Having a coffee and a fag and a squint through the morning papers I found the following story in The Grauniad.
'Animal lovers hit the roof after it was revealed that Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney strapped his Irish setter to the top of his car during a 12-hour drive from Boston to Ontario, terrifying the dog and causing a health hazard to other road users'.
Bearing in mind that the US President is also, de facto, GB President, the possibility that this dickhead could have his finger on The Nuclear Button is enough to turn a poor Merkin to drink.
Ah well, it is still only Saturday morning and already we have had some grist for the mill.
Thinking about the diaphanously attired Lavender's story of the morning cabaret, I was trying to think of a suitable title to describe my weekend so far on the blog.
Gottit.
'Flashers and Fuckwits' seems to say it all.
What a life is led by some people, no?
And then it gets even more surreal.
During my time in Poland, lessons occasionally centred on National Drinking Habits.
A very important topic for the majority of Poles - not just those in my classes.
Usual questions, of course, from the students.
Do you prefer Scotch or Irish or American Whiskey?
What can I say?
Do you like Wodka?
What can I say?
Do you drink it the Polish way?
What can I say?
Do Scottish women drink?
What can I say?
Then the question of toasting arises.
In Poland, they say 'Na Zdrowie' as most people would know.
Naturally, there are lots of alternatives.
Often you will hear what sounds like 'Dengko'.
(A 'dengko' is the thick bottom of a glass)
My uni-polar favourite is 'Na Pohybel' which, roughly, means 'Fuckit All'.
We talk about the English versions.
Cheers.
Your health.
All the best etc. etc.
Someone with an older book (or a previous teacher with a wicked sense of humour) will inevitably come across with 'Bottoms Up' which, for years, he has probably roared with pride every time he has actually met, dah dah dah.........................
'An Englishman'.
I give them my idiosyncratic favourite, 'In Like Flynn', without explaining to them the full horror of the actual meaning of the phrase.
Which brings me back to the subject of Saturday morning mirth.
So, once again.
Having a fag and a coffee and a squint through the morning papers and a thought of that morning cabaret in Nottingham and the stupid American Presidential Candidate and a listen to the Queen opening the Scottish parliament.
OK. Still with me?
Gooood.
So, with my head cooking on all cylinders I am in reasonable form when the Cocktail Party Phenomenon kicks in.
Did he really just say that?
Astounded, gobsmacked, speechless all spring to mind.
As Our Dear Friend might say, 'I can feel a moment of weakness coming on. Dear Boy, where are my smelling salts' as he sweeps the back of his hand across his forehead.
The political analysts have been discussing the possibility of Scottish Independence with Queen as Head of State.
One of them suggests that Our Liz is not stupid and that, with regard to the discussions, the Palace would be 'In Like Flynn'.
In Like Flynn?
In Like Flynn??
In Like Flynn???
For those of you not so familiar with the origin of this phrase , just let me tell you it is not something I would commonly associate with The Queen or Holyrood Palace.
Pause.
See what I mean?
(Later, on reflection.
The Queen - No!
The Queen Mother - Yes!, for certain.)
Well, we started with Dogs and Arseholes and finished up with The Queen and a Ten Inch Dick.
The weekend is going well, so far.
Can't last.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Monday, 25 June 2007
Drunk in charge of an unlicensed Merkin.
From time to time the Murdoch press gives us another scare story about the monolithic EU entity and attempts at protecting something or other.
We have often been regaled with tales of the soon-to-be bog standard sausage, tomato, blondie or even Defence Policy.
Most are worthy of no more than a laugh but some strike to the heart.
The following story should send a shiver down your wherever.
'Kilt wearers may need to get a licence for their sporrans it was revealed yesterday.
If they don't they could face a £5000 fine or even be jailed for 6 months'.
Part of a new scheme to protect endangered wild animals (in this case otters and badgers rather than sporrans, I hasten to add).
The regulations require anyone who has aquired any part of a range of protected species since 1994 to register it with the authorities.
The legislation apparently also covers 'fishing flies' made from animal hair.
In general, we would agree with the laudable aims of legislation to protect our flora and fauna.
However, what these Loony Commissars have neglected to consider is that this legislation will also apply to Merkins.
Shock horror.
Suddenly, I am an endangered species.
For those of you who are less than familiar with the ins and outs of The Merkin reality, have a gander at a description or two from MerkinWorld.
'A pubic wig or merkin as it was earlier known made its debut in 1450. It was used as a device to cover syphilitic pustules and gonorrheal warts in the genital area'.
