Today I thought I would write. I was uncertain however, exactly what I should make my topic today. My initial thought was to write about something that has been of concern for me for the last four days. I find myself in a conundrum with the sensation of something about to collapse about my ears. I’m not entirely sure what that something may be, however I know for sure that it is not welcome. I received some news on Saturday past that, although something I already knew it, I had been successfully not thinking about. Now I can’t but think about it and I find myself enraged. Namely because the individual concerned was previously someone I had respect for, as consequence of his being close to a dear friend of mine (This is all jolly vague, isn’t it). However am in a pickle as to what to do. Just forgetting doesn’t seem to be working.
I will not though, make this blog about my own personal troubles. That would be far too sombre. Perhaps, when I calm down and can confront the issue rationally I will compose a little piece about the matter with all the nonsensical examples and witless flourishes that you may have come to expect if you read this blog regularly (or even occasionally). Instead I will tell you a tale that occurred to me a short time ago. It begins below:
‘I’ve come so far in my life, so far, and as my time comes to its end know this: I want to die in a little house by the sea’, the Old Dutch Sailor said, looking around at the kind faces about him, nodding and smiling warmly. ‘I want to be in a terraced cottage that looks out over a little stony beach to the sea. Like on the postcards, you know. With little square windows and a colourful front door – green … or maybe red. And a little path with some flower beds and a bit of lawn beside it that lead down to the promenade on which were pulled up four or five salty fishing boats, piled high with nets and lobster pots.
And I want to be able to hear my wife coming up the stair with a lovely pot of tea and watch her come into my room, tray in hand, and give me my cup of tea. I want to die in the rickety bed that I made myself, from driftwood bought in off the beach and a blue and white quilt over my lap; with my wife by my side and my children sat around the bed. And I want us to chat and laugh until I’m done, then I want to sit in my bed with my wife and kids and I want to gaze out of the window, with its cosy curtains, at the sea as it washes to and fro on the beach, and the clatter of stones and the smell of salt drift in through the window. And as I look out to the sea, at the waves with their white tips and the buoys and boats bobbing in the bay, that’s when I want to die. Right then.’
He looked around him at the kind and friendly faces of those sitting around him in their colourful robes and sighed.
‘I suppose I shouldn’t have come to the top of this bloody mountain’
The monks kept up their sympathetic nodding and smiling as the Old Dutch Sailor died, dissatisfied. They didn’t speak Dutch.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Humour - Is it just me?
What follows constitutes something of a departure from the rest of this blog which seeks, usually, to amuse, or at the very least while away the time that should be spent doing something more worthwhile. However, this is more philosophical in nature. If you are intrigued as to what the discussion may be of then you are welcome to read on. However, if that is too much of a commitment for you then by all means understand the argument in terms of the following sentence. I believe that we are mostly capable of understanding another’s perspective in every situation, except humour; we either do or don’t find something funny; we can’t understand someone else’s perspective on what is funny unless it aligns with what we deem funny. That’s it. That’s what I want to argue. If you think it might be interesting read on. If not, skip to the post about travelling. That one is actually funny.
I will open with a quote from Jimmy Carr (a comedian, mother) who said "Analysing humour is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested, and the frog dies". So on that note, let's begin.
We are, most of us, capable of perceiving both sides of an argument. Often we will rationally process that pros and cons of something before we act because that way we are more balanced. This ability to see the other side of something is extremely useful in life for the reason I have just stated, and because it enables us to get one better with the people we are surrounded with. Now people who know me may disagree with the following statement, however I believe that I am extremely proficient at perceiving and arguing the point opposite to the one I hold. This joyous ability I owe to the man who raised me (or ‘my father’, as he is commonly known) who was utterly incapable of giving a straight answer to anything. Even the most basic of questions was an opportunity for moralising or active consideration of the human condition. Do you prefer sandwiches or baguettes? Well, to consider this fully and on balance, we should begin by stating the obvious difference between the two: one is entirely encased in a tough crust and the other only fractionally so. Furthermore the baguette is commonly larger and more filling that the sandwich so it depends on the hunger that an individual has. On contrast, a sandwich is more likely to break if filled with a liquid filling (e.g. coleslaw) owing to the lack of an outer shell. However this issue can often be resolved with use of a thicker, stronger type of bread. Thus we must compare breads in order to fully consider this issue, so the problem lies not with the food genre, but rather with the medium. etc. etc.
Interesting perhaps, but not helpful. What is this man’s true opinion in that vital sandwich versus baguette debate? No one knows. It is one of life’s indeterminable mysteries.
Hence, I am quite adept at balanced arguments, as are we all. Mostly. However after due consideration I have come to realise that there is a gap in our understanding. A failure to perceive that, I think, we are all susceptible to. That gap is humour.
