conchobhar is not how anyone I know spells Connor. What's that <em>chob</em> for? What purpose does it serve? <br />
<br />
Scrabble is ever so helpful when communicating in a Celtic tongue. Any chance arrangement of tiles is bound to mean <em>something. </em>Plus it shows a willingness to learn and so everyone's happy.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I am translating Macbeth (by the playwright William Shakespeare) into Irish. I shall present the first copy to O'Bama to celebrate our shared blood line.<br />
<br />
<em>Begorrah, and begorrah, and begorrah, </em><br />
<em>Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,</em><br />
<em>To the last syllable* of recorded time</em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Not advisable in Welsh.</span>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-66814471846564094542011-02-10T00:33:00.000+00:002011-02-10T00:33:11.889+00:00How to Get a Passport #2<div style="text-align: center;"><em>A cut out and keep guide</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2vSYQEl-Qxbjx7ZiyQf4JEnQDyiuMVKxU6sHR2_FsbqMicDdCz254sLRPX1WKjPv0v7aKb3XHh8roXA3zHzWbA0UMZiUpwaI_EgsnTtj6v4AHzeP9PNJhc8r5UympJlR34Ie-eiO88Uz/s1600/a+BIRTHCERT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2vSYQEl-Qxbjx7ZiyQf4JEnQDyiuMVKxU6sHR2_FsbqMicDdCz254sLRPX1WKjPv0v7aKb3XHh8roXA3zHzWbA0UMZiUpwaI_EgsnTtj6v4AHzeP9PNJhc8r5UympJlR34Ie-eiO88Uz/s320/a+BIRTHCERT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<ol><li>Get passport form signed.</li>
<li>Find Post Office that doesn't encourage the posting of twenty-two parcels at a time.</li>
<li>Queue.</li>
<li>Arrive at Plexiglass window. Smile. Present passport form with a flourish. Nod as woman behind Plexiglass checks form - yes, yes, yes - all appears to be in order. Produce debit card and prepare to be suddenly impoverished. Hold breath -</li>
<li>Hold in silent scream as woman behind Plexiglass points out that passport form has been signed in <em>blue</em> ink which invalidates entire form.</li>
<li>Meekly and mutely accept new, blank passport form.</li>
<li>Return home and remain mute, meek and - indeed - blank for several hours. </li>
<li>Search for black pen. Confiscate and destroy every blue, green and red pen in the house. Complete new passport form in <em>black</em> ink. Ensure passport is signed in <em>black</em> ink.</li>
<li>Return to Post Office. Queue.</li>
<li>Reach Plexiglass window. Submit form. Hold breath as woman behind Plexiglass checks form: yes, yes, yes ... YES! </li>
<li>Become suddenly impoverished, but happily so.</li>
</ol><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>ONE WEEK LATER</strong></div><ol><li>Return home very late after very demanding day. Find very demanding letter from Passport Office on table demanding evidence of name change by Deed Poll. Ponder on name change? What name change? What Deed Poll?</li>
<li>Read demanding letter again and realise that the name on birth certificate does not match name on passport application. Remember that Registrar in Births, Deaths & Marriages <em>seventeen years ago</em> was a bit iffy about the lack of a hyphen in small, sweet baby daughter's surname and insisted on using capital letters for the two surnames which small, sweet baby daughter was saddled with despite the fact that one surname was meant to be a middle name and has subsequently <em>never</em> been used as a surname. </li>
<li>Ponder on what happened to small, sweet baby daughter ...</li>
<li>Ponder on likelihood of this being sorted without a) being arrested for making a passport application under false pretences and 2) being hospitalised.</li>
<li>Check travel insurance. Again.</li>
</ol>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-79800531841898387362011-02-02T01:27:00.000+00:002011-02-02T01:27:30.497+00:00How To Get a Passport<ol><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>A cut out and keep guide</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyewRf-qx68NEyVgiL2Rn-PkzMPJCe4Vl4Q7CH_8d4rZmp2MamcL79RrsKaKCwRgnJNZhsXMY8tbMIObo1wX9mMFKP3EfZ-Km7rgixlNMOIeMUMUJGC1xdExlUUPIFcyU2oh9PiRXekO4/s1600/a+British-passport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyewRf-qx68NEyVgiL2Rn-PkzMPJCe4Vl4Q7CH_8d4rZmp2MamcL79RrsKaKCwRgnJNZhsXMY8tbMIObo1wX9mMFKP3EfZ-Km7rgixlNMOIeMUMUJGC1xdExlUUPIFcyU2oh9PiRXekO4/s320/a+British-passport.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></ol><ol><li>Collect passport form from kitchen table where it has been safely filed. Head off to find nearest Post Office.</li>
<li>Arrive at nearest Post Office and discover it has been demolished and an enormous supermarket is being built in its place. Every little does <em>not</em> help, thank you very much.</li>
<li>Find a Post Office a bit further away. Queue for twenty minutes. Reach front of queue, present passport paperwork. Take paperwork back when woman behind the Plexiglass window announces that this is not a <span style="font-size: xx-small;">something something</span> Post Office. A what? A <span style="font-size: xx-small;">something something</span> Post Office. Sorry, could you say that again? Recoil as woman shouts WE DON'T DO PASSPORTS.</li>
<li>Find another Post Office even further away. Stand in a queue of nineteen people. Watch woman at front of queue post twenty-two separate parcels. Count the parcels. Yes, right first time; there are twenty-two of 'em. Listen to Parcel Woman discuss her imminent move to Chester. Wonder aloud why she couldn't have posted her twenty-two parcels <em>in</em> Chester? Adopt innocent expression when Parcel Woman turns around and <em>glares</em>. Queue for forty minutes.</li>
<li>Reach front of queue. Present passport paperwork to woman behind Plexiglass window. Sag at knees when woman questions why no birth certificate has been included with the paperwork?</li>
<li>Go home. Make cup of coffee. Search for birth certificate. Find button tin, Hugh Fearnley-Thingummy's recipe for macaroni cheese, and gold earring which has been missing for months. Eventually find Important Paperwork File under bed, under pile of unopened Mslexia magazines, under electric blanket with the dodgy wiring. Congratulate oneself on superbly organised Important Paperwork.</li>
<li>Go back to Post Office. Join queue of seventeen people. Frisk everyone for excess parcelage. Apologise. Wait for twenty-five minutes. Reach front of queue.</li>
<li>Present passport paperwork. Produce birth certificate with smug flourish. Laugh uncertainly when woman behind Plexiglass window points out passport paperwork has not been signed. Laugh less uncertainly when woman insists that, no, she is not joking. Get escorted, sobbing quietly, from Post Office by Security Guard. </li>
<li>Arrive home. Answer phone call from school. Inform school that passport was applied for <em>months</em> ago and that of course it will arrive in time for foreign trip next Tuesday.</li>
<li>Check holiday insurance cancellation policy.</li>
</ol>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-89508510381010474852011-01-31T22:20:00.001+00:002011-02-01T00:01:44.248+00:00Overheard Conversations #25<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzS8i3Hsg5eq0-Iz_Rl7HBF7J_dh6Cp-4gO4rLXP4bN4XlrpRjyhXmW6DE-rpcfVJn4gky3vErAG3IMAxwiFW5fG_6EnUOx7UM5kOHTbnwGsPF8IQvq_wa4bP2ZNPMwP3zo8z-AM-_yCB/s1600/a+magic+bean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzS8i3Hsg5eq0-Iz_Rl7HBF7J_dh6Cp-4gO4rLXP4bN4XlrpRjyhXmW6DE-rpcfVJn4gky3vErAG3IMAxwiFW5fG_6EnUOx7UM5kOHTbnwGsPF8IQvq_wa4bP2ZNPMwP3zo8z-AM-_yCB/s1600/a+magic+bean.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>Location</strong>: a restaurant in a busy <a href="http://moptop-moptopspitstop.blogspot.com/2010/08/going-to-dogs.html">much unloved</a> shopping centre.<br />
<strong>Characters</strong>: A Banshee, an Idle Boy, a Saintly Ma.<br />
