Currently I have been involved in a number of incidents involving the application of gravity. Why should Newton have all the glory.
My first experiment required me to fall from the vertical onto my hands, clench a glass of wine in my teeth and drink from the prone position. It formed part of a challenge laid down by some mad arsed Greek dancer whilst I was slightly merry at a hotel in Crete. British honour was at stake, I will say no more – except British honour was maintained.
The second encounter with earths magical powers involved blackberries. It’s that time of year, and armed with a suitable punnet I was led to an accessible crop down a lane. This year, understandably the fruit was scarce. The dry summer meant the berries were much smaller. To fill my half of the collection bargain was quickly assessssed as being quite a mission. Unless of course I reached across this gulley and thrust forward further deeper into the undergrowth. Never mind the scratches honour was at stake again and Clearly I needed to Befirst to fill the wretched punnet.
Things were progressing to plan when I felt the need to relocate to seek further pickings. This was when the foot got trapped by a blackberry sucker unseen at ground level which wrapped itself round my ankle. Forward motion was abruptly cancelled and I found myself progressing in the direction of down at some speed. I appreciated the power of gravity once more as we grew closer to Mother Earth, back first. This allowed me to marvel at the blue sky above, glimpsing the sun and tops of trees as we journied down. I also noticed Newton’s second law in action. That’s the blighter which states that to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The sudden onset of my downward excursion caused, admittedly a half baked attempt to or reacitfy things. The arms flew upwards as the body went downwards. This caused the crop of blackberries to depart upwards from the punnet, and as their trajectory decayed they too joined my progress downwards.
I landed in the ditch, thankful the thing was dry, to be followed by a shower of blackberries which bounced off me en-route to the deeper undergrowth. The crop was lost. The air was blue, the sky was blue my demeanour was blue, not helped by the timely advice of “do watch out” you could hurt yourself”. My arse.
Today I cam across two conflicting stories of human nature and achievement. The first concerned an Indian chap who came from a lowly caste and lived originally in a slum in Delhi. He was uneducated and started life as a shoe shine boy. He became quite famous for this activity, acting also as a knight in shining armour protecting the other shoe shine boys on his patch from the occasional interference from the authorities.
During the interface with his customers, many of whom were tourists he discovered an innate ability to learn languages and proved a further hit with tourists and local shops who benefited from the increase in customers to their shops. With the cash saved from this meagre employment he bought a tuk tuk and started to ferry tourists around Delhi.
Ultimately he met and married a tourist. Moving to Switzerland, the home country of his new wife he started a rickshaw business ferrying tourists around Geneva. As time progressed he started to think about the poorer people he “left behind” in Delhi. Temporarily leaving his wife and two daughters in Switzerland he peddled his rickshaw on a mammoth excursion overland from Geneva to Delhi raising funds en route. The sum raised was donated to a charity to help young drug users on the streets of Delhi.
The other story involved a divorced city worker management consultant in London with three young children who was looking for rich lover and successfully sued a dating website who promised, but failed, to connect her to “high net worth individuals”.
I leave you to ponder as to which of the two individuals has the higher net worth to society.
Like most people I read the newspaper headlines with a mixture of fear and dread. Not all issues are associated with the latest firing from the hip of the Donald. A lot concern health issues.
Inevitably there will be a scare about eating white bread, processed food or even haggis. Social media has also infiltrated our souls with the urgent need for any intelligent being to become vegan. But the scary bit that really hits the panic button is drink. At one end of the scale are sugar based drinks that are now the work of the devil and at the other are drinks of the brewed and distilled variety.
We have long endured the persuasive recriminations of the NHS who implore us to moderate alcohol intake (for men)initially to a weekly maximum of 28 units. Later the limit was reduced to 21 units and currently it scrapes in at just 14 units. This dictat was further compounded by the need to have two days free of alcoholic tots a week, preferably consecutive days. There is no end to their evil. Will this never end. Critical to these restrictions is the need to preserve the liver.
But wait what news ‘from yonder window breaks’. Some great guys in the ministry of things have now discovered a little daily intake of alcohol actually prolongs life. But just as we’ve digested this status to confuse matters further they announce the other poison we all thoroughly enjoy and obviously must now avoid is caffeine.
But wait, we now we learn that a few cups of coffee a day has a wonderfully beneficial effect on the liver. It helps the liver repair itself.