What is funny? Well, I think Miranda is funny. Especially the bit about the scary goat (S2E1). I also think Kenneth Williams is funny. Always. Lots of people don’t think he is funny. Why? I don’t know.
Think. How often have you heard someone say ‘How can you not find that funny?’, or ‘that’s just disgusting, it’s not funny’? I would imagine that you have heard each of those a couple of times. Perhaps not the latter; I was clutching at straws. I had written ‘or’ and couldn’t think of anything to add. Moving on. We all know what we find funny and generally we find the jokes that we tell funny. That’s why we tell them. For our own delight and amusement and to share that childish joy with other people who, we think, might enjoy the gag. However sometimes people don’t laugh. Why not? I have genuinely no idea. If something is funny according to you, then it is funny. You can say why it’s funny, but you can’t do the same in reverse. If something is not funny to you then it is just not funny. Allow me to illustrate with a well known example:
Man: Doctor, Doctor. I feel like a pair of curtains.
Doctor: Pull yourself together, Man!!!
Verdict: Funny.
Why: The joke lies in the use of the phrase ‘pull yourself together’ which can mean ‘get a grip’ or, in the case of curtains, ‘close the curtains’. A pun. Almost anyone can see that that is where the joke can be found. The joke lies in those few words. However it is either funny or not. If you don’t find it funny you will find yourself entirely incapable to seeing where the funny is, you know where the joke is, but not the funny.
I would argue that it is entirely beyond human capabilities to sympathise with a joke. One may be able to see why you like that dress, or enjoyed that book, or liked that meal. However to understand someone else’s humour well enough to enjoy jokes that they find hilarious is possibly only if you have, basically, the same sense of humour.
What about when someone tells you a joke while you are sad. On other occasions it may make you laugh but you are too sad. What then? Easy. You still find it funny but more of your consciousness is involved in being sad than being amused. Call that a criticism? Pathetic.
So, humour is for you and your friends. No one else gets it.
And I defy anyone to demonstrate otherwise to me.
PS this is a poke in the face to all those who have ever sad I am not funny. Yes little sister, that’s you. And little brother. And Leona. And Lucy. And others...
PPS I also think that this gives me and you a reasonable excuse for laughing at our own jokes. Why do we tell those jokes? Because they are funny. Would you laugh if someone else told that joke? Yes indeed. Is anyone else going to tell that joke? No.
Thus, if you tell a funny joke then laugh. Even if it is your own joke. I will, however, still judge you for it. Sorry about that.
PPPS I am aware that almost every post begins ‘this is something of a departure’ however that’s just me. I’m always departing. In an exciting departure I may begin the next post without suggesting it to be a departure. Which will be a departure.
I will open with a quote from Jimmy Carr (a comedian, mother) who said "Analysing humour is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested, and the frog dies". So on that note, let's begin.
We are, most of us, capable of perceiving both sides of an argument. Often we will rationally process that pros and cons of something before we act because that way we are more balanced. This ability to see the other side of something is extremely useful in life for the reason I have just stated, and because it enables us to get one better with the people we are surrounded with. Now people who know me may disagree with the following statement, however I believe that I am extremely proficient at perceiving and arguing the point opposite to the one I hold. This joyous ability I owe to the man who raised me (or ‘my father’, as he is commonly known) who was utterly incapable of giving a straight answer to anything. Even the most basic of questions was an opportunity for moralising or active consideration of the human condition. Do you prefer sandwiches or baguettes? Well, to consider this fully and on balance, we should begin by stating the obvious difference between the two: one is entirely encased in a tough crust and the other only fractionally so. Furthermore the baguette is commonly larger and more filling that the sandwich so it depends on the hunger that an individual has. On contrast, a sandwich is more likely to break if filled with a liquid filling (e.g. coleslaw) owing to the lack of an outer shell. However this issue can often be resolved with use of a thicker, stronger type of bread. Thus we must compare breads in order to fully consider this issue, so the problem lies not with the food genre, but rather with the medium. etc. etc.
Interesting perhaps, but not helpful. What is this man’s true opinion in that vital sandwich versus baguette debate? No one knows. It is one of life’s indeterminable mysteries.
Hence, I am quite adept at balanced arguments, as are we all. Mostly. However after due consideration I have come to realise that there is a gap in our understanding. A failure to perceive that, I think, we are all susceptible to. That gap is humour.
What is funny? Well, I think Miranda is funny. Especially the bit about the scary goat (S2E1). I also think Kenneth Williams is funny. Always. Lots of people don’t think he is funny. Why? I don’t know.