<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: What were you doing in that shop?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: I was having a consultation.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Consultation?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: With a Chinese doctor. I've been ill for weeks.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Have you?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Thank you for noticing. (BEAT) Where are our drinks?<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: Did you buy anything?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Some tablets -<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: You bought <em>tablets</em> from a Chinese doctor in a shopping centre?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Chinese medicine has a very reputable, um, reputation.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: In a <em>shopping centre</em>?<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Was his name Doctor <em>Snake Oil</em>?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: He didn't tell me his name. (BEAT) He didn't speak English.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: I've got some magic beans here. Would you like to buy them while you're at it?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong> (TO PASSING WAITER): Excuse me, we ordered drinks - Oh. He's very busy.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: Herbal Medicine! <em>Real</em> medicine has used up all the bits that work. The rest is just twigs.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Don't! You'll ruin the <em>placebo</em> affect.<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: I really need that drink.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: What did you buy?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: I don't know. (TAKES BOX OUT OF PLASTIC BAG). It says here -<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: You don't know what you bought? You didn't research it <em>before</em> you bought it?<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: How much was it?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Thirty pounds (HASTILY) but that's for two weeks' supply.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: <em>Thirty pounds?</em><br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong> (REACHING FOR BOX): It's here on the side. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caterpillar_fungus">Cordyceps</a>.<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Yes, that's a very therapeutic herb.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong> (SCROLLING THROUGH PHONE): How do you spell that?<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: C.O.R.D.Y.C.E.P.S.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: Hang on ... (READS SCREEN). Herb?<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: Yes, it's been used in Chinese medicine for centuries.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: It's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cordyceps_Sinensis.jpg">dead caterpillar</a>.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Urghh!<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong> (READING): A microbe colonises caterpillars and mummifies them from the inside out.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Cool.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: And then when the caterpillar is dead, a fungus -<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Fungus!<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: Sprouts from the skull of the dead caterpillar.<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: Let me see. (HE GRABS PHONE) Hey, it's been tested on <a href="http://www.drugs.com/npp/cordyceps.html">castrated rats</a>!<br />
<strong>S. Ma</strong>: You're making that up.<br />
<strong>Banshee</strong>: No, he's not. Look.<br />
(SAINTLY MA TURNS PALE)<br />
<strong>Idle Boy</strong>: About those beans, Mum ...?<br />
<br />
<em>Roll Credits</em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-74804991622032756572011-01-23T02:19:00.002+00:002011-01-23T13:02:22.437+00:00Bring me sunshine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwEXkc4efVzxbWdXG8GOSl4LHDTWPa-0UtA7m2XTE-ceR5F4nfUN1n4fru6oAYcxWtBmdndkcU_5Lu5XB-ohVN4BjEG_zs6GylavLVuog3ecyccxzt8VxpbGexhPOUodOMG390nsylGmI/s1600/a+sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwEXkc4efVzxbWdXG8GOSl4LHDTWPa-0UtA7m2XTE-ceR5F4nfUN1n4fru6oAYcxWtBmdndkcU_5Lu5XB-ohVN4BjEG_zs6GylavLVuog3ecyccxzt8VxpbGexhPOUodOMG390nsylGmI/s320/a+sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I am not known for my accuracy with numbers. (<a href="http://moptop-moptopspitstop.blogspot.com/2010/12/two-wrongs-absolutely-do-make-right.html">Posts passim</a>.) I rarely feted for my excellent time-keeping. (I tend to be unfashionably late.) I am absolutely BOB at giving directions. For example:<br />
<br />
<em>After a while</em> you will see a left hand turn. <em>After a while</em> you will see a sign for a motorway. <em>After a while</em> you will reach the coast of Spain.<br />
<br />
(In this instance, <em>after a while</em> might be 10 yards, 10 miles, or 10 x 10 miles.)<br />
<br />
But then I am a creative artist, an artistic creative. I'm not <em>meant</em> to know my fandangle from my elbow. It's in the <em>job description</em>.<br />
<br />
But scientists? They're all facts, figures and accuracy to 0.0000000000000000000000001 of a percent - right?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/space/8275530/Second-sun-on-its-way.html"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Second Sun On Its Way</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">announces a newspaper headline. Nothing to do with phone-taps or <em><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2011/jan/22/secret-tapes-news-of-the-world">Me? I know nothing</a></em> editors. No, <em>scientists</em> tell us that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betelgeuse">Betelgeuse</a>, a star of which I've always been particularly fond, is due to explode. Its death throes will be so bright that there will be no night for two weeks. Darkness vanquished, we shall be bathed in eternal sunshine. In fact, during the <em>real</em> day, there will be two suns shining down upon us.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Gosh, how exciting, I thought. When's this going to kick off, then? I shall invest in sunglasses, suncream, sunhats. Quick, Stockbroker! <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawaiian_Tropic">Hawaiian Tropic</a>! Buy! Buy! Buy!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">O, I see ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It could be this year. It could be next year.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or it could be at any point in the next million years - also known as <em>After A While</em>.</div>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-5973558448724745282011-01-17T23:12:00.002+00:002011-01-17T23:15:55.283+00:00How to Hang a Picture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagY6XoZMw5yxfvh8glPq22LZC7TnLAiE9AxTJgnxh1UOCI5LsTZyCiYgspQr9KNGNcDjF3MWOA_ngYFSj7Ts9ebzKTjsktlTYORo4RzNA_LUQO6FOZL8IWZzJ9TKrDeY-K77B22odAgCw/s1600/a+crooked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagY6XoZMw5yxfvh8glPq22LZC7TnLAiE9AxTJgnxh1UOCI5LsTZyCiYgspQr9KNGNcDjF3MWOA_ngYFSj7Ts9ebzKTjsktlTYORo4RzNA_LUQO6FOZL8IWZzJ9TKrDeY-K77B22odAgCw/s320/a+crooked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>A cut out and keep guide</strong></em></div><br />
You will need a hammer, a picture hook, a nail, a roll of wrapping paper and a biro.<br />
<br />
O, and a picture.<br />
<br />
All that is very basic and obvious, so we shall proceed immediately to Advanced Picture-Hanging for which you will need <u>three</u> pictures.<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Select wall. Hold up picture and admire position. Bang picture hook in wall. Hang picture. Realise that one has forgotten the picture wire on back of picture frame and said frame now hangs 4" lower than originally intended.</li>
<li>Measure distance between apex of wire and edge of frame using the handle of the hammer. </li>
<li>Hammer picture hook into <em>new!improved!</em> position using guesswork as one cannot use the hammer as a measuring aid and as a hammer simultaneously.</li>
<li>Hang picture.</li>
<li>Nod.</li>
<li>Measure up next picture. Achieve level by placing roll of wrapping paper atop first successfully hanged (hung?) frame.</li>
<li>Curse when roll of wrapping paper rolls off frame. Wonder if this is where the word 'roll' comes from?</li>
<li>Try again, holding wrapping paper in position with one hand and a hammer, a picture hook, a nail and another picture with the other hand. Realise one has left biro on kitchen table.</li>
<li>Attempt to reach kitchen table. Knock first picture off wall, drop picture hook, nail and hammer.</li>