The chosen material does vary but can be Yak hair or Human hair.
Now it is bad enough for those members of the Tartan Army who may have to suffer the indignity of DNA testing in the nether regions, but I am just a walking invitation to be arrested by any young plod eager to make a name for himself.
Imagine the conversation on a Friday night.
-Name sir.
-Errr, Merkin, hic, Occiffer, hic
- Aha, are you licensed according to the 1994 Protection of Wild Animals Ammendment, sir?
-Dunno, hic, Orifice, hic
-I shall need to take down your particulars, sir
-Not bloody, likely, hic
-Lettsby Avenue, sir
Extra-ordinary rendition to Bulgaria for DNA analysis must surely follow.
And then what?.
You lot have got it just soooo easy with ID Cards to look forward to.
We have often been regaled with tales of the soon-to-be bog standard sausage, tomato, blondie or even Defence Policy.
Most are worthy of no more than a laugh but some strike to the heart.
The following story should send a shiver down your wherever.
'Kilt wearers may need to get a licence for their sporrans it was revealed yesterday.
If they don't they could face a £5000 fine or even be jailed for 6 months'.
Part of a new scheme to protect endangered wild animals (in this case otters and badgers rather than sporrans, I hasten to add).
The regulations require anyone who has aquired any part of a range of protected species since 1994 to register it with the authorities.
The legislation apparently also covers 'fishing flies' made from animal hair.
In general, we would agree with the laudable aims of legislation to protect our flora and fauna.
However, what these Loony Commissars have neglected to consider is that this legislation will also apply to Merkins.
Shock horror.
Suddenly, I am an endangered species.
For those of you who are less than familiar with the ins and outs of The Merkin reality, have a gander at a description or two from MerkinWorld.
'A pubic wig or merkin as it was earlier known made its debut in 1450. It was used as a device to cover syphilitic pustules and gonorrheal warts in the genital area'.
The chosen material does vary but can be Yak hair or Human hair.
Now it is bad enough for those members of the Tartan Army who may have to suffer the indignity of DNA testing in the nether regions, but I am just a walking invitation to be arrested by any young plod eager to make a name for himself.
Imagine the conversation on a Friday night.
-Name sir.
-Errr, Merkin, hic, Occiffer, hic
- Aha, are you licensed according to the 1994 Protection of Wild Animals Ammendment, sir?
-Dunno, hic, Orifice, hic
-I shall need to take down your particulars, sir
-Not bloody, likely, hic
-Lettsby Avenue, sir
Extra-ordinary rendition to Bulgaria for DNA analysis must surely follow.
And then what?.
You lot have got it just soooo easy with ID Cards to look forward to.
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Travails with my GrumpyAunt
It was all going so well.
Well, just about.
We had reached the airport with no major problems apart from the usual traffic jams near Brent Cross.
Even managed to get the promised wheelchair .
Had to wait in a queue to check in.
Done. Painlessly.
Through security to the Departure lounge.
Only had to go through the metal detector three times (normal).
Amazing how a pack of tic-tacs can send the combined weight of Her Majesty and BAA into a frenzy.
Fortunately, no internal search this time (I remember it well).
So, it's still going well.
We decide to get some food for 'Our Dear Friend who can't eat so much or walk so far'.
(Later, I find out that Our Dear Friend makes Desperate Dan seem like like a rank amateur and, where appropriate, Red Rum seem like a knackered carthorse, but that is for another time)
Me?. I want a fag.
Search the whole of the Departure Lounge before finding, in front of my eyes, the Smoking Area which is right in the centre of the place.
One extra fag for the 'sure to come' hitches. And another just to be sure.
So far, so good.
Too good, so far.
Time to go and the wheelchair has gone walkies.
Shite.
We have still to negotiate the tourist run (a zig-zag maze that Capability Brown would have been proud of) through the bowels of the magnificent airport that is Stansted.
I speak to the help desk.
We need another wheelchair.
There isn't one.
There must be.
There isn't.
Get me something, anything, a milk float, a flymo, anything.
Just something to get HIM onto that plane.
Does the nationality matter, sir?.
Why?.
We have some illegal immigrants in detention who are looking for work.
They don't speak English, I must warn you.
I don't give two fucks, just get them here.
And so the four Russian Gypsy midgets with the Sedan chair were summoned.
'What the fuck is this?' I said when they arrived.