Think. How often have you heard someone say ‘How can you not find that funny?’, or ‘that’s just disgusting, it’s not funny’? I would imagine that you have heard each of those a couple of times. Perhaps not the latter; I was clutching at straws. I had written ‘or’ and couldn’t think of anything to add. Moving on. We all know what we find funny and generally we find the jokes that we tell funny. That’s why we tell them. For our own delight and amusement and to share that childish joy with other people who, we think, might enjoy the gag. However sometimes people don’t laugh. Why not? I have genuinely no idea. If something is funny according to you, then it is funny. You can say why it’s funny, but you can’t do the same in reverse. If something is not funny to you then it is just not funny. Allow me to illustrate with a well known example:
Man: Doctor, Doctor. I feel like a pair of curtains.
Doctor: Pull yourself together, Man!!!
Verdict: Funny.
Why: The joke lies in the use of the phrase ‘pull yourself together’ which can mean ‘get a grip’ or, in the case of curtains, ‘close the curtains’. A pun. Almost anyone can see that that is where the joke can be found. The joke lies in those few words. However it is either funny or not. If you don’t find it funny you will find yourself entirely incapable to seeing where the funny is, you know where the joke is, but not the funny.
I would argue that it is entirely beyond human capabilities to sympathise with a joke. One may be able to see why you like that dress, or enjoyed that book, or liked that meal. However to understand someone else’s humour well enough to enjoy jokes that they find hilarious is possibly only if you have, basically, the same sense of humour.
What about when someone tells you a joke while you are sad. On other occasions it may make you laugh but you are too sad. What then? Easy. You still find it funny but more of your consciousness is involved in being sad than being amused. Call that a criticism? Pathetic.
So, humour is for you and your friends. No one else gets it.
And I defy anyone to demonstrate otherwise to me.
PS this is a poke in the face to all those who have ever sad I am not funny. Yes little sister, that’s you. And little brother. And Leona. And Lucy. And others...
PPS I also think that this gives me and you a reasonable excuse for laughing at our own jokes. Why do we tell those jokes? Because they are funny. Would you laugh if someone else told that joke? Yes indeed. Is anyone else going to tell that joke? No.
Thus, if you tell a funny joke then laugh. Even if it is your own joke. I will, however, still judge you for it. Sorry about that.
PPPS I am aware that almost every post begins ‘this is something of a departure’ however that’s just me. I’m always departing. In an exciting departure I may begin the next post without suggesting it to be a departure. Which will be a departure.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Addendum: Apology
I have noticed with my eyes that the earlier post has one (several) glaring inaccuracy and I felt it was my solumn duty to highlight and correct it.
The man in the unattractive denim suit with the terrible grammar did not have terrible teeth. It was quite wrong of me to say that he did. It was obvious that he took great care of them and I respect him for that. I think that perhaps I exagerated the hideous nature of his person in order to better fit the stereotype of a mugger that I have him my mind. I apologise and can only highlight my general trauma and the stereotype planted in me by society for my negligence in the description of that man. He had fine teeth that he obviously worked very hard to maintain and keep shiny and clean.
Honestly, they were three of the nicest teeth I have ever seen....
The man in the unattractive denim suit with the terrible grammar did not have terrible teeth. It was quite wrong of me to say that he did. It was obvious that he took great care of them and I respect him for that. I think that perhaps I exagerated the hideous nature of his person in order to better fit the stereotype of a mugger that I have him my mind. I apologise and can only highlight my general trauma and the stereotype planted in me by society for my negligence in the description of that man. He had fine teeth that he obviously worked very hard to maintain and keep shiny and clean.
Honestly, they were three of the nicest teeth I have ever seen....
Friday, 2 December 2011
This one is actually true. Mostly.
There has been, I feel, a silence from me that is without cause or explanation and I must apologise with a personal address to all my readers: Dear Mum, sorry I haven’t written very much but I have been busy...
I haven’t written anything since the seventeenth of March 2011 and frankly there is no reason for it beyond a lack of inspiration. However today someone told me that they had read my blog and I found myself flattered, valuing, as I do their opinion so highly. It has never before occurred that I need not force someone to read my writings so I was deeply shocked. Upon returning home I took some minutes to view my blog and slog back through the pages of self-congratulatory, mind-numbing nonsense in the hope of convincing myself to write more in a similar vein. Certainly I was inspired but for different reasons. My post entitled ‘Soap’ is, I think, the only writing with any (albeit negligible) merit owing, I feel, to its vast lie content. So I thought I would endeavour to write a more engaging blog, one which has a heavy grounding in truth. ‘Why not!’ I cry, ‘Is my life not exciting enough without resorting to absurd and foolish flights of fancy?’ ‘It is’ I respond to myself in a mildly schizophrenic manner.
I shall start with a tale of terror and trauma and a fine onion soup. I feel that every tale should have a happy ending and this one ends with onion soup – what could be finer?
Some months ago I embarked on a bold and daring adventure alone across the world. I thought to myself ‘There is not a good book where the hero doesn’t embark on some great and terrifying adventure across the globe, facing all manner of dastardly villains and cruel rogues and yet always managing to get by and befriend someone who will be of great value to them later in the tale’. So I set off like the adventurers of old in search of someone like that. My travels took me deep into Essex to a place called Stansted Airport. From there I flew to Jerez de la Frontera in Spain. I am aware that none of this is very interesting. Feel free to skip ahead.