What to do. It would seem best that we take these health warning with a pinch of salt. But obviously not too much salt as this would jack up the blood pressure, ruining the liver and require more coffee and a few beers to correct. And life’s too short to accommodate all this – but then our lives are being extended as we drink- see opening remarks and do keep up!
Just got back from a great holiday. Weather excellent, scenery brilliant etc. But the real treat was to be able to sit back and analyse fellow travellers in our escorted group.
We were all of a similar age, e.g the white haired wise. Initially I divided the group into physical injuries and age related wear and tear; locked ankles, limpers, creaking knees and hip wobblers and those waving a stick.
The second categorisation involved networking skills. Those who liked to form cliques, those who adopted obvious aires and graces. The stand alone team, the “I used to be” brigade and the sod off and leave me alone group. This was the group I was in. In fact to be honest I was the only member of this team.
As time went on the teams became more entrenched with their own groups, but did allow limited migration from one group to another. My elite group never had more than one member. This was ideal.
Not being a psychologist I wondered if my observations were akin to early group formations in the school playground. Now a gathering of kindred spirit linked by common interests and infirmities. This all provided a bond that could extend to Christmas card lists and association. It also gave me the guy in the corner enless amusement, and probably provided the rest of the group with an endless stream of furtive glances.
As we bound inexorably towards Brexit the one missing voice from the soothsayers is that of the optimist. We have heard from the disaster crew on a daily basis. The politicians who wax abundantly on the perils ahead, the battle royal with the EU desperate to deter others from having similar outrageous thoughts.
Instead of a compromise, a settlement that will refrain from inciting angst post Brexit all parties are condemning, disagreeing and demanding a say in the final outcome. Many are of the remain camp which democratically have lost their franchise, but believe there is the possibility of a reversal.
The biggest concern from the quality of the negotiations. It is a novel experience thus will test the thoughts and aspirations of the key players in the U.K. It is also testing the opposing team. The appointment of an arch rival to lead the negotiations by the EU president sets the scene. ‘The answer is no, what was the question?’ The State of the polit bureau within Europe was one of the key reasons for U.K. vote to depart. Yet the EU president continues to present as an embarrassment post midday after he has consumed several glasses of wobble.
A significant number of company CEO’s have cited concern we will be ruined and must abandon the U.K. Their forward plans focusing on relocation to mainland Europe and attempt to continue as is. Very few seem to have explored the Chinese meaning of the word ‘chaos’; ‘Danger and opportunity’. We have yet to hear of a positive plan by the average board that takes Brexit to mean a huge opportunity to explore markets previously closed to members of the EU. There are many tales of the success of a company group that has broken up that suddenly sees the small subsidiary flourishing – unfettered by bureaucrats and restraints that aimed to serve the greater good but have become outmoded, outdated and constraining. We need a breed of pioneers to forge ahead not doom mongerers.
Another in my series of signs that have little impact. So the door from the kitchen of this pub is supposed to be closed at all times but when the outside temperature reaches 30 degrees all bets are off and the chef switch to salads only. Or just maybe he or she have walked off – through this door presumably.
Most signs are designed to give unequivocal advice. What to do and where to do it etc. The sign above appeared above a door in a hotel. It clearly tells you where to do it, but did they really mean this? I bet they meant the toilets can be found off the reception area. As it stands weird sods like me have a vision of the reception area hopefully planted with sufficient shrubs and bushes allowing the process of one’s toilet without being in full view. Maybe a few dock leaves would not go amiss either.
There are some right mean people in this world. No I don’t mean them us who have money, or are a little skinny with their time. The real culprits in my sights are the beggars that give you far too much information for free.
There is obviously the guys who float about in social media generously giving us way too much information on themselves or believe we need to hear their heartfelt opinion on any matter that takes their fancy. There is some self policing on this as can be seen by the ever growing number of dignitaries, politicians and celebrities who managed to shoot themselves in the foot with Twitter to end relationships or jobs. But even they are not the culprits I have in mind. The real beggars are those who tell you the calories in foodstuffs.
I would really like to meet the guy who revealed the number of calories in just one Hobnob chocolate biscuit. Yes that many. Apparently this means there are enough calories in one Hobnob to let you survive for at lest two weeks. Apart from ensuring Hobnobs are therefore a constant travel companion when flying, just in case the arrival involves a desert island, this piece of information can now never be forgotten!
It seems the food suppliers insist they spill the beans on everything. The beggars who make Pringles manage to ram over 2000 calories into each tube of the things. This we really didn’t need to know. It represents the recommended full days intake for a man. Assuming you survived the day eating normally you could blitz the intake and double your quota in one, decent sitting of the munchies. Go on admit you could easily neck a whole tube if nobody else was watching.