Well, sir, the choice was this lot or the Indonesian Rickshaw Drivers or the 4 Coptic Egyptians with Cleopatra's palliase. Would they be better, perhaps?
Ok, Ok, ok, the Russians will do, they'll do.
And so, stately as a galleon, we negotiated the rapids of the Stansted Departure lounge.
In front, a Boldscot in full regalia (bikers waistcoat, kilt and shaven head and, by this time, shaven brain, too)
A sedan chair with an Anticant prodding a walking stick through the front window looking for all the world like a B52 front gunner on a major mission to Japan with Audie Murphy.
Bringing up the rear, the diaphanously attired LavvyBloo looking, as always, as though she has just left Lady Chatterley's Gardener in a state of disrepair in the bushes somewhere.
Problem was I tried to speak Polish to the Russians.
Problem was they tried to speak Russian to me.
Problem was they didn't much speak Russian, only Roma.
Problem was they were so keen to get special status that they would always agree to anything in an effort to please.
Ok, we go plane, now, chodz.
Ah, plane, rozumiem.
Mister Anticant big wheel, gruba ryba, big wheel.
Go far into the sky, now.
Far far away, dalej.
The convoy somehow managed to manoeuver through the masses up stairs and downstairs in the general direction of the plane.
Any plane, just a plane, please. Just get me a plane.
The 4 Russian Gypsy midgets by this time had attracted a fan following amongst the various belly dancers and window washers that inhabit the airport. And then I made my mistake.
The leader of this circus troupe asked me (I think) where to go next.
I pointed and said 'him very important person, him from Hampstead, like Queen, him go thataway' and pointed towards the plane.
Unfortunately, the plane lay due East and the whistling Gypsy took it literally.
I could hear the news going in a square round the sedan chair and saw illumination in their 6 eyes ( a few battle veterans were in that troupe, must be said).
Important, aaaaah.
Queen, aaaaah
Mecca, aaaah
Far away, aaah
East, aaah.
Caliph, aaah
Wait a minute. Caliph, NO
Aaaaaah.
I tried again to explain.
Not very well, obviously.
Now they were sure he was an Archbishop.
In an effort to secure refugee status they were lying prostrate on the runway crossing themselves with a fervour that would have made Father Ted jealous.
I insisted.
No Pope. Not here. No Pope. Never.
Aha, Paisley, I heard from them as they slashed a few Catholics in an effort to fast track a visa.
No!
Him no King, him no Paisley, him like Queen.
By this time, the crowd had swelled to include a few paparazzi photographers who had been reliably informed that Posh Becks and Salman Rushdie were making a quick getaway to join Lord Lucan and Shergar.
Some transvestites clutching bottles of nail varnish remover and contact lens solution had even decided to tag along thinking they could bypass the handbag search.
In the distance, SOCA and the riot police were forming a phalanx together with a party of gay BNP members just back from the Holocaust Conference.
Suddenly, these guys got it.
Aaaaaaaaaah.
Caliph, him like Queen Hamstead Heath.
As they were conducting a mass circumcision, in an effort to please the Gods of immigration, we managed to get on board the plane which by this time was garlanded with the foreskins of a mass of the populace including the Russians and a few airport staff who had been, rather reluctantly, co-opted into the whole project. Male and female.
We were finally welcomed onto the plane by the stewards, who had all donned Burqua as a sign of respect for the newly instated Caliph of Hampstead Heath.
As we took off, I mentioned to our, now honourable, Dear Friend that things had been relatively painless.
He looked up from his inquiry into an obscure Trollope novel and said 'Dear Boy, that's what the staff are paid to do'.
I was sure I could detect a wink, though it may just have been the severe nervous tic which didn't leave me till I got back to Glasgow.
Fuck me, what can I say?
Who said multi-culturalism is dead?
Well, just about.
We had reached the airport with no major problems apart from the usual traffic jams near Brent Cross.
Even managed to get the promised wheelchair .
Had to wait in a queue to check in.
Done. Painlessly.
Through security to the Departure lounge.
Only had to go through the metal detector three times (normal).
Amazing how a pack of tic-tacs can send the combined weight of Her Majesty and BAA into a frenzy.
Fortunately, no internal search this time (I remember it well).
So, it's still going well.
We decide to get some food for 'Our Dear Friend who can't eat so much or walk so far'.
(Later, I find out that Our Dear Friend makes Desperate Dan seem like like a rank amateur and, where appropriate, Red Rum seem like a knackered carthorse, but that is for another time)
Me?. I want a fag.