<li>Watch nail roll between gap in floorboards and disappear. Curse.</li>
<li>Reposition first picture. Sellotape roll of wrapping paper to top of frame. Line up second picture. Hammer in new nail. Hang picture. </li>
<li>Realise one has forgotten about bloody picture wire again. Take picture down. Reposition picture hook again. Hammer in nail. Rehang picture.</li>
<li>Repeat five times until picture finally hangs in right position. Offer up a little prayer that no-one will ever take down picture and find out what a mess one has made of the plasterwork.</li>
<li>Step back. Nod.</li>
<li>Retrieve third picture. Realise one must now measure the space <em>between</em> pictures as well as the level in order to achieve an effect <em>pleasing to the eye.</em></li>
<li>Sellotape roll of wrapping paper to the top of second picture.</li>
<li>Consider that <em>only a fool</em> would use the handle of a hammer as a measuring device! </li>
<li>Use ones forefinger as a measuring device. Use biro to mark finger so that the precise distance between pictures can be ascertained.</li>
<li>Hammer in picture hook. Narrowly miss measuring finger. Hang picture.</li>
<li>Repeat Step 12.</li>
<li>Repeat Step 13.</li>
<li>Repeat Step 14.</li>
<li>Affix notice informing all visitors that these pictures are best viewed when leaning slightly to the left.</li>
<li>Affix second notice informing all visitors that first notice is best viewed when leaning slightly to the right.</li>
</ol>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-15947233079978168952011-01-12T01:25:00.002+00:002011-01-12T01:26:46.368+00:00The Banned List #6<div style="text-align: center;"><em>An occasional list of far too frequent crimes against writing</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJDALg88GdzppyIYfveNQQJaBjKnBgX3Wyp7ckCUT915pa2CR9s7GZrTRLoqU9oI8l1LgQYH8850qLxsKdCuoLHsxe1atE_S3DKxddt3i-UQ_h79X8BWpRppz-i_BoZS4OhPoX0Ep8o1T/s1600/a+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJDALg88GdzppyIYfveNQQJaBjKnBgX3Wyp7ckCUT915pa2CR9s7GZrTRLoqU9oI8l1LgQYH8850qLxsKdCuoLHsxe1atE_S3DKxddt3i-UQ_h79X8BWpRppz-i_BoZS4OhPoX0Ep8o1T/s320/a+window.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
As I crept into the house, I didn't see the moonlight pouring in like a silver stream through the recently washed and polished windows. Nor did I observe that the faded burgundy velvet curtains, much in need of dry-cleaning, had not been drawn. <br />
<br />
'That's odd,' I would have thought (if I'd clocked it in the first place). 'Shelagh never leaves the curtains open like that.'<br />
<br />
A crystal goblet, sparkling in the light of the dying fire, its facets diamond bright, stood ungazed upon; the lingering, oily, pungent scent of gin ignored as a solitary ice-cube melted within its glass prison.<br />
<br />
I didn't hear the menacing whine of the rusty door hinges as the bedroom door opened, nor the creaking heavily ponderous footsteps on the staircase. I failed to acknowledge the sinister click of the white plastic light switch.<br />
<br />
So the sudden explosion of electric light came as a total surprise. (Once I'd noticed it).<br />
<br />
Shelagh, her brows knitted, her mouth tight, her eyes like cross little currants, glowered with the force of a dark thundercloud. I found her expression hard to read.<br />
<br />
'What time do you call this, eh?' <br />
<br />
I was oblivious to the sharp tone of her voice; the clipped consonants, the elongated vowels which howled like an icy wind across a Russian steppe.<br />
<br />
'It's time I stopped describing in intricate and exact detail all of the things which my 1st and 3rd person point of view characters allegedly - and I use that word advisedly - <em>allegedly</em> never blimmin' see, hear, touch, taste or smell,' I said crossly.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>The End</em></div>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-24316804909082776732011-01-08T03:06:00.002+00:002011-01-08T12:14:57.070+00:00Today's MenuToday I shall be mostly eating -<br />
<br />
- but before I tell you, I'd like to mention the important subject of Afternoon Tea which is v. good at The <a href="http://www.midlandhotel.org/">Midland Hotel</a> in Morecambe, and which I ate yesterday. Look, I'll prove it:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf8J-szOyfbs6O_rg23diXrgPpENPXnagltsAcDdYUOZ7PDkTyJ3CPEzq99hmbgLt6SUgAvbSuy5CxpVQzBpjgRWg8jHh8UrCTCRW3cvbE4UTulHZDkU1-Cjfs-EIn-9vCBgUg6g3vtYM/s1600/A+tea+at+Midland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf8J-szOyfbs6O_rg23diXrgPpENPXnagltsAcDdYUOZ7PDkTyJ3CPEzq99hmbgLt6SUgAvbSuy5CxpVQzBpjgRWg8jHh8UrCTCRW3cvbE4UTulHZDkU1-Cjfs-EIn-9vCBgUg6g3vtYM/s400/A+tea+at+Midland.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Whilst one is deciding which cake to eat first, the sky and sea meld in a blue-grey sweep of bay, shimmering beyond the plate glass windows of the sun terrace. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Gill_at_the_Midland_Hotel,_Morecambe">Eric Gill</a> designed a glorious medallion for the <a href="http://www.englishlakes.co.uk/hotels/midland/index.aspx">hotel</a>'s entrance. I was entranced.<br />
<br />
Earlier, my companion and I (hem, hem - note how effortlessly I slipped into restaurant criticese - <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/23/mediamonkey">Giles Coren</a>, watch your back) had been lost in a second-hand <a href="http://www.thevisitor.co.uk/news/morecambe-and-district-news/doing_it_by_the_book_1_1204468">book shop</a> with a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ilike/3314208327/in/photostream/">stuffed goose</a>, and had met the chap who tracked down the <a href="http://www.carnforthstation.co.uk/">Carnforth Station</a> clock to a garden shed in Hammersmith. It has a tick - no, more of a thud - like a steady heartbeat as the nails that weight it fall when the pendulum swings. (The clock, you fool, not the garden shed.) We also met the horologist who had revived the clock after its shed sojourn, and a characterful buffet barman. You will agree that our afternoon tea had been well <em>earned</em>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2010/12/david-constantine-tea-at-the-midland-bbc-national-short-story-award-2010/">Tea at The Midland</a> is the title of a prize-winning short story by David Constantine. You can listen to a little of it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k70t2nxpiTM">here</a>. Though I'm not sure I believe that the vast plate glass windows <em>shook;</em> they looked far too steadfast.<br />
<br />
As local bowling champion, Tinker Pulford, will attest, in the North people talk - whether one wants them to or not. I am glad. Silent types would never have encouraged us to stand under a vast Victorian clock listening for a heartbeat.<br />
<br />
But that's enough of yesterday. Today I shall be mostly eating ...<br />
<br />
Breakfast: carrot juice with fresh ginger<br />
Lunch: carrot and orange soup.<br />
Afternoon tea: carrot cake<br />
Dinner: carrot loaf with carrot purée, carrot julienne and carrot salad.<br />
Supper: boiled carrots.<br />
<br />
The eagle-eyed amongst you will spot a <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/feedarticle/9440687">theme</a>. It could be worse. Eric Gill did <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2004/jul/24/art.biography">dreadful things</a> to his dog. I am merely planning to do dreadful things to the characterful buffet barman.Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-71778617991180773362011-01-06T00:19:00.001+00:002011-01-06T00:21:06.262+00:00Two Heads Are Better Than ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmb1m26ylIAGk8nHNfy4-ngITFPKmTqhUFK8x_rz1EEihsqF5aV1o0e3EQ4EVOlrk3e2XUxGM9m0HiZPdfog-dTaM2LD2g0xx66mub4QjV-1criZ06Gtji5ve6WlJL4PJDI-PTLoZSwf5/s1600/a+judge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmb1m26ylIAGk8nHNfy4-ngITFPKmTqhUFK8x_rz1EEihsqF5aV1o0e3EQ4EVOlrk3e2XUxGM9m0HiZPdfog-dTaM2LD2g0xx66mub4QjV-1criZ06Gtji5ve6WlJL4PJDI-PTLoZSwf5/s320/a+judge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Last night, I read a wonderful collection of short stories by Canadian author, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Gowdy">Barbara Gowdie</a>. <a href="http://browseinside.harpercollins.ca/index.aspx?isbn13=9780006475231">We So Seldom Look on Love</a> encompasses necrophilia, nymphomania, exhibitionism and voyeurism, auto-site parasites and a two-headed man - but not in a voyeuristic way. Yes, it is unusual to use two forms of voyeur twice in once sentence, but it had to be done. (For other paraphilias, click <a href="http://inkyfool.blogspot.com/2011/01/paraphilia.html">here</a>.)<br />
