Two Heads Are Better Than ...

Last night, I read a wonderful collection of short stories by Canadian author, Barbara Gowdie.  We So Seldom Look on Love 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 here.)

The Two-Headed Man (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.
'I can't sleep,' she grumbled.
'Why?' asked her ever-solicitous ma, quickly stashing the Tanqueray under the sofa with an expert flick of the heel.
'I'm worrying about something.' She frowned.
'What is it, sweet child?' I adopted my un-frowning listening face.
'It's like this, like, if Siamese Twins - '
'Conjoined twins.'
'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?'
'Ooh, it's a tricky one -' (Surreptitiously tries to nudge the Tanqueray back from under the sofa.)
'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?'
'Erm -'
'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?'
'Well -'
'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?'
'Yes, I mean, no. Er -'
'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?'
'Hmm -'
'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?
'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.'*

Disatisfied with her ma's poor show, The Banshee began a letter writing campaign to the great legal minds of the country. Mainly Marcel Berlins, it has to be said. Mr Berlins did not reply. I suspect he took out an injunction.

In the absence of any other great legal minds and because two heads are better than one, have you an answer to this conundrum?

* I would have said this. If I'd dared.

Dum-de-Dum-de-Dum-de-Dum ...

This post comes with a musical accompaniment. Click here.

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 roll in the hay 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 ...

... Why, O why, O why, O why did the most boring character in the 60 year history of The Archers  - 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?

It was an accident waiting to happen.

And happen it did.

Nigel Pargeter fell off the roof with a blood-curdling scream - 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 whole point 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 sobbing does not count as doing something else.

Now my friend, The Editor, is very cross about this falling off the roof fiasco. After weeks of teasers, rumours and frantic gossiping on Archers' Addicts forums across the world, the body count of one came as something of a disappointment.

'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.'

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 cheered.

Vanessa Witless, 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.)

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 Mister Snowy van, and burst into flames. Then, and only then, shall I be soothed.

Overheard Conversation #24

This conversation hasn't actually happened yet. But it will. On Friday.

Two glamorous types (think Thelma and Louise) are heading North in a spotlessly clean, valeted and waxed automobile.

Artist: Tell me again, why are we going to Morecambe?
Driver: It is the hidden jewel of the North East.
Artist: That's Filey.
Driver: Because I'd rather go to Budapest but that wasn't probable.
Artist: Possible?
Driver: Everything's possible! (BEAT) Also Eric has a lovely statue, one and a half times life size. And he was a big man to start with.
Artist: Big?
Driver: Don't be Volga! Ha! Did you see what I did there?
Artist: Budapest is on the Danube.
Driver: Near enough.
Artist: I'd like to take a photograph of Eric, to add to my to add to my Towns With A Terrible Sculpture portfolio.
Driver: Okie-doke. (BEAT.) You haven't mentioned my eyebrows.
Artist: I didn't like to.
Driver: You always mention my eyebrows.
Artist: They're a distinguishing feature.
Driver: They are.
Artist: 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.
Driver: And?
Artist: The findings indicate the importance of eyebrows in providing cues to an individual's identity.
Driver: So if I put two Elastoplasts over my eyebrows, you'd not recognise me for 54% of the time?
Artist: I'm not sure just how many people walk around with Elastoplasts over their eyebrows. You may be fairly unique in that ...
Driver: Hmm. Fascinating though eyebrows are, I've bought you a present. (GESTURES AT GLOVE COMPARTMENT.)
Artist: A CD?
Driver: A relaxing CD.
Artist (READING): Drifting, Alone on the Shore, Voyage of Discovery, Rainforest Rhapsody, Rising Sun, Stillness?
Driver: And Daydreaming. (BEAT.) It's made in Hong Kong, you know. Without a single musician.
Artist: Erm ..?
Driver: For your insomnia. It will send you into a deep, comatose state.
Artist: I was relying on Morecambe for that.

Roll credits



How to Make Small Talk

A cut out and keep guide

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 Hell.

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 et al less hellish.
 

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 -  (honestly, my thingummy is bobbins) that rule of late, I am at one with Mr. Twain:

'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.'

Besides, this Coalition nonsense has muddied the waters somewhat. Are they Liberals? Are they - boo, hiss - Tories in Woolly Liberals' clothing?

One throwaway remark about Mick Clogg being a Dishonorable Gentleman and suddenly half the room is cutting one dead. (Which at Christmas Luncheon is not a Good Thing.)

Now to the tried and trusted methods  - all of which have been thoroughly tried by your - ahem - Small Talk Specialist (Patent Pending).

These are opening gambits, work excellently on an intimate level - à deux - or can be proclaimed with confidence to a room crowded with strangers.

Bourbon Biscuits? Why?

There is no need to add to this statement. The debate will rage for hours.

Is there ever a place for pineapple on a pizza?

As above. (N.B. This conversation can take a turn for the worse unless you manage it carefully.)

- and that was when she found out he'd been having an affair with a Brazilian prostitute!

Initially, there will be a shocked silence, but stay with it. After a moment or so, everyone will want to know the details.

Three snippets of speech - voilà! - 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.