Search the whole of the Departure Lounge before finding, in front of my eyes, the Smoking Area which is right in the centre of the place.
One extra fag for the 'sure to come' hitches. And another just to be sure.
So far, so good.
Too good, so far.
Time to go and the wheelchair has gone walkies.
Shite.
We have still to negotiate the tourist run (a zig-zag maze that Capability Brown would have been proud of) through the bowels of the magnificent airport that is Stansted.
I speak to the help desk.
We need another wheelchair.
There isn't one.
There must be.
There isn't.
Get me something, anything, a milk float, a flymo, anything.
Just something to get HIM onto that plane.
Does the nationality matter, sir?.
Why?.
We have some illegal immigrants in detention who are looking for work.
They don't speak English, I must warn you.
I don't give two fucks, just get them here.
And so the four Russian Gypsy midgets with the Sedan chair were summoned.
'What the fuck is this?' I said when they arrived.
Well, sir, the choice was this lot or the Indonesian Rickshaw Drivers or the 4 Coptic Egyptians with Cleopatra's palliase. Would they be better, perhaps?
Ok, Ok, ok, the Russians will do, they'll do.
And so, stately as a galleon, we negotiated the rapids of the Stansted Departure lounge.
In front, a Boldscot in full regalia (bikers waistcoat, kilt and shaven head and, by this time, shaven brain, too)
A sedan chair with an Anticant prodding a walking stick through the front window looking for all the world like a B52 front gunner on a major mission to Japan with Audie Murphy.
Bringing up the rear, the diaphanously attired LavvyBloo looking, as always, as though she has just left Lady Chatterley's Gardener in a state of disrepair in the bushes somewhere.
Problem was I tried to speak Polish to the Russians.
Problem was they tried to speak Russian to me.
Problem was they didn't much speak Russian, only Roma.
Problem was they were so keen to get special status that they would always agree to anything in an effort to please.
Ok, we go plane, now, chodz.
Ah, plane, rozumiem.
Mister Anticant big wheel, gruba ryba, big wheel.
Go far into the sky, now.
Far far away, dalej.
The convoy somehow managed to manoeuver through the masses up stairs and downstairs in the general direction of the plane.
Any plane, just a plane, please. Just get me a plane.
The 4 Russian Gypsy midgets by this time had attracted a fan following amongst the various belly dancers and window washers that inhabit the airport. And then I made my mistake.
The leader of this circus troupe asked me (I think) where to go next.
I pointed and said 'him very important person, him from Hampstead, like Queen, him go thataway' and pointed towards the plane.
Unfortunately, the plane lay due East and the whistling Gypsy took it literally.
I could hear the news going in a square round the sedan chair and saw illumination in their 6 eyes ( a few battle veterans were in that troupe, must be said).
Important, aaaaah.
Queen, aaaaah
Mecca, aaaah
Far away, aaah
East, aaah.
Caliph, aaah
Wait a minute. Caliph, NO
Aaaaaah.
I tried again to explain.
Not very well, obviously.
Now they were sure he was an Archbishop.
In an effort to secure refugee status they were lying prostrate on the runway crossing themselves with a fervour that would have made Father Ted jealous.
I insisted.
No Pope. Not here. No Pope. Never.
Aha, Paisley, I heard from them as they slashed a few Catholics in an effort to fast track a visa.
No!
Him no King, him no Paisley, him like Queen.
By this time, the crowd had swelled to include a few paparazzi photographers who had been reliably informed that Posh Becks and Salman Rushdie were making a quick getaway to join Lord Lucan and Shergar.
Some transvestites clutching bottles of nail varnish remover and contact lens solution had even decided to tag along thinking they could bypass the handbag search.
In the distance, SOCA and the riot police were forming a phalanx together with a party of gay BNP members just back from the Holocaust Conference.
Suddenly, these guys got it.
Aaaaaaaaaah.
Caliph, him like Queen Hamstead Heath.
As they were conducting a mass circumcision, in an effort to please the Gods of immigration, we managed to get on board the plane which by this time was garlanded with the foreskins of a mass of the populace including the Russians and a few airport staff who had been, rather reluctantly, co-opted into the whole project. Male and female.
We were finally welcomed onto the plane by the stewards, who had all donned Burqua as a sign of respect for the newly instated Caliph of Hampstead Heath.
As we took off, I mentioned to our, now honourable, Dear Friend that things had been relatively painless.