Spain was dull and everyone spoke Spanish. That is all I really have to say on that place. Also where I stayed, whatever it was called, was really rubbish.
Needless to say I set forth from there heading for Morocco – where could be more fun than this historical country with its souks and its mosques and its medinas? Almost anywhere, as it turned out.
The bus I got to take me to Algeciras was slow and I all but missed my boat – a disaster averted. So I dashed to the departure gate where a Spanish lady ushered me through passport control and spoke to me reassuringly in that language. Did I mention I don’t speak Spanish? Because I don’t. However, being British, I just nodded like I understood. I was directed to a large white lounge with many many many chairs, all empty, positioned around the room. I took a pew and watched the vast clock slowly moved past the scheduled departure time for my ferry. Perturbed, I got up and sought to leave this purgatory in which I had found myself through either of the two electric doors at opposite ends of the room. However I was hindered in my movement by the sensor for the doors being on the outside of my current cosy little space. Frantically I dropped my bags and turned to the person I had been travelling with. Finding no one there and recalling that I was travelling alone I got my phone out and began to text everyone I knew just so they could share in my irrational abject fear. No one replied...
Eventually (after about 3 hours which, when in a room that looks like a prison visiting chamber, is a long time) the door at one end slid open and I fled from that terrible place, getting on a boat. Frankly I didn’t, at this point, care where it was going. It was just a change of scenery. Usually when a person is shut in a room with a pot plant it is days before they begin to anthropomorphise it and call it Geoffrey. In that room I lasted 10 minutes before Geoff and I were having the most detailed chats that have ever occurred between man and pot plant. I still miss him.
Anyway, back to the tale. I boarded the boat and sat down with relief. There were people and some of them were ginger. Now, I don’t know if you have ever been in a similar situation to me but nothing says ‘Hello, I’m a westerner and I speak English’ quite like ginger hair and a straggly ginger beard and one of those money-belt-pocket-things. It also says ‘Hello there little girl. Do you want a lollypop’ but I thought I was probably quite safe. This man and his wife (not ginger, French – there’s someone for everyone) helped me fill out my landing card, get a visa and they bought me a coke. Actually, maybe I wasn’t as safe as I thought.
Anyway we passed the hours quite nicely aboard this nameless rusting vessel and I found myself comforted by this strange old hippy and his wife. They had driven to Morocco from Scotland where they lived and managed some rich old bloke’s land. Eventually as we neared the port they bid me adieu. Insisting, boldly and, as it turned out, wrongly, that I was ‘Clearly a strong and independent young man, I will be just fine. People are very kind and helpful in this country’. And we arrived in Tangier. Or rather we arrived at what should have been Tangier. Regrettably it wasn’t and within mere minutes I was hyperventilating and casting desperately about for my slightly eccentric new friends (notably absent). I was, it emerged, 150km outside of Tangier. The ferry that I was due to have taken was cancelled (hence my long wait) and they had just put me on the next boat.
But I was still strong from the coke, gifted to me by that odd man and his wife and, with their words echoing in my head, I set out to Tangier. Three hours later and I was waiting at a bus stop outside the ferry terminal. Hooray. However a bus did arrive and I got to Tangier after merely another four hours. That is efficiency for you right there.
Tangier, I thought to myself as it neared didn’t look very nice. But then it is hard to look nice when being viewed through a dirt-stained window by an emotionally traumatised traveller so I don’t blame it. Upon disembarking it came to me how wrongly I had judged the city from my seat on the bus. Certainly the city was a foul and unwelcoming place but that was vastly overshadowed by the people. The moment my feet touched the ground I was grabbed and pulled in all directions by people who seemed to desperately want to relieve me of my possessions. But, ever the experienced traveller, I realised that this was how things were in Morocco, boundaries were different. And so it was with a friendly smile that I punched the lot of them in the face. Retrospectively that was a bad idea. Don’t do it.
Free from the hoards I strode purposefully off up the hill in the direction of the tourist office – I had no idea where the tourist office was but the crowds were regrouping and I didn’t fancy my chances a second time. Then blah blah blah, walked up a massive hill and sweated a lot.
Cut to scene, I am in alley. Man is also in alley. Man has terrible teeth, bad grammar and a knife.
‘You want I should cut you?’
‘Not especially.’
‘I cut you for your money. You a bad person’
‘I’ve always thought of myself as a terribly reasonable person. How about you don’t cut me and then I don’t owe you anything?’
(If anyone doubts the accuracy of this exchange, I can promise that the reality of it is ingrained firmly on the inside of my brain. I’ll tell you if you ask me. Just don’t make me do the accent.)