Note, there is no charge for my excellent advice - my being possessed of a kind and generous soul. (Mick Clogg excepted).

A Day in the Life of ...

Whilst dozing on the sofa this evening, I'm sure I heard that nice Mr. Cox 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.

Still, I am counting my blessings here at Chateau Moptop. Were I in my Venusian pied-à-terre, Christmas Day would have been rather more difficult.

6 a.m. 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.'

7 a.m. The stockings disgorge their contents.
'Please, Mama, do I have to open any more presents? My fingers are bleeding.'
'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.'

10.30 a.m. Church. Who knew O Little Town of Bethlehem had this many verses? The sermon is long and - well - it's mainly long.

Noon. Pass out the pegs. The sprouts have been boiling for 39 days now. 'No, don't open the wind-!'
Too late. 'Phone Houston and request new dog.

2 p.m. 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.'

3 p.m. 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.

'She said anus!'
'No, she didn't, Concertina. Annus. It's Latin for-'
'Bum!'

On Planet Earth, Brenda gets ten minutes. On Venus. with days to play with, she wanders off - sorry - orf script.

'Don't talk to one about Cameroon. He's terribly pink and his wife's in Trade. One doesn't think much of that Hughes chap. He's accepted a Special Position after putting himself in an untenable one. At least ones uncle had the balls to resign -'

And so on. And on. And on.
Sixty-four bottles of Bristol Cream required to toast E.R.'s good health.

4 p.m. 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.)

6 p.m. Dr Who Christmas Special. Everyone guffaws at the unlikely space exploits and willy-nilly abandonment of the Space and Time Continuum.

7 p.m. The Eastenders 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.

9 p.m. Monsieur Moptop complains of a sluggish liver. We count the empty bottles and resolve to invest in a recycling business.

10 p.m. The mini Moptops are force-fed the last of the mince pies.
'But they're totally, like, stale.'
'Well, if you hadn't opened the window, you could have fed them to the dog.'

11 p.m. 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.

Voyages Around My Father's Head #6

Small Boy: GRANDAD'S ON THE 'PHONE. HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU.
Woman: Hi, Dad. Merry Christmas.
Pa: Did you get our parcel?
Woman: No, Mum said -
Pa: What about our card?
Woman: The postman's not be-
Pa: It's mid-day! Work-shy. The sooner Vincent Price privatises the Postal Service the better.
Woman: Cable -
Pa: That's another thing. Did you know that you can't send a telegram these days?
Woman: Er -
Pa: I tried to send one to your cousin when she got married in Jamaica -
Woman: Jamaica?
Pa: I think she had to, yes. She was fatter than usual. Telegrams were abolished in 1981. Or so she said.
Woman: Who said?
Pa: The woman at the Post Office. I wish you'd pay attention. So you haven't had our parcel?
Woman: No, Mum said -
Pa: Snow! They manage all right in Alaska. And Finland. And Norway. And -
Woman: Mum said -
Pa: Phone them up!
Woman: Finland?
Pa: Phone the Post Office. Find out what's happened to my parcel.
Woman: Mum says you've had your parcel. It arrived last week.
Pa: No, your parcel. And your card. You should've had it by now.
Woman: When did you post it?
Pa: Hang on, I'll ask your mother. When did we post the parcel? (BEAT) What? Oh.
Woman: Did you send it Recorded Delivery?
Pa: Your mother said we didn't send a parcel. We put money in the children's bank accounts instead.

Great Hairy Ruins

I wish I could read dictionaries properly. Well, obviously I can read them; I just can't pronounce all the words. They have little symbols above letters which inform one - for example - whether the o is short or long (apparently). Only I can't read the symbols. It's some sort of code, I believe.

I went looking for an explanation and found this, which only made my head hurt.

Thesaurus is one of those words I never really know how to pronounce. Is it thes-aur-us as in tyrannosaurus? Or thes-aur-us as in - well, I can't think of an example.

(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.)

I am thinking about dictionaries today because one of the Sunday papers ran an article on a new book based on A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 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. Here! 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 Blowsabella's Pitstop.

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.

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, Twitter is an online thingum - O, I don't know, look it up. Anyway, Twits are people who use Twitter. They tweet to each other. I tweet/you tweet/he/she/it tweets. Twits whose tweets are read by lots of other twits are called The Twitterati. Some of them are Twats - that's past tense, not gratuitous swearing.* And all of this appears (a.k.a. masquerading as News) in respectable broadsheets without a raised eyebrow. Even Cap'n Grose showed greater delicacy:

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.

Perhaps Mr Naughtie should refer to the Culture Secretary as Jeremy Thing?

Anthony Buckeridge knew that slang was ephemeral and invented his own for the boys at Linbury Court School. Ozard (meaning bad) is the opposite of wizard (meaning good). Anyone at all clumsy, irritating or slow on the uptake is a great hairy ruin - which I'm campaigning to bring back into general usage (with some difficulty, I might add).

My society, the Campaign for Usage of 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 Save The Words.

O, and if anyone can tell me another name for thesaurus I'd be ever so grateful.

* And the band played Believe It If You Will.