He looked up from his inquiry into an obscure Trollope novel and said 'Dear Boy, that's what the staff are paid to do'.
I was sure I could detect a wink, though it may just have been the severe nervous tic which didn't leave me till I got back to Glasgow.
Fuck me, what can I say?
Who said multi-culturalism is dead?
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Nice work if you can get it
"There are men in Guam whose full-time job is to travel the countryside and deflower young virgins, who pay them for the privilege of having sex for the first time. Reason: under Guam law, it is expressly forbidden for virgins to marry. (Let's just think for a minute; is there any job anywhere else in the world that even comes close to this?)"
I saw this as a stumble site. Haven't checked it out.
Doesn't matter, it's an interesting thought.
I saw this as a stumble site. Haven't checked it out.
Doesn't matter, it's an interesting thought.
Dyslexics UsR
| if yuo can raed tihs, you hvae a sgtrane mnid, too. |
Monday, 11 June 2007
'The Doc' gets nothing but his own dignity (after 35 years)
Those of you who have followed our story of ' Diggin' for Dignity ' through the pages of the Guardian, or Pikey's site, are in line for a cracker this time.
I would say 'this could be a Council near YOU' but, unfortunately, it is a Council near where my family stays.
The Cast.
An ordinary worker with 35 years on the clock for the Council.
A corrupt Headmaster charged with embezzlement.
A dodgy Council Official.
The Headmaster.
Last year the Council allowed this 'Heidie' to retire 5 years early - on full pension - from his £70K job on the day he first appeared to face charges for embezzlement no less.
The Crown office has now decided it is not in the public interest to proceed with the charges.
This same ex-President of the Headmasters association was also accused of demanding money from the owner of an ice-cream van which sold junk food to the schoolkids.
How dreadfully lucky is that Headmaster, you may say.
Maybe he is just a very good golfer or bowler or something like that.
The Worker.
The worker, known here as 'The Doc', has just retired after nearly 35 years with the Council and an unblemished record.
A party of nearly 300 attended a 'do' for this stalwart of the community, attesting to his popularity and including many important people in a private capacity.
But, what did the Council do for this model worker?
Did he receive 'The Quaich' which the Council's own Strategic Management Committee had approved in such a case?
Did he receive a token gift-voucher as a gesture of appreciation for his many years of service?
Did he receive a Council tie?
Did he even receive a letter of appreciation for all those years of toil?.
Did he fuck.
Why should our hero be treated this way?
He had applied for his enhanced retirement package and the Council quibbled on the grounds of cost. Sure, break the largest Council in Britain, it would. No matter.
He heard about this in a novel way.
The dodgy Council Official had approached our hero in a supermarket and told him he 'could whistle for it'.
Our loyal worker was very embarrassed to hear his retirement package spelt out in front of a supermarket queue, as you may imagine.
The fact that only an appeal through the local SNP MSP produced a result for him was some recompense, but it seems our dodgy Council Official never forgot that he had been thwarted.
The dodgy Council Official.
This one is a real champion. A nasty piece of work.
It seems he had been asked by the Council to attend, in an OFFICIAL capacity, our friend's going away party but never bothered to turn up.
Is it possible he had a senior moment?
Don't think so. He is known as a sharp character. Very sharp.
And, like our headmaster friend, is also known for demanding money - in his case for changing the evaluations of employees in the Single Status Cock-up.
Who knows if this will ever come to Court, but you can be sure of this - he will certainly be allowed to retire on a full pension and the old boys network will have a laugh about it in the Golf Club.
The moral of the story seems to be that, if you get caught with your hand in the till, you will be well looked after. Work your whole life in an honest manner and you will get shat upon from a great height.
Incidentally, it is not just 'hands in the till' that get covered-up here - but, that one's for later.
Let me just leave you with a picture of abject sorrow and humiliation.
A man, out of overalls for the first time in 35 years, suited and booted, standing with his family and waiting for the presentation that his lifetime's work deserved.
The one he had waited for all that time.
The presentation that never came.
(Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Mail, 10/06/07, for the story of the corrupt Headmaster)
*
Amendment 14th June 07
I have recently been informed that the aforementioned dodgy Council Official wasn't actually 'demanding' money, as such, for changing employee evaluations.
In fact, he was 'just' arranging for favoured employees to receive a better grading.
What causes an employee to be favoured was not specified.
I would say 'this could be a Council near YOU' but, unfortunately, it is a Council near where my family stays.
The Cast.