<br />
The <em>Two-Headed Man</em> (a story I shan't spoil for you by telling it - just read it) reminded me of the night The Banshee came crashing downstairs two hours after she'd gone to bed. <br />
'I can't sleep,' she grumbled. <br />
'Why?' asked her ever-solicitous ma, quickly stashing the <a href="http://www.tanqueray.com/">Tanqueray</a> under the sofa with an expert flick of the heel.<br />
'I'm worrying about something.' She frowned.<br />
'What is it, sweet child?' I adopted my un-frowning listening face.<br />
'It's like this, like, if Siamese Twins - '<br />
'Conjoined twins.'<br />
'Yes, them, say, like, one of them murdered someone and was caught and was put in jail, does that infringe the human rights of the twin who hasn't, like, murdered anyone and shouldn't be in jail?'<br />
'Ooh, it's a tricky one -' (Surreptitiously tries to nudge the Tanqueray back from under the sofa.)<br />
'Because, like, the innocent twin hasn't committed a crime, has he? So why should he be in prison? But the murdering twin has committed a crime so it's not fair, like, if he is free, is it?'<br />
'Erm -'<br />
'Because the murderer should be in jail. And if there was capital punishment, he could be electrocuted which would proper kill the other twin which wouldn't be, like, fair, right?'<br />
'Well -'<br />
'I don't agree with capital punishment anyway, but say I did, right, and I was a Siam - sorry - conjoined twin then it would infringe my human rights to execute me when I hadn't done anything wrong, wouldn't it?'<br />
'Yes, I mean, no. Er -'<br />
'But it's not fair for a murderer to get away with a crime, like, just because he's attached to another person, is it?'<br />
'Hmm -'<br />
'And even if you made the murderer only serve half his sentence - that's if he wasn't executed - that still wouldn't be fair to the innocent twin, would it?<br />
'Could I stop you for a moment, darling? You are infringing my basic human right to drink gin in peace when my children are in bed.'*<br />
<br />
Disatisfied with her ma's poor show, The Banshee began a letter writing campaign to the great legal minds of the country. Mainly <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/profile/marcelberlins">Marcel Berlins</a>, it has to be said. Mr Berlins did not reply. I suspect he took out an injunction. <br />
<br />
In the absence of any other great legal minds and because two heads are better than one, have you an answer to this conundrum?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* I would have said this. If I'd <em>dared</em>.</span>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-6810898732463299122011-01-04T22:31:00.002+00:002011-01-05T09:28:03.802+00:00Dum-de-Dum-de-Dum-de-Dum ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nxe-C1gVNYFT4MhnfMFFLKNc4rn9GbF_d3NsR9xtV8ybQUL0BVD4Fg_uOFiaj5PRLEWw4B4CVotjo6C619GtiqJ9lWUcItqnL_qiLmiKuADZlWKqibT52NrH-6HqfiA5V2owGGXMUo8y/s1600/Archers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nxe-C1gVNYFT4MhnfMFFLKNc4rn9GbF_d3NsR9xtV8ybQUL0BVD4Fg_uOFiaj5PRLEWw4B4CVotjo6C619GtiqJ9lWUcItqnL_qiLmiKuADZlWKqibT52NrH-6HqfiA5V2owGGXMUo8y/s1600/Archers.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>This post comes with a musical accompaniment. Click </em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XeIEovjOVdI"><em>here</em></a><em>.</em></div><br />
I have listened to the long-running radio drama, The Archers, since 1985 when a former boyfriend introduced me to the pleasures of the Sunday morning omnibus. A <em>roll in the hay</em> and buttered crumpets - the programme has fond associations. For 25 years I have devoted minutes of my life to the soap operatic tale of pig-farmers, country hoteliers, organic yoghurt-makers and the painful annual village pantomime. Therefore, I feel perfectly entitled to ask ...<br />
<br />
<em>... Why, O why, O why, O why</em> did the most boring character in the 60 year history of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/the-archers/">The Archers</a> - dull, dependable David Archer - insist that he and his brother-in-law, Nigel Pargeter, go clambering over the roof of Lower Loxley in the dark, in gusty blustery conditions when they'd both had a few drinks? <br />
<br />
It was an accident waiting to happen. <br />
<br />
And happen it did.<br />
<br />
Nigel Pargeter fell off the roof with a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8B2Y2akllSk&feature=player_embedded">blood-curdling scream</a> - which has become a popular download for mobile phone ringtones - WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? - and I am in pieces. Twice now between 7pm-7.15pm, I have had to stop what I was doing to give way to shoulder-shuddering sobs. This is very irritating because the <em>whole point</em> of The Archers is that one can listen to it whilst doing something else. In fact, if one isn't doing something else whilst listening to it, the programme is almost unbearable. And <em>sobbing</em> does not count as <em>doing</em> <em>something else</em>.<br />
<br />
Now my friend, The Editor, is very cross about this falling off the roof fiasco. After weeks of teasers, rumours and frantic gossiping on <a href="http://www.saddicts.com/">Archers' Addicts forums</a> across the world, the body count of <strong>one</strong> came as something of a disappointment. <br />
<br />
'<span data-jsid="text">I don't mind so much the half-witted toff dying, but to have to listen to him be coaxed and goaded into clambering about on an icy roof in the pitch dark, and blowing a force 40 gale BY THE MOST ARSE-ACHINGLY SENSIBLE, MOST RISK-AVERSE CHARACTER who ever drew virtual breath in Ambridge is an insult to my intelligence and a waste of the little time I have left on this planet. That is all.'</span><br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text">There are any number of characters I'd have preferred to have shuffled off their mortal coil. In joint first place: Shula, Helen and Susan. Horrid, judgemental, selfish harpies. Then, in no particular order: Kathy Perks, Will Archer, Lizzie Pargeter, Rooooooooooth Archer, Pip Archer, Tom Archer, Brian Aldridge, Tony Archer, Kate Aldridge, Brenda - that's thirteen characters who could have been dipped in batter and fried alive and listeners would have <em>cheered</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text"><a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/health-when-life-imitates-ambridge-vanessa-whitburn-editor-of-the-archers-tells-rob-stepney-how-her-nearfatal-car-crash-changed-her-views-on-life-and-the-series-1420986.html">Vanessa Witless</a>, the programme's editor - insisted that she had to get rid of a popular character in order to have an impact. I cannot see the logic in that myself. Indeed, I tried to think of a political analogy to make my point, but couldn't. (For obvious reasons.)</span><br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text">My only hope now is that after a charity polo match organised in Nigel's memory, the mini-bus containing Kathy, Will, Lizzie, Rooooooooooth, Brian and the rest, will be run off the road by an out-of-control <em>Mister Snowy</em> van, and burst into flames. Then, and only then, shall I be soothed.</span>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-80215999304607373882011-01-03T22:12:00.000+00:002011-01-03T22:12:51.949+00:00Overheard Conversation #24<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KaM-kEyRtA3FjZxqcOHenMQp9AmG31Bd2-zeV1Sfvjw2gPLSw_uLSC471WwkTf1esMjF1opLIeu3h5H_VVlzitSDTs-wr-1LP6KCOWO5VWiMSRss4z7GDT8mMCnF9nzVCShvFTtpKJKh/s1600/a+morecambe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KaM-kEyRtA3FjZxqcOHenMQp9AmG31Bd2-zeV1Sfvjw2gPLSw_uLSC471WwkTf1esMjF1opLIeu3h5H_VVlzitSDTs-wr-1LP6KCOWO5VWiMSRss4z7GDT8mMCnF9nzVCShvFTtpKJKh/s320/a+morecambe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">This conversation hasn't actually happened yet. But it will. On Friday.</span></em></div><br />
Two glamorous types (think <a href="http://www.blogcdn.com/www.politicsdaily.com/media/2010/05/thelma.jpg">Thelma and Louise</a>) are heading North in a spotlessly clean, valeted and waxed automobile.<br />