The moral here is simple. Never read the contents analysis data on a pack of grub. Always pack a packet of Hobnobs and a tube of Pringles before boarding any flight – just in case. Do not rely on the flight attendants to sell you any. If they did they would be those silly little packs of four hobnobs, or 10 Pringles possible for £20.
Having lived in Yorkshire for a while there are certain traits that must be adopted. It’s the rules. Waste and chucking stuff out requires considerable pre-scrutiny, no such decision is taken lightly. This essentially includes stuff lurking in cupboards, maybe even, as it happens, for the odd decade.
A surprise recent find involved hair treatment. Having avoided the stuff since the days of original Brylcream – maybe that should read “classic” to follow marketing speak. It arrived in glass jars with a screw on black top. The goo was a white creamy substance containing all manner of ingredients vital to hair performance. Slapping it on produced a luxurious shine that allowed a variety of arrangements of one’s Barnet. It also left greasy marks on collars, pillow cases and on the back of your Mum’s best couch.
Since that discovery, and the subsequent retribution I have not been near the stuff. But behold a tin of aerosol hair treatment lay in the depths of a cupboard which displayed no outward sign of deterioration. A cursory shake revealed it was still full. A dilemma. Was it too good to waste – certainly not without scrutiny
“Spray Wax” was hardly the most enticing name, but being an apprentice Yorkshire man honour was at stake. You could hardly ditch the tin without further investigation. The wife claimed no knowledge of it‘s legacy. It was essential to delve further and with the spirit of the trail blazer I read the instructions; granted not my normal approach but needs must.
Spray lightly from 10 inches then shuggle your fingers through your hair to give that tussled look. A further dilemma, I had no knowledge of the verb to “shuggle” or what “tussled hair” was meant to look like. With British grit summoned I gave it go. A strange sensation and about as remote from the days of Bryclream as you can get. The finished effect, as far as I was concerned, was a strangely disheveled but somehow alluring look if I may say so. The wax element presumably being the dull slightly glued look that keeps the Barnet firmly in place.
Anyway I have quite taken with the stuff and not just because it was free. Still not sure of the intended gender of the stuff but we are in the days of unisex so what the heck. The bright pink colour of the tin might give a clue but what the heck again. It’s been quite a success such that in an off guarded moment I spotted the stuff in Boots. “It’s on special and – 3 for 2” the assistant advised whilst I hovered from a distance still nervous over the gender issue. So now, being in Yorkshire I have three and a half tins of the stuff, roughly eight years of use and still none the wiser as to how it was in that cupboard.
Our life is full of signs. Do this, don’t do that, don’t ever, ever even think of doing the other. Etc. Some signs state the bleeding obvious, others give a degree of unintended ambiguity. My wasted favourite, although it may ever have existed was the sign in a park frequented by school children; “It is forbidden to throw stones at this sign”
Some signs are superfluous, some have achieved their objective. This includes the one in the picture. At some point parking presumably was an issue. The sign has clearly done its stuff!
To be on-topic for the month of May; and for those who remember the kids TV programme featuring Pugh, Pugh, Barley Mcgrew there is now coincidentally a later rhyming version featuring in the news; Markle, Merkel, Macron and May who presumably could all live in a place called Trump town.
Whilst we are on the subject of remakes is it me but most remakes of a classic lack the spark of the original. With all the creative talent around who could be destined to make the latest classic, why be sidetracked. Is the latest version of “Dunkirk” really better than the original. Debatable point but there will always be a comparison which could dilute the achievement of the latest film crew. A brave man is about to remake “Catch 22”. The jury will definitely be out pondering on that one.
Have you noticed when dealing with the large corporations, the bigger they are the more corrupt Andy obscure they become. This is probably down to the massive salaries of the CEO and his or her eye watering bonus if they hit profit targets. We mortals are chicken feed in this equation.
Facebook and Google are currently fighting their own battles at the moment where presumed truth has become a mite twisted. In a similar vein, I’m in the midst of a delightful battle concerning the promised ease of switching energy suppliers. Just key in your name, email, post code and consumption and off you go.
Except it ain’t that easy. The big boys insist some weird questions are asked; like who is your current supplier – why do you need to know this. What tariff are you on? Again why do they need to know if it is an open and fair quote.