An ordinary worker with 35 years on the clock for the Council.
A corrupt Headmaster charged with embezzlement.
A dodgy Council Official.
The Headmaster.
Last year the Council allowed this 'Heidie' to retire 5 years early - on full pension - from his £70K job on the day he first appeared to face charges for embezzlement no less.
The Crown office has now decided it is not in the public interest to proceed with the charges.
This same ex-President of the Headmasters association was also accused of demanding money from the owner of an ice-cream van which sold junk food to the schoolkids.
How dreadfully lucky is that Headmaster, you may say.
Maybe he is just a very good golfer or bowler or something like that.
The Worker.
The worker, known here as 'The Doc', has just retired after nearly 35 years with the Council and an unblemished record.
A party of nearly 300 attended a 'do' for this stalwart of the community, attesting to his popularity and including many important people in a private capacity.
But, what did the Council do for this model worker?
Did he receive 'The Quaich' which the Council's own Strategic Management Committee had approved in such a case?
Did he receive a token gift-voucher as a gesture of appreciation for his many years of service?
Did he receive a Council tie?
Did he even receive a letter of appreciation for all those years of toil?.
Did he fuck.
Why should our hero be treated this way?
He had applied for his enhanced retirement package and the Council quibbled on the grounds of cost. Sure, break the largest Council in Britain, it would. No matter.
He heard about this in a novel way.
The dodgy Council Official had approached our hero in a supermarket and told him he 'could whistle for it'.
Our loyal worker was very embarrassed to hear his retirement package spelt out in front of a supermarket queue, as you may imagine.
The fact that only an appeal through the local SNP MSP produced a result for him was some recompense, but it seems our dodgy Council Official never forgot that he had been thwarted.
The dodgy Council Official.
This one is a real champion. A nasty piece of work.
It seems he had been asked by the Council to attend, in an OFFICIAL capacity, our friend's going away party but never bothered to turn up.
Is it possible he had a senior moment?
Don't think so. He is known as a sharp character. Very sharp.
And, like our headmaster friend, is also known for demanding money - in his case for changing the evaluations of employees in the Single Status Cock-up.
Who knows if this will ever come to Court, but you can be sure of this - he will certainly be allowed to retire on a full pension and the old boys network will have a laugh about it in the Golf Club.
The moral of the story seems to be that, if you get caught with your hand in the till, you will be well looked after. Work your whole life in an honest manner and you will get shat upon from a great height.
Incidentally, it is not just 'hands in the till' that get covered-up here - but, that one's for later.
Let me just leave you with a picture of abject sorrow and humiliation.
A man, out of overalls for the first time in 35 years, suited and booted, standing with his family and waiting for the presentation that his lifetime's work deserved.
The one he had waited for all that time.
The presentation that never came.
(Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Mail, 10/06/07, for the story of the corrupt Headmaster)
*
Amendment 14th June 07
I have recently been informed that the aforementioned dodgy Council Official wasn't actually 'demanding' money, as such, for changing employee evaluations.
In fact, he was 'just' arranging for favoured employees to receive a better grading.
What causes an employee to be favoured was not specified.
Friday, 8 June 2007
Gdzie do kurwy nedzy jest paszport.?
Lovely to go on holiday with such good company to such a lovely place.
Good food and drink and a chance to talk.
Mostly civilised and sensible.
However, as has been pointed out, elsewhere, discussions were also held in which the participants robustly defended their positions.
One such discussion was on the subject of 'bad' language.
Frequently, the Beadle has had to rebuke certain Burrow visitors whose language would shame a sailor, and the Burrow host has in at least one book argued against the use of sexual language in non-sexual situations.
I approach language from a different perspective and defended my position with reference to Bryson, Pinker and others.
For example, the person who hits his thumb with a hammer will invariably make an exclamation which contains sexual language in this very non-sexual situation - even when in an empty room.
I was reminded of my extremely polite sister who, whilst recovering from anaesthetic, charmed the hospital staff with language which would have mortified a sailor.
I also pointed out that, in any event, I could swear in a foreign tongue and it would not be understandable while still satisfying my need to sublimate.
None of this cut much ice with my dear friend.
So, it was interesting to see that all humans do indeed have something in common in times of stress.
To explain.
I had been held up at Security Control as the officer thought that the only way to avert the fall of civilisation would be for me to deposit the inside of my Zippo lighter in the rubbish bin.
Consequently, I was late in following my companions to Passport Control.