<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: Tell me again, why are we going to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morecambe">Morecambe</a>?<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: It is the hidden jewel of the North East.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: That's Filey.<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Because I'd rather go to Budapest but that wasn't probable.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: Possible?<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Everything's possible! (BEAT) Also <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Morecambe">Eric</a> has a lovely statue, one and a half times life size. And he was a big man to start with.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: Big?<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Don't be Volga! Ha! Did you see what I did there?<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: Budapest is on the Danube. <br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Near enough.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: I'd like to take a photograph of Eric, to add to my to add to my <strong>T</strong>owns <strong>W</strong>ith <strong>A</strong> <strong>T</strong>errible <strong>S</strong>culpture portfolio.<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Okie-doke. (BEAT.) You haven't mentioned my eyebrows.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: I didn't like to.<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: You always mention my eyebrows. <br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: They're a distinguishing feature.<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: They are.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: In a study, subjects were asked to identify celebrities with either their eyes or their eyebrows digitally edited out. The subjects were able to recognise the celebrity 46% of the time with their eyebrows edited out, compared to 60% of the time with their eyes edited out. <br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: And?<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: The findings indicate the importance of eyebrows in providing cues to an individual's identity.<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: So if I put two <em>Elastoplasts</em> over my eyebrows, you'd not recognise me for 54% of the time?<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: I'm not sure just how many people walk around with <em>Elastoplasts</em> over their eyebrows. You may be fairly unique in that ...<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: Hmm. Fascinating though eyebrows are, I've bought you a present. (GESTURES AT GLOVE COMPARTMENT.)<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: A CD?<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: A <em>relaxing</em> CD.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong> (READING): <em>Drifting, Alone on the Shore, Voyage of Discovery, Rainforest Rhapsody, Rising Sun, Stillness?</em><br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: And <em>Daydreaming</em>. (BEAT.) It's made in Hong Kong, you know. Without a single musician.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: Erm ..?<br />
<strong>Driver</strong>: For your insomnia. It will send you into a deep, comatose state.<br />
<strong>Artist</strong>: I was relying on Morecambe for that.<br />
<br />
<em>Roll credits</em><br />
<br />
<div align="center"></div>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-24827889273287109902011-01-02T22:55:00.001+00:002011-01-02T23:17:10.784+00:00How to Make Small Talk<div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>A cut out and keep guide</strong></em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSXhEyLLgyjfJCRyhZre4E8bY8bVSaILAvylrB_u6pmBJ4DHbMgmYKazLl5wuntBpgrgj8i0rrbRkFpFpOsBBVe7bS7lOHx8rTy9OJW5gQLL07Rh7-Cb2SOKiZbUkX8ChcBIxoJTLaxFI/s1600/a+vol-au-vent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSXhEyLLgyjfJCRyhZre4E8bY8bVSaILAvylrB_u6pmBJ4DHbMgmYKazLl5wuntBpgrgj8i0rrbRkFpFpOsBBVe7bS7lOHx8rTy9OJW5gQLL07Rh7-Cb2SOKiZbUkX8ChcBIxoJTLaxFI/s1600/a+vol-au-vent.jpg" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At this time of year, most of us have been afflicted with relatives, family gatherings, work dos, various social occasions and - let's face it - they are <em>Hell</em>.</div><br />
So, over the course of this Festive Season, I have put rather a lot of effort into finding the perfect way to make small talk - in order to make the relatives <em>et al</em> less hellish. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is the old maxim that in mixed company one must never discuss politics, religion or something else (I forget which). Having forgotten - or ignored - (<em>honestly, my thingummy is bobbins</em>) that rule of late, I am at one with Mr. Twain:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>'I am quite sure now that often, very often, in matters concerning religion and politics a man's reasoning powers are not above the monkey's.'</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Besides, this Coalition nonsense has muddied the waters somewhat. Are they Liberals? Are they - boo, hiss - Tories in Woolly Liberals' clothing? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One throwaway remark about Mick Clogg being a Dishonorable Gentleman and suddenly half the room is cutting one dead. (Which at Christmas Luncheon is <em>not</em> a Good Thing.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now to the tried and trusted methods - all of which have been thoroughly tried by your - <em>ahem</em> - Small Talk Specialist (Patent Pending).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These are opening gambits, work excellently on an intimate level - <em>à deux</em> - or can be proclaimed with confidence to a room crowded with strangers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Bourbon Biscuits? Why?</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is no need to add to this statement. The debate will rage for hours.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Is there ever a place for pineapple on a pizza?</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As above. (N.B. This conversation can take a turn for the worse unless you manage it carefully.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>- and that was when she found out he'd been having an affair with a Brazilian prostitute!</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Initially, there will be a shocked silence, but stay with it. After a moment or so, everyone will want to know the details.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Three snippets of speech - <em>voilà!</em> - all you will ever need to traverse the travails of the Social Gathering. Abandon any chatter about weather, TV talent shows, or recent books read. And please do let me know how you get on.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Note, there is no charge for my excellent advice - my being possessed of a kind and generous soul. (Mick Clogg excepted).</span></em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-3074911620855859272010-12-28T23:57:00.000+00:002010-12-28T23:57:35.811+00:00A Day in the Life of ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5YOAIwNxHt2MstlstgH1bOyu0Rsiw3vq_5XX_0SS4ACunCmZqRGBJ212SFxOTGqkzl6VjOgQtCLBCv2_t-2gIWb7n2JDBFpC2DNi7gMoCkv9-nU2mKvRoVRE9DdgdyvBIyaQ3IgUczMq/s1600/a+venus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5YOAIwNxHt2MstlstgH1bOyu0Rsiw3vq_5XX_0SS4ACunCmZqRGBJ212SFxOTGqkzl6VjOgQtCLBCv2_t-2gIWb7n2JDBFpC2DNi7gMoCkv9-nU2mKvRoVRE9DdgdyvBIyaQ3IgUczMq/s320/a+venus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Whilst dozing on the sofa this evening, I'm sure I heard that nice <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Cox_(physicist)">Mr. Cox</a> say 'A day on Venus is equivalent to a year on earth'. He was banging on about physics (which is why I was dozing), Saturn's rings, tornadoes and icebergs. With dedicated snoozing added to the equation, it was difficult to keep up. At one point his butler delivered a baby on the bathroom floor whilst his mother-in-law made cutting remarks and kept a child hidden in an attic.<br />
<br />