My latest attempt at riding this online bull refused to go any further until I fessed up with a tariff. “Let’s help you” it suggested, which is your supplier from the following list; tick, and which of the following 40 different tariffs from that supplier are you on. Confusion. Just tick one at random. If we are to believe we are to be given a fair quote and not to be influenced by known competitors existing price – why do they need to know?
Once the enter key is hit out pops 10 quotes all mysteriously similar except some are for one year some for two. But have you got the best deal before you click to proceed? No one knows, not for a year during which your supplier choice may well jack up their prices and rended the savings void. But ‘tis all fair and square according to OFGEN.
I have Smart meters fitted to the gas and electricity supply. Except the bleeding things don’t speak to the new supplier. I have mark I meters whereas you need mark II to allow any new supplier to interrogate the things. Brilliant, instead of consumption being fed by SMS I am required to get on my knees, press the tiny, tiny button number 9 and read a number before it’s replaced seconds later by some other quotient whose relevance is known only to the utility companies. Get this wrong and you could pay the National debt on your next bill.
Or you could ask your new supplier for a brand new meter to replace the 6 months old one. Except the new supplier doesn’t think you are a customer so you bloody well can’t have one.
So it’s the bended knee for the foreseeable future. Oh and a chance for the Nation Energy Register of all things important to work out why my gas meter is actually registered to a farm’s cattle shed. And I can’t possibly live at my address. It doesn’t exist, they say, despite it being over 480 years old.
The trouble with retirement is you have too much time on your hands. Not my thoughts, but those of the offspring. You suspect your advanced knowledge, timely advice or strategic reminders, given with such aplomb and good intention are being chucked straight in the skip. “What do they think we do all day, it’s OK for them, they just wander around drinking coffee and eating cake”, etc.
The criticism goes with the job. As a retired ‘old fart’ our job, whilst the marbles are still in firmly place is to impart infinite wisdom free of charge and honed over a lifetime. OK most of the development was pre facetube and twittertwat but there is still a vestige of good sense.
The worst part of this equation is we oldies are living longer. We are cluttering up the system with abandon, ramming off peak holidays in a sea of baby boomer silver hair and jamming doctor surgeries with endless ageing ailments. We are also selfishly spending the inheritance. Then adding insult to injury we finally drop the remaining marbles in a flood of damp patches demanding to be rehoused somewhere else lest we end up festering in dishevelled state creating unnatural odours. This outcome has mixed blessings; the dilemma; do the oldies move in with offspring and ruin a relationship or get chucked in a ‘rest home’ the name being a magnificent misnomer. But if the incarceration resembles “The Secret Dairy Of Hendrix Groen” you need to read it, I say – bring it on
The Eurovision Song Contest bangs on regardless. As a TV spectacular is something special. If you ignore the zany songs, the outrageous costumes, the weird stage set and the political voting, well frankly you would be left with n’owt.
This year will go down in history as the one with the demonstration. If you google his weird claim about the UK press you won’t find anything. But we as British will defend his right to say so.
In the fashion of the famous episode of “Father Ted” where the priests and their appalling lyrics are selected in a desperate attempt by the Irish government to be certain to lose thereby avoiding the phenomenally high cost to stage the following year’s competition (the winner hosts the next competition ). At least we British can be proud we have missed out on this outlay once again. Well done.
In the meantime full marks the SaDie, our contestant, who carried on singing the lyrics “Never give up” immediately after the demonstrating plonker was ejected. Brilliant, I can see this being the theme tune to all manner of future tough assignments. Starting with Brexit
There are times when you suddenly realise that education is a lifetime’s objective. Sometimes this objective, which should by now be well entrenched is overlooked. You drop your guard, believing that mankind is an all round good egg. Then some bastard metaphorically kicks you where it hurts and the learning process is revisited.
I would like to thank the one, or I suspect two women fellow passengers on a recent flight who seized the opportunity to remind me of this flaw in human nature. Whilst we as passengers were squashed up close waiting to disembark the aircraft, or again as we were rammed into the bus to ferry us to the arrivals they sized the opportunity to reach round and surreptitiously dismantled my shoulder bag and remove my wallet.
I thank them for reminding me not to trust all people as there are a percentage of utter bastards in this world. A function, of which I clearly needed a reminder. And so to these women I trust they had a good holiday part funded by me. I also wish any offspring are blessed with a genetic mutation which renders any inclination to steal, like their mothers totally void. May they also never meet anyone like their own pick-pocketing mothers in later life.