On passing through, I inquired of my Lavender as to the whereabouts of that dear friend who I had promised to protect.
She pointed down.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this frail old gentleman who, having previously refused a wheelchair, was now hunkered down on the floor emptying his bag with the rapidity of a professional burglar ransacking a bureau.
"Dear Boy, do help me, I don't have my passport. Do rummage about in my bag, will you?"
Having only just checked-in it did not seem likely that a pickpocket could have made it past the combined forces of The Merkin and LavenderBlue (whose colour choice also gives you a clue as to her mastery of the deleted expletive).
I rummaged and rummaged, with no success.
"Check your pockets, big man, and I'll go through the bag again"
As I was, again, going through the bag, unsuccessfully, it was apparent that the moment of ultimate stress had finally arrived.
The language said it all.
"Well", I said, "I can't find it in here".
He dived into the bag again with a ferocity and renewed sense of purpose akin to a Meerkat sensing a particularly tasty grub.
No luck.
The reasonable man might, quite rightly, assume that a distinguished gentleman of such respectable upbringing would, in such a situation, say something like :
"Oh bother, where can my passport be ?"
or even,
"My word, I seem to have mislaid my passport".
Neither of these, as it happened.
Instead, the terse, muttered comment which came out was so revolutionary that I am forced to consider the possibility that My Dear Friend and Zola are, in fact, twins who became separated at birth.
However, . . . . . . .
Wild horses would not drag from me the exact words which have led to this view.
I will carry the secret to my grave.
No names, no pack drill.
Some things can never be repeated.
I would rather cut my tongue out . . . . .
etc.
etc
etc.
More stories of our epic to follow, I am sure.
PS For those of you who don't speak Polish, the title of this piece translates as :
" Where the fuck is the passport ?"
Terseness is optional, and my case is well rested.
(Incidentally, the fucking passport was in his pocket, after all.)
Good food and drink and a chance to talk.
Mostly civilised and sensible.
However, as has been pointed out, elsewhere, discussions were also held in which the participants robustly defended their positions.
One such discussion was on the subject of 'bad' language.
Frequently, the Beadle has had to rebuke certain Burrow visitors whose language would shame a sailor, and the Burrow host has in at least one book argued against the use of sexual language in non-sexual situations.
I approach language from a different perspective and defended my position with reference to Bryson, Pinker and others.
For example, the person who hits his thumb with a hammer will invariably make an exclamation which contains sexual language in this very non-sexual situation - even when in an empty room.
I was reminded of my extremely polite sister who, whilst recovering from anaesthetic, charmed the hospital staff with language which would have mortified a sailor.
I also pointed out that, in any event, I could swear in a foreign tongue and it would not be understandable while still satisfying my need to sublimate.
None of this cut much ice with my dear friend.
So, it was interesting to see that all humans do indeed have something in common in times of stress.
To explain.
I had been held up at Security Control as the officer thought that the only way to avert the fall of civilisation would be for me to deposit the inside of my Zippo lighter in the rubbish bin.
Consequently, I was late in following my companions to Passport Control.
On passing through, I inquired of my Lavender as to the whereabouts of that dear friend who I had promised to protect.
She pointed down.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this frail old gentleman who, having previously refused a wheelchair, was now hunkered down on the floor emptying his bag with the rapidity of a professional burglar ransacking a bureau.
"Dear Boy, do help me, I don't have my passport. Do rummage about in my bag, will you?"
Having only just checked-in it did not seem likely that a pickpocket could have made it past the combined forces of The Merkin and LavenderBlue (whose colour choice also gives you a clue as to her mastery of the deleted expletive).
I rummaged and rummaged, with no success.
"Check your pockets, big man, and I'll go through the bag again"
As I was, again, going through the bag, unsuccessfully, it was apparent that the moment of ultimate stress had finally arrived.
The language said it all.
"Well", I said, "I can't find it in here".
He dived into the bag again with a ferocity and renewed sense of purpose akin to a Meerkat sensing a particularly tasty grub.
No luck.
The reasonable man might, quite rightly, assume that a distinguished gentleman of such respectable upbringing would, in such a situation, say something like :
"Oh bother, where can my passport be ?"
or even,
"My word, I seem to have mislaid my passport".
Neither of these, as it happened.
Instead, the terse, muttered comment which came out was so revolutionary that I am forced to consider the possibility that My Dear Friend and Zola are, in fact, twins who became separated at birth.
However, . . . . . . .
Wild horses would not drag from me the exact words which have led to this view.