Still, I am counting my blessings here at Chateau Moptop. Were I in my Venusian pied-à-terre, Christmas Day would have been rather <em>more</em> difficult.<br />
<br />
<strong>6 a.m.</strong> The mini Moptops are instructed to return to bed until they develop pressure sores. 'Then, and only then, may you throw back the blankets - but please do not let the pillows float out of the window.'<br />
<br />
<strong>7 a.m.</strong> The stockings disgorge their contents. <br />
'Please, Mama, do I have to open any more presents? My fingers are bleeding.'<br />
'Don't be ridiculous, Tarquin-Hurricane, Jr. It's barely February on Planet Earth. Pass me the wrapping paper; I'm going to wrap them all up again.'<br />
<br />
<strong>10.30 a.m.</strong> Church. Who knew <em>O Little Town of Bethlehem</em> had this many verses? The sermon is long and - well - it's mainly long.<br />
<br />
<strong>Noon</strong>. Pass out the pegs. The sprouts have been boiling for 39 days now. 'No, don't open the wind-!' <br />
Too late. 'Phone Houston and request new dog.<br />
<br />
<strong>2 p.m.</strong> Lunch. The turkey is very well-cooked. 'Yes, you do have to remain at the table, Concertina-Rose. I know it hurts. That's what the memory foam cushion is for. Finish what's on your plate. You may use a straw for the sprouts.'<br />
<br />
<strong>3 p.m.</strong> The Queen's Speech. It is noted that Brenda's voice is not as squeaky as it used to be, she suits that colour and that she's looking well for a woman of eighty-two.<br />
<br />
'She said anus!' <br />
'No, she didn't, Concertina. <em>Annus</em>. It's Latin for-' <br />
'Bum!'<br />
<br />
On Planet Earth, Brenda gets ten minutes. On Venus. with days to play with, she wanders off - sorry - orf script. <br />
<br />
'Don't talk to one about Cameroon. He's terribly <em>pink</em> and his wife's in <em>Trade</em>. One doesn't think much of that Hughes chap. He's accepted a <em>Special Position</em> after putting himself in an untenable one. At least ones uncle had the balls to resign -' <br />
<br />
And so on. And on. And on.<br />
Sixty-four bottles of Bristol Cream required to toast E.R.'s good health.<br />
<br />
<strong>4 p.m.</strong> Is Monopoly the longest game in the world, or does it just feel like it? Belgravia has vanished under a mountain of Cheesy Wotsits serving as hotels. (We ran out of real pieces several months ago.)<br />
<br />
<strong>6 p.m.</strong> Dr Who Christmas Special. Everyone guffaws at the unlikely space exploits and willy-nilly abandonment of the Space and Time Continuum. <br />
<br />
<strong>7 p.m.</strong> <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/eastenders/">The Eastenders</a> Christmas Special continues until all of the regular characters have drowned in the canal, been barbecued in a blazing pub, fallen over and hit their heads on fire-surrounds, succumbed to the fumes of something in an allotment shed or been savaged by rabid whippets. The Moptops are disappointed by the lack of gangland murders this year, but look forward to an entirely new set of tragic demises in 133,316 of your Earth Days.<br />
<br />
<strong>9 p.m.</strong> Monsieur Moptop complains of a sluggish liver. We count the empty bottles and resolve to invest in a recycling business.<br />
<br />
<strong>10 p.m.</strong> The mini Moptops are force-fed the last of the mince pies. <br />
'But they're totally, like, stale.'<br />
'Well, if you hadn't opened the window, you could have fed them to the dog.'<br />
<br />
<strong>11 p.m.</strong> Exhausted by a long and festive day, we retire to our sleep pods. But not before putting the ham on to boil for the Boxing Day lunch.Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-52217134274040948832010-12-24T12:19:00.003+00:002010-12-24T12:21:54.145+00:00Voyages Around My Father's Head #6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgQCxVMpWk13s5tcby0tKIR2SnpOYWwYXNsSig8wi-M9FgKRJK7MU_sDlLk_NlZYwzO_fjXFBaRBPDwxyrhJ4z4D6FYDkN9HVHPWXXn21QK_hxUtI9btIpCeVBE1fagHUug18wpZPsU9m/s1600/a+parcel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgQCxVMpWk13s5tcby0tKIR2SnpOYWwYXNsSig8wi-M9FgKRJK7MU_sDlLk_NlZYwzO_fjXFBaRBPDwxyrhJ4z4D6FYDkN9HVHPWXXn21QK_hxUtI9btIpCeVBE1fagHUug18wpZPsU9m/s320/a+parcel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>Small Boy:</strong> GRANDAD'S ON THE 'PHONE. HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU.<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Hi, Dad. Merry Christmas.<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> Did you get our parcel?<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> No, Mum said -<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> What about our card?<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> The postman's not be-<br />
<strong>Pa</strong>: It's mid-day! Work-shy. The sooner Vincent Price privatises the Postal Service the better.<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Cable -<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> That's another thing. Did you know that you can't send a telegram these days?<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Er -<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> I tried to send one to your cousin when she got married in Jamaica -<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Jamaica?<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> I think she had to, yes. She was fatter than usual. Telegrams were abolished in 1981. <em>Or so she said</em>. <br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Who said?<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> The woman at the Post Office. I wish you'd pay attention. So you haven't had our parcel?<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> No, Mum said -<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> <em>Snow!</em> They manage all right in Alaska. And Finland. And Norway. And -<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Mum said -<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> <em>Phone them up</em>!<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Finland?<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> Phone the Post Office. Find out what's happened to my parcel.<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> Mum says you've had your parcel. It arrived last week.<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> No, <em>your</em> parcel. <em>And</em> your card. You should've had it by now.<br />
<strong>Woman:</strong> When did you post it?<br />
<strong>Pa:</strong> Hang on, I'll ask your mother. <em>When did we post the parcel?</em> (BEAT) <em>What? Oh.</em><br />
<strong>Woman</strong>: Did you send it Recorded Delivery?<br />
<strong>Pa</strong>: Your mother said we didn't send a parcel. We put money in the children's bank accounts instead.Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-82063208928192215142010-12-19T22:54:00.000+00:002010-12-19T22:54:08.023+00:00Great Hairy Ruins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZTsPZwxd00wyIUkY9hIr4xhvgXt5jRyBvdiWpcroNcmfGc3jK2L0lafFYFb3Db0S5L0TYawzuVDddFo1X9MpM4AU6dHCRV3rfLvi9-0BxTQrx2Esrt01drm0eMQbwZTkBpX4z3mSWlMS/s1600/a+letters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZTsPZwxd00wyIUkY9hIr4xhvgXt5jRyBvdiWpcroNcmfGc3jK2L0lafFYFb3Db0S5L0TYawzuVDddFo1X9MpM4AU6dHCRV3rfLvi9-0BxTQrx2Esrt01drm0eMQbwZTkBpX4z3mSWlMS/s320/a+letters.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I wish I could read dictionaries properly. Well, obviously I can <em>read</em> them; I just can't pronounce all the words. They have little symbols above letters which inform one - for example - whether the <em>o</em> is short or long (apparently). Only I can't read the symbols. It's some sort of code, I believe. <br />
<br />
I went looking for an explanation and found <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pronunciation_respelling_for_English">this</a>, which only made my head hurt. <br />
<br />
<em>Thesaurus</em> is one of those words I never really know how to pronounce. Is it thes-<u>aur</u>-us as in tyrannos<u>aur</u>us? Or <u>thes</u>-aur-us as in - well, I can't think of an example. <br />
<br />
(In my younger days, I once got into a terrible muddle with a clitoris. I thought the stress fell on the 'or' which isn't good when one is trying to give directions.)<br />
<br />