‘You bad man. My God hate you’
‘That seems quite unreasonable of your God. We are not even well acquainted’
‘You want I should cut you? You bad man. Give me money you owe me’
‘Well this all seems very appropriate and above board. How much did I owe you for your time?’
‘Money’
‘Aren’t you the chatty one...? However let’s not get sidelined.’
I gave this charming man in the stained denim-suit-and-matching-cap my wallet. But – and this is the one aspect of this tale of which I am proud – I cleverly gave him only a fake wallet. It contained only €20 and a few loyalty cards. I am still rather delighted at the idea that he may try to use them and only succeed in donating to me Tesco Clubcard points. Ha-ha-ha...
Anyway now I shall round off this rather long tale and tell you of how I jumped in a cab and fled whimpering to the first hotel in the travel guide: I jumped in a cab and fled whimpering to the first hotel in the travel guide. I checked in and, being the brave and unstoppable travelling force that I was, I asked firmly (in French I might add – I’m practically fluent. We chatted about football. I’ve realised that I actually know more about French than I do about football. It was a difficult conversation) where to find a computer with the internet. There I sat and wrote my mother a little email. It went something like this:
Mum
I’m coming home
Ed
Then I booked a flight and was gone by the next lunchtime. However that evening I settled down and enjoyed the most delightful onion soup in the restaurant of that particularly salubrious establishment that I had come across.
And so ends my tale.
I haven’t written anything since the seventeenth of March 2011 and frankly there is no reason for it beyond a lack of inspiration. However today someone told me that they had read my blog and I found myself flattered, valuing, as I do their opinion so highly. It has never before occurred that I need not force someone to read my writings so I was deeply shocked. Upon returning home I took some minutes to view my blog and slog back through the pages of self-congratulatory, mind-numbing nonsense in the hope of convincing myself to write more in a similar vein. Certainly I was inspired but for different reasons. My post entitled ‘Soap’ is, I think, the only writing with any (albeit negligible) merit owing, I feel, to its vast lie content. So I thought I would endeavour to write a more engaging blog, one which has a heavy grounding in truth. ‘Why not!’ I cry, ‘Is my life not exciting enough without resorting to absurd and foolish flights of fancy?’ ‘It is’ I respond to myself in a mildly schizophrenic manner.
I shall start with a tale of terror and trauma and a fine onion soup. I feel that every tale should have a happy ending and this one ends with onion soup – what could be finer?
Some months ago I embarked on a bold and daring adventure alone across the world. I thought to myself ‘There is not a good book where the hero doesn’t embark on some great and terrifying adventure across the globe, facing all manner of dastardly villains and cruel rogues and yet always managing to get by and befriend someone who will be of great value to them later in the tale’. So I set off like the adventurers of old in search of someone like that. My travels took me deep into Essex to a place called Stansted Airport. From there I flew to Jerez de la Frontera in Spain. I am aware that none of this is very interesting. Feel free to skip ahead.
Spain was dull and everyone spoke Spanish. That is all I really have to say on that place. Also where I stayed, whatever it was called, was really rubbish.
Needless to say I set forth from there heading for Morocco – where could be more fun than this historical country with its souks and its mosques and its medinas? Almost anywhere, as it turned out.
The bus I got to take me to Algeciras was slow and I all but missed my boat – a disaster averted. So I dashed to the departure gate where a Spanish lady ushered me through passport control and spoke to me reassuringly in that language. Did I mention I don’t speak Spanish? Because I don’t. However, being British, I just nodded like I understood. I was directed to a large white lounge with many many many chairs, all empty, positioned around the room. I took a pew and watched the vast clock slowly moved past the scheduled departure time for my ferry. Perturbed, I got up and sought to leave this purgatory in which I had found myself through either of the two electric doors at opposite ends of the room. However I was hindered in my movement by the sensor for the doors being on the outside of my current cosy little space. Frantically I dropped my bags and turned to the person I had been travelling with. Finding no one there and recalling that I was travelling alone I got my phone out and began to text everyone I knew just so they could share in my irrational abject fear. No one replied...
Eventually (after about 3 hours which, when in a room that looks like a prison visiting chamber, is a long time) the door at one end slid open and I fled from that terrible place, getting on a boat. Frankly I didn’t, at this point, care where it was going. It was just a change of scenery. Usually when a person is shut in a room with a pot plant it is days before they begin to anthropomorphise it and call it Geoffrey. In that room I lasted 10 minutes before Geoff and I were having the most detailed chats that have ever occurred between man and pot plant. I still miss him.
Anyway, back to the tale. I boarded the boat and sat down with relief. There were people and some of them were ginger. Now, I don’t know if you have ever been in a similar situation to me but nothing says ‘Hello, I’m a westerner and I speak English’ quite like ginger hair and a straggly ginger beard and one of those money-belt-pocket-things. It also says ‘Hello there little girl. Do you want a lollypop’ but I thought I was probably quite safe. This man and his wife (not ginger, French – there’s someone for everyone) helped me fill out my landing card, get a visa and they bought me a coke. Actually, maybe I wasn’t as safe as I thought.