I will carry the secret to my grave.
No names, no pack drill.
Some things can never be repeated.
I would rather cut my tongue out . . . . .
etc.
etc
etc.
More stories of our epic to follow, I am sure.
PS For those of you who don't speak Polish, the title of this piece translates as :
" Where the fuck is the passport ?"
Terseness is optional, and my case is well rested.
(Incidentally, the fucking passport was in his pocket, after all.)
Flying is the safest way to fly
Some people love flying, some people hate it. I love it.
So, having just stepped off a plane, the following story from The Guardian took my eye.
It concerns a pilot whose singing of such songs as 'Come fly with me' and 'Singing in the rain' did little to reduce the tension for those phobics on board a 14 hour flight.
Worth a look at the link.
It also reminded me of a story.
I was flying London - Rio and the captain was clearly a happy-go-lucky soul.
Just past the half way mark he announced that as we didn't 'have enough gas to go back to London' we would just have to 'carry on to Rio'.
Bad enough for those native speakers who were bad fliers but a nightmare for those who had a less than complete understanding of English - they thought we had a general problem with running out of gas.
The stewards were kept very busy with the drinks cabinet.
And the toilets?
Don't ask about the toilets.
So, having just stepped off a plane, the following story from The Guardian took my eye.
It concerns a pilot whose singing of such songs as 'Come fly with me' and 'Singing in the rain' did little to reduce the tension for those phobics on board a 14 hour flight.
Worth a look at the link.
It also reminded me of a story.
I was flying London - Rio and the captain was clearly a happy-go-lucky soul.
Just past the half way mark he announced that as we didn't 'have enough gas to go back to London' we would just have to 'carry on to Rio'.
Bad enough for those native speakers who were bad fliers but a nightmare for those who had a less than complete understanding of English - they thought we had a general problem with running out of gas.
The stewards were kept very busy with the drinks cabinet.
And the toilets?
Don't ask about the toilets.
Saturday, 2 June 2007
The AntiCantyBurrough Tales
Where do i start?
The four Russian midgets might be a good idea but I would rather leave that for the full horror to be laid bare in the burrow.
Better would be a note on foreign languages to introduce the topic.
Frail as he may be, there is no doubting the resonance of voice which could well wake the dead tourists in a quiet hotel.
So, when he opined that "Glass is not the only thing that gets blown in Venice" you can be sure that it caused some interest amongst the locals.
Mothers stuffed napkins into the mouths of curious children and stuffed fingers into the ears of inquisitive grandparents.
Despite the plethora of languages, it appeared that from Skegness to Darfur the vocabulary of every language included "blown" and "Venice".
Of course, we should not have been surprised.
A diet of pastry and perversion had been foremost on the menu - much to the amusement of the locals.
The early culmination had occurred during a fit of extreme tiredness in which we had been posed a question of some rhetoric.
"What will you both do if I die suddenly, while I am here"?
LavvyBloo suggested that he should be stuffed and mounted.
That Ducal relative of the Empress of Ireland suggested to the breakfasting sunlovers that he would prefer it the other way around.
In a voice which may have forever convinced Pavarotti to choose another career he bellowed to the assemblage "I want to be mounted first and then stuffed".
And so say all of them, I am sure.
The four Russian midgets might be a good idea but I would rather leave that for the full horror to be laid bare in the burrow.
Better would be a note on foreign languages to introduce the topic.
Frail as he may be, there is no doubting the resonance of voice which could well wake the dead tourists in a quiet hotel.
So, when he opined that "Glass is not the only thing that gets blown in Venice" you can be sure that it caused some interest amongst the locals.
Mothers stuffed napkins into the mouths of curious children and stuffed fingers into the ears of inquisitive grandparents.
Despite the plethora of languages, it appeared that from Skegness to Darfur the vocabulary of every language included "blown" and "Venice".
Of course, we should not have been surprised.
A diet of pastry and perversion had been foremost on the menu - much to the amusement of the locals.
The early culmination had occurred during a fit of extreme tiredness in which we had been posed a question of some rhetoric.
"What will you both do if I die suddenly, while I am here"?
LavvyBloo suggested that he should be stuffed and mounted.
That Ducal relative of the Empress of Ireland suggested to the breakfasting sunlovers that he would prefer it the other way around.
In a voice which may have forever convinced Pavarotti to choose another career he bellowed to the assemblage "I want to be mounted first and then stuffed".
And so say all of them, I am sure.
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