I am thinking about dictionaries today because one of the Sunday papers ran an article on a new book based on <em>A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue</em>, published in 1785 by Captain Francis Grose. I cannot give you a link to the article as the paper thinks readers should pay for the privilege of being subjected to advertisements for Mercedes Benz motorcars, but I can give you the link to the text of the original book. <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=1952002&pageno=1">Here!</a> And don't blame me if you are lost for days wandering amongst totty-headed mopsies, sosse brangles, twiddle poops and fribbles ... Welcome, in fact, to <em>Blowsabella's</em> Pitstop.<br />
<br />
By the way, I am hugely amused to read that Capn. Grose was ably assisted by one Hell-fire Dick, Esq. of Cambridge. Now, there's a name that lingers on the tongue.<br />
<br />
Slang is a funny affair. Many of Cap'n Grose's words lollop from the mouth charmingly and yet their meanings are lost to us. Modern slang is not nearly so lovely. For example, <em>Twitter</em> is an online thingum - O, I don't know, look it up. Anyway, <em>Twits </em>are people who use <em>Twitter</em>. They <em>tweet</em> to each other. <em>I tweet/you tweet/he/she/it tweets</em>. <em>Twits</em> whose <em>tweets</em> are read by lots of other <em>twits</em> are called <em>The Twitterati</em>. Some of them are <em>Twats</em> - that's past tense, not gratuitous swearing.* And all of this appears (a.k.a. masquerading as <em>News</em>) in respectable broadsheets without a raised eyebrow. Even Cap'n Grose showed greater delicacy:<br />
<br />
<em>THINGSTABLE. Mr. Thingstable; Mr. Constable: a ludicrous affectation of delicacy in avoiding the pronunciation of the first syllable in the title of that officer, which in sound has some similarity to an indecent monosyllable</em>.<br />
<br />
Perhaps <a href="http://moptop-moptopspitstop.blogspot.com/2010/12/excellent-start-to-day.html">Mr Naughtie</a> should refer to the Culture Secretary as <em>Jeremy Thing</em>?<br />
<br />
Anthony Buckeridge knew that slang was ephemeral and invented his own for the boys at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linbury_Court_Preparatory_School">Linbury Court School</a>. Ozard (meaning bad) is the opposite of wizard (meaning good). Anyone at all clumsy, irritating or slow on the uptake is a <em>great hairy ruin</em> - which I'm campaigning to bring back into general usage (with some difficulty, I might add). <br />
<br />
My society, the Campaign <span style="font-size: xx-small;">for</span> Usage <span style="font-size: xx-small;">of</span> Non-standard Terms (abbreviated to T.H.I.N.G. for obvious reasons) will be launched in the New Year. In the meantime, please consider joining <a href="http://www.savethewords.org/">Save The Words</a>. <br />
<br />
O, and if anyone can tell me another name for thesaurus I'd be ever so grateful.<br />
<br />
<em>* <span style="font-size: x-small;">And the band played Believe It If You Will.</span></em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-69804832790537644042010-12-12T01:24:00.002+00:002010-12-12T12:44:11.909+00:00Inking Aloud<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOX0p6hs7aUoPNg9udIpniuAfEjklZxH1eru1aHIrsv7dlLlvNDsZ8NtAVtlLV-zC1SXAcDVLYgKjLbl5XPqY7yvO5jEgWCLKHoBK2Y8F4BYQ_-Ivq1pCUzjnCdeWZLgkKwwci43N1Qoto/s1600/a+tat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOX0p6hs7aUoPNg9udIpniuAfEjklZxH1eru1aHIrsv7dlLlvNDsZ8NtAVtlLV-zC1SXAcDVLYgKjLbl5XPqY7yvO5jEgWCLKHoBK2Y8F4BYQ_-Ivq1pCUzjnCdeWZLgkKwwci43N1Qoto/s320/a+tat.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Talking of tattoos, I once dated a journalist who, when he was a <em>Cub Reporter</em>, had the misfortune to be put on Magistrate Court duty for months on end. Only one case stuck in his mind: Watergate.<br />
<br />
Sorry, that wasn't it at all and if it had been it would have been petty theft in the Watergate Shopping Centre. No, the one case which the then (short-lived) innamorata remembered involved a man charged with breaking the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Obscene_Publications_Acts">Obscene Publications Act</a>. My (but not for very long) chap turned up with his notebook. The defendant was slumped in the dock, a woolly hat pulled low over his brow. It was a hot summer's day and the man looked in danger of overheating. The Magistrate listened to the evidence of the Police and mulled over the charges. Eventually he looked solemnly at the defendant. <br />
<br />
"Well, Mr. Shearer*, it is clear to me that every time you take off your hat, you run the risk of arrest. Either keep your hat on or grow a fringe. I am imposing a fine of -". <br />
<br />
And so on.<br />
<br />
Mr. Shearer - who was from Newcastle, by the way - in a fit of - what? Anarchy? Idiocy? Naked aggression? - had been tattooed across his forehead. Capital letters in blue ink announced :<br />
<br />
<em>**** OFF OR I'LL KILL YOU!</em><br />
<br />
I've remembered this for reasons which will become clear. For one, I've just read a short story which toys with a tattoo. It's in Polly Samson's <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Perfect-Lives-Polly-Samson/dp/1860499929/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1292113881&sr=1-1">latest collection</a> which I've put down somewhere and now can't find. Anyway, it's very good. Then, of course, there's <a href="http://members.multimania.co.uk/shortstories/oconnorparkersback.html">Parker's Back</a> by Flannery O'Connor which is funny yet utterly, utterly heartbreaking. <a href="http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/501/">The Background</a> by Saki is cleverer than a clever thing should be. It might even be the genesis of another short: <a href="http://roalddahl.wikia.com/wiki/Skin">Skin</a> by Roald Dahl. And there are more tattoos than you could shake a dagger-pierced rose at in John Irving's novel <a href="http://contemporarylit.about.com/od/fiction/fr/untilIFindYou.htm">Until I Find You</a>. The tattooists mentioned therein are <em>real people</em>, as I discovered when I read Taschen's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/1000-Tattoos-Taschen-Henk-Schiffmacher/dp/3822841072">1000 Tattoos</a>.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I haven't got a tattoo. I wouldn't dare. My mother glared at my pierced ears for decades. <br />
<br />
"If God had intended you to have holes in your ears, you'd have been born with holes in your ears." <br />
<br />
After fifteen years she didn't even need to make this statement aloud. I could hear her <em>thinking</em> it.<br />
<br />
She extends this logic to body art. "You'll never get buried in a Jewish Cemetery if you get a tattoo." <br />
<br />
The fact that we're not actually Jewish would be more of a hindrance to burial in <a href="http://ivarfjeld.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/mount-of-olives-04.jpg">The Mount of Olives</a>, I suspect, than a tasteful butterfly on my ankle ...<br />
<br />
Last week, I was talking to a man in his mid-eighties. I asked him about the tattoo on his forearm. He'd had it done at the Seaman's Mission in The Dingle. He pointed at a smudged and faded name. "I was knockin' about with a tart called Vera," he said. "And then I married Dolly and it caused me no end of trouble." <br />
<br />
This morning was spent revolting again. (<em>The Cuts</em>, dear, must I remind you?) I have an antipathy to being addressed as <em>Brother</em> or <em>Sister</em> (even by close relations) but <em>Comrade</em> was a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moniker">moniker</a> too far. It propelled me towards a short spree of capitalist consumerism - and an eyebrow wax. <br />
<br />
Alana, a purple-haired beautician whom I'd never previously met but am now intimately acquainted with, showed me - and I must stress that I had not mentioned tattoos <em>at all </em>at this point despite your impression that I'm obsessed with the things - her bum. A crown with <em>Grandma</em> inked above it. She then suggested I had my eyebrows tattooed. I declined (in more ways than one). After witnessing <em>Grandma</em>, I'd have been left with an expression of permanent surprise.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Not his real name</span></em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-33077586105829195192010-12-07T23:23:00.002+00:002010-12-07T23:57:51.916+00:00Two wrongs absolutely do make a right<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3ecQfn-8IXizOyCStl9V-QfVPCCvm6nrzI4icg0OYLy39TLabckc7N81GYY7ieOPw1_F6x2bXNi-RYtTSkAZ_GSBm5KT18aYwILF8cJR_bHAu9nXzY9tnE9U_8rBDvuYr_Yv2WI_Gcjj/s1600/a+apple+core.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3ecQfn-8IXizOyCStl9V-QfVPCCvm6nrzI4icg0OYLy39TLabckc7N81GYY7ieOPw1_F6x2bXNi-RYtTSkAZ_GSBm5KT18aYwILF8cJR_bHAu9nXzY9tnE9U_8rBDvuYr_Yv2WI_Gcjj/s320/a+apple+core.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>This post will attempt to combine mathematics, grammar and naughty school boys in a seamless and educative fashion.<br />