Anyway we passed the hours quite nicely aboard this nameless rusting vessel and I found myself comforted by this strange old hippy and his wife. They had driven to Morocco from Scotland where they lived and managed some rich old bloke’s land. Eventually as we neared the port they bid me adieu. Insisting, boldly and, as it turned out, wrongly, that I was ‘Clearly a strong and independent young man, I will be just fine. People are very kind and helpful in this country’. And we arrived in Tangier. Or rather we arrived at what should have been Tangier. Regrettably it wasn’t and within mere minutes I was hyperventilating and casting desperately about for my slightly eccentric new friends (notably absent). I was, it emerged, 150km outside of Tangier. The ferry that I was due to have taken was cancelled (hence my long wait) and they had just put me on the next boat.
But I was still strong from the coke, gifted to me by that odd man and his wife and, with their words echoing in my head, I set out to Tangier. Three hours later and I was waiting at a bus stop outside the ferry terminal. Hooray. However a bus did arrive and I got to Tangier after merely another four hours. That is efficiency for you right there.
Tangier, I thought to myself as it neared didn’t look very nice. But then it is hard to look nice when being viewed through a dirt-stained window by an emotionally traumatised traveller so I don’t blame it. Upon disembarking it came to me how wrongly I had judged the city from my seat on the bus. Certainly the city was a foul and unwelcoming place but that was vastly overshadowed by the people. The moment my feet touched the ground I was grabbed and pulled in all directions by people who seemed to desperately want to relieve me of my possessions. But, ever the experienced traveller, I realised that this was how things were in Morocco, boundaries were different. And so it was with a friendly smile that I punched the lot of them in the face. Retrospectively that was a bad idea. Don’t do it.
Free from the hoards I strode purposefully off up the hill in the direction of the tourist office – I had no idea where the tourist office was but the crowds were regrouping and I didn’t fancy my chances a second time. Then blah blah blah, walked up a massive hill and sweated a lot.
Cut to scene, I am in alley. Man is also in alley. Man has terrible teeth, bad grammar and a knife.
‘You want I should cut you?’
‘Not especially.’
‘I cut you for your money. You a bad person’
‘I’ve always thought of myself as a terribly reasonable person. How about you don’t cut me and then I don’t owe you anything?’
(If anyone doubts the accuracy of this exchange, I can promise that the reality of it is ingrained firmly on the inside of my brain. I’ll tell you if you ask me. Just don’t make me do the accent.)
‘You bad man. My God hate you’
‘That seems quite unreasonable of your God. We are not even well acquainted’
‘You want I should cut you? You bad man. Give me money you owe me’
‘Well this all seems very appropriate and above board. How much did I owe you for your time?’
‘Money’
‘Aren’t you the chatty one...? However let’s not get sidelined.’
I gave this charming man in the stained denim-suit-and-matching-cap my wallet. But – and this is the one aspect of this tale of which I am proud – I cleverly gave him only a fake wallet. It contained only €20 and a few loyalty cards. I am still rather delighted at the idea that he may try to use them and only succeed in donating to me Tesco Clubcard points. Ha-ha-ha...
Anyway now I shall round off this rather long tale and tell you of how I jumped in a cab and fled whimpering to the first hotel in the travel guide: I jumped in a cab and fled whimpering to the first hotel in the travel guide. I checked in and, being the brave and unstoppable travelling force that I was, I asked firmly (in French I might add – I’m practically fluent. We chatted about football. I’ve realised that I actually know more about French than I do about football. It was a difficult conversation) where to find a computer with the internet. There I sat and wrote my mother a little email. It went something like this:
Mum
I’m coming home
Ed
Then I booked a flight and was gone by the next lunchtime. However that evening I settled down and enjoyed the most delightful onion soup in the restaurant of that particularly salubrious establishment that I had come across.
And so ends my tale.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
The Caribou (elongate the last syllable, it’s like trying to speak with an ice cube in your mouth)
I realise that I have been silent for some while now and thought that, were anyone to be truly dedicated to these little rambles (in the verbal sense, not in the sense requiring feet – although the latter of those is very good for you. Do it.) they may be wondering where all my words have gone. ‘Have they dried up?’ you may be thinking, ‘has this veritable wordsmith reached his verbal menopause?’ Nothing of that sort I can assure you good readers. I merely failed to find anything suitably intriguing or uncommon about which to write: a caesura in my thoughts if you will.