<br />
Here goes. <br />
<br />
I once brought my mathematics teacher close to a nervous breakdown. (At least that's what he said to my mother at parents' evening.)<br />
<br />
Mr Kilburn had spent weeks explaining the concept of negative numbers. In one particular lesson, I must have snorted loudly or made some other indication of disdain.<br />
<br />
'What was that, Moptop?'<br />
'Nothing, Mr. Kilburn, Sir.'<br />
'Were you sniggering?''<br />
'Not exactly, Sir. It was more of a sigh.'<br />
'A sigh? Why?'<br />
'Well, it's these negative numbers, Sir. I don't believe in 'em.'<br />
'You don't believe in them?'<br />
'No, Sir.'<br />
'But, Moptop, if I gave you an apple and you ate it, you would have minus one apple.'<br />
'No, Sir, I'd have an apple core.'<br />
<br />
And so on. The battle over the existence of negative numbers ran three times a week for two years and goes a long way to explaining the <em>Unclassified</em> mark in my Maths 'O' Level.<br />
<br />
Today, in a moment of rare joy and rapture, I stumbled across a copy of <em>The Best of </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jennings_(novels)"><em>Jennings</em></a><em> </em>by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Buckeridge">Anthony Buckeridge</a>. (I stumbled in all senses of the words as it was a pile 'em high, sell 'em low book shop - only the staff had Spoonerised this instruction.) I've been reading it tonight and am half way through Book One. <br />
<br />
For most of my childhood, Jennings was my hero - along with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nigel_Molesworth">Nigel Molesworth</a> and William Brown. (Yes, I've always had a penchant for naughty boys.) In the local library, there was a row of Jennings' books which I worked my way through (1 - 23*) and then started from the beginning again. Tonight, I am beginning to understand that Jennings was clearly a very bad influence on an <em>innocent</em> and <em>impressionable</em> young mind. <br />
<br />
Stop laughing.<br />
<br />
Jennings has an answer for everything, using an admirable form of logic. For example: instructed to label his gym shoes he writes his name in one shoe and 'ditto' in the other. Half way through Chapter Six tonight, I realised that Jennings is the reason I argued with Mr. Kilburn. He is the reason I failed Maths 'O' Level. He is the reason my bank account likes negative numbers - which I still don't believe in. <br />
<br />
I should sue that library.<br />
<br />
It was odd that I couldn't bring myself to believe in something that wasn't there (not least because for several years I harboured ambitions to be a missionary). Odd, because I had very much taken to heart <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Brown">William Brown's</a> assertion that 'Two negatives make a positive.' In one** of the <em>Just </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Brown_(fictional_boy)"><em>William</em> </a> stories, he asks his mother, Mrs Brown, whether he can have a party whilst she is away. 'No, William, you may not,' is the reply. William takes the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double_negative">double negative</a> to mean that, yes, he can have a party - a technique I employed several times myself during my teens.<br />
<br />
A double negative in English works thus: <em>No, I do not agree</em> becomes <em>I certainly agree</em>.<br />
<br />
Therefore <em>No, you may not have a party</em> becomes <em>Of course you can have a party. Please blow the dust off the Créme de Menthe and make a lethal punch that will bring most guests to their knees after three sips. Also, refilling the whiskey bottles with cold tea and the vodka bottles with water is absolutely fine by me</em>.<br />
<br />
I recently applied the double negative rule to a double <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double_entendre">double entendre</a> using the logic that one cancelled out the other.<br />
<br />
It doesn't.<br />
<br />
And neither does eating two apples result in minus two apples, but rather plus two apple cores.<br />
<br />
Still, none of this is my fault as I was brainwashed as a child. That's mine, Jennings', William's and Nigel's story and we're sticking to it.<br />
<br />
* <span style="font-size: x-small;">Books 24 & 25 were written in 1991 & 1994 when I was going through my Virago Modern Classics phase.</span><br />
<br />
** <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>A Question of Grammer</em> is in <em>Just William</em> (1922)</span>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186196426989121501.post-86109135778979058572010-12-06T21:23:00.000+00:002010-12-06T21:23:13.003+00:00An excellent start to the day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBi7PtzJotGLAWA1WHeXM8QX92mc4eKPrqomii5KWDMAQeSszOBHr3rwDwQAE4QeIX52MF5LYNa10uVlK-WTfifluOECnnYluizS_RD_eJDQC-IIwmC-EwQZ78OylyO3NBSujtlDn-Q-4H/s1600/a+spoons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBi7PtzJotGLAWA1WHeXM8QX92mc4eKPrqomii5KWDMAQeSszOBHr3rwDwQAE4QeIX52MF5LYNa10uVlK-WTfifluOECnnYluizS_RD_eJDQC-IIwmC-EwQZ78OylyO3NBSujtlDn-Q-4H/s320/a+spoons.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><br />
<br />
O, what joy! What delight! Though doubtless not in Tunbridge Wells where they are easily offended.<br />
<br />
During this morning's BBC Radio 4 Today programme, presenter James Naughtie said a very 'naughtie' word in relation to Jeremy Hunt, the Culture Secretary. Although, it must be said, someone else suggested it <a href="http://moptop-moptopspitstop.blogspot.com/2010/07/there-once-was-tory-named-hunt.html#comments">first</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YS5mVoqJpUk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YS5mVoqJpUk</a><br />
<br />
<em>Warning! Do not click on this link if you reside in Tunbridge Wells. Naughty Naughtie has been inundated by emails from your compatriots. Please do not add to the gentleman's distress.</em><br />
<br />
Naughtie was guilty of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spoonerism">Spoonerism</a>, although many more tongue-tangles were attributed to the Revd. Spooner than he unaged to matter. I wish the Revd. really had said: "Three cheers for our queer old dean!" mostly because I'm hoping to use the line myself - fully credited - in the near future. (Spoonering soon.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_Arthur_Strong's_Radio_Show!">Count Arthur Strong</a> also appears - though it is beyond me how <em>anyone</em> can 'appear' on the wireless - on BBC Radio 4. He could spoon for Britain. I expect it's a Desirable/Essential quality for employment by Auntie. Still, here's a thought: a new Olympic sporting category that we'd have a sporting chance of winning - <em>Spoonerisming</em> . As long as we didn't meet Finland* in the final.<br />
<br />
So, with 2012 looming/bearing down fast/hurtling towards us, we - as in The Nation not just the select band who visit Chez Moptop - must get behind the soon-to-be-announced sport of Spoonerisms. Let us start with a warm up exercise. All together now:<br />
<br />
I am not the pheasant plucker, <br />
I'm the pheasant plucker's mate. <br />
I am only plucking pheasants <br />
Cos the pheasant plucker's running late. <br />
<br />
I am not a pheasant plucker, <br />
I'm a pheasant plucker's son. <br />
I am only plucking pheasants <br />
Till the pheasant plucker comes. <br />
<br />
- though - PLEASE - do not practise in Tunbridge Wells. I'm on their <em>list</em> as it is.<br />
<br />
<em>* If you are troubled with insomnia, you might care to read this article about how </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sananmuunnos"><em>Finns spoon</em></a><em>.</em>Moptophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03043271018134053860noreply@blogger.com3