My theme on this joyous day is none other than the caribou. Some of you may be thinking ‘why does he not address it by its more common and internationally recognised name: the reindeer?’. The answer to this is quite simple dear friends. Namely to use the term ‘reindeer’ may lower the tone by as good as forcing me to make such base puns around monarchs, weather and overpriced goods. And that would be as sad for me, honest people, as for you.
The caribou is a horned beast commonly found in Canada and North America, Scandinavia and some other Northern places on which I shall not dwell. It is a creature not unlike a goat except that it is viewed rather more favourably in children’s tales. Also there is a key difference in that apart from having horns and four legs and fur and milk producing abilities and probably a couple of other things (I never professed to know even a single thing about a caribou – or a goat) they are nothing alike.
PAUSE FOR A MOMENT OF INTROSPECTION AND REFLECTION ON THE TRUE SCOPE OF MY IGNORANCE
The nose of a caribou is uncommonly soft for a creature that stores its nose so close to its mouth however this can be explained by considering the caribous peculiar propensity for cladding all its meals in a soft lichen so as not to scrape its delicate facial ornament. This evolutionary adaptation has proven most dreadful for the gentle caribou which in now hunted for its velvety appendage in which there is a roaring trade for the nose of the caribou – if harvested at the right time of year – is shown to have window-buffing qualities the likes of which had never been seen before their discovery in 1924 by famed wit, playwright and novelist Noel Coward. However enough of the caribou. I shall explore other meanings of the word caribou. Did you know that there are three places in the USA called Caribou; one in Colorado, one in California and one in Maine. There is also a region in Canada (which is basically the USA except less dangerous) with this name, although this is spelt Cariboo. Rather like someone were sneaking up on an elk...
Caribou sounds like a beautiful Caribbean island although it actually isn’t. It is a little known fact that one of Jupiter’s moons, as well as one of Uranus’, is named Caribou after the ancient Roman god of carnivals and elbows – odd I know but don’t blame me, it’s not like I just made that up. However perhaps you remain – somewhat unreasonably – dubious as to the authenticity of this fact. I shall explain: the Romans had a great passion for the circus and a Roman carnival was an event not to be missed. People would travel over 300 miles to attend the events which were considered a pilgrimage of sorts in honour of the polytheistic Roman tradition. Within the festivities that would occur throughout the event the people would frolic with such gay abandon as one would only commonly see in modern times at a barn dance – a phenomenon that, while broadly mocked and thought poorly of, forces people to enjoy themselves, often against their will or better judgement. Of course the barn dance, as we all know requires frequent use of the elbow and other joints. It is notably hard to swing yo’ partner round ‘n’ round if neither of you have elbows: an amusing image to consider however. What follows shall be a short break for you to ponder the general hilarity of the mental farce I have played out onto the inside of your skull.
I hope that that is enough time for you to properly appreciate all the images i have graciously bestowed upon you – and if you felt that I was wasting your time then it is entirely your fault for reading this far. Feel free to leave me a message and get on with your tawdry and exceedingly dull life. I shall upon receiving your message post it above and mock it with every literary device I have at my disposal – which, I assure you, is not inconsiderable. But enough of those too dreary to enjoy an effusive, ultimately pointless, discussion. Hence forth I am addressing you dedicated readers. I hope I have some. It is tragic addressing an empty room, doubly so when one doesn’t even know that one is addressing such a people-less void. Thus: The caribou. An insignificant creature, allegedly of some flying ability (although which this is extraordinary I fail to understand, just this morning I spied as I conducted my ablutions a flock of starlings or something similar take to the air as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, who knew...?) also with massive horns and an irrepressible sexual appetite (allegedly from whence the term stems) not to mention a most desired and sought after nose. I know of a young female answering to the name Iliffe who is very similar, only without the alleged flying ability – hers is verified.
Similarly Caribou is a place name and should be an island but isn’t. Should anyone have a spare unnamed island I suggest you name it Caribou and then let me know as I can cease trying to leave a mark on the world and there will be at least one stupidly named landmass that can attribute its title to me. Oh great delight!
Anyway I shall quit these books, as Wordsworth might add, although I don’t see that it is any of his business – I wish he’d just keep out of things sometimes. I think it is a good idea to stop writing now, lest I write something that proves to be somehow false....
My theme on this joyous day is none other than the caribou. Some of you may be thinking ‘why does he not address it by its more common and internationally recognised name: the reindeer?’. The answer to this is quite simple dear friends. Namely to use the term ‘reindeer’ may lower the tone by as good as forcing me to make such base puns around monarchs, weather and overpriced goods. And that would be as sad for me, honest people, as for you.
The caribou is a horned beast commonly found in Canada and North America, Scandinavia and some other Northern places on which I shall not dwell. It is a creature not unlike a goat except that it is viewed rather more favourably in children’s tales. Also there is a key difference in that apart from having horns and four legs and fur and milk producing abilities and probably a couple of other things (I never professed to know even a single thing about a caribou – or a goat) they are nothing alike.
PAUSE FOR A MOMENT OF INTROSPECTION AND REFLECTION ON THE TRUE SCOPE OF MY IGNORANCE
The nose of a caribou is uncommonly soft for a creature that stores its nose so close to its mouth however this can be explained by considering the caribous peculiar propensity for cladding all its meals in a soft lichen so as not to scrape its delicate facial ornament. This evolutionary adaptation has proven most dreadful for the gentle caribou which in now hunted for its velvety appendage in which there is a roaring trade for the nose of the caribou – if harvested at the right time of year – is shown to have window-buffing qualities the likes of which had never been seen before their discovery in 1924 by famed wit, playwright and novelist Noel Coward. However enough of the caribou. I shall explore other meanings of the word caribou. Did you know that there are three places in the USA called Caribou; one in Colorado, one in California and one in Maine. There is also a region in Canada (which is basically the USA except less dangerous) with this name, although this is spelt Cariboo. Rather like someone were sneaking up on an elk...
Caribou sounds like a beautiful Caribbean island although it actually isn’t. It is a little known fact that one of Jupiter’s moons, as well as one of Uranus’, is named Caribou after the ancient Roman god of carnivals and elbows – odd I know but don’t blame me, it’s not like I just made that up. However perhaps you remain – somewhat unreasonably – dubious as to the authenticity of this fact. I shall explain: the Romans had a great passion for the circus and a Roman carnival was an event not to be missed. People would travel over 300 miles to attend the events which were considered a pilgrimage of sorts in honour of the polytheistic Roman tradition. Within the festivities that would occur throughout the event the people would frolic with such gay abandon as one would only commonly see in modern times at a barn dance – a phenomenon that, while broadly mocked and thought poorly of, forces people to enjoy themselves, often against their will or better judgement. Of course the barn dance, as we all know requires frequent use of the elbow and other joints. It is notably hard to swing yo’ partner round ‘n’ round if neither of you have elbows: an amusing image to consider however. What follows shall be a short break for you to ponder the general hilarity of the mental farce I have played out onto the inside of your skull.
I hope that that is enough time for you to properly appreciate all the images i have graciously bestowed upon you – and if you felt that I was wasting your time then it is entirely your fault for reading this far. Feel free to leave me a message and get on with your tawdry and exceedingly dull life. I shall upon receiving your message post it above and mock it with every literary device I have at my disposal – which, I assure you, is not inconsiderable. But enough of those too dreary to enjoy an effusive, ultimately pointless, discussion. Hence forth I am addressing you dedicated readers. I hope I have some. It is tragic addressing an empty room, doubly so when one doesn’t even know that one is addressing such a people-less void. Thus: The caribou. An insignificant creature, allegedly of some flying ability (although which this is extraordinary I fail to understand, just this morning I spied as I conducted my ablutions a flock of starlings or something similar take to the air as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, who knew...?) also with massive horns and an irrepressible sexual appetite (allegedly from whence the term stems) not to mention a most desired and sought after nose. I know of a young female answering to the name Iliffe who is very similar, only without the alleged flying ability – hers is verified.
Similarly Caribou is a place name and should be an island but isn’t. Should anyone have a spare unnamed island I suggest you name it Caribou and then let me know as I can cease trying to leave a mark on the world and there will be at least one stupidly named landmass that can attribute its title to me. Oh great delight!
Anyway I shall quit these books, as Wordsworth might add, although I don’t see that it is any of his business – I wish he’d just keep out of things sometimes. I think it is a good idea to stop writing now, lest I write something that proves to be somehow false....
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Parapets
A parapet is the current topic of study for all of you dedicated followers of my wisdom – I know of one person. Now you reading this will be considering: am I that one person? Unless, that is, you have randomly arrived on this page with no idea who I am and a desire to fill your little brain with all sorts of knowledge. If you have ever used this page to help with any sort of work that was/is/will be marked or assessed then please let me know. It would be nice to know that this page was responsible for the failure of people’s education other than my own…
A parapet is a raised area at the top of a main raised area such as a wall. If this definition has left you with any doubt as to what I mean then you are an idiot as the identification of a parapet is a simple and basic task that most human beings should have no trouble with. However if you are an idiot I will expand; if you do have a brain please skip ahead: A parapet can either be a raised fortification, such as a wall or battlement or a smaller raised barrier at the edge of a balcony or similar. I like to imagine that everyone will have read that regardless of how they responded to allegations that they live a brain-free life. ‘He can’t possibly know if I read this bit specifically designed for epsilon-minus morons, as Huxley may have said. I am loath to miss it lest I find myself without a key piece or knowledge or a witty insight.’ Of course, if you did skip that section then you did miss out
on a masterful piece of amateur psychology which is something of a tragic loss.
The origin of the word parapet is not what you’d think. It comes from a conjoining of the two words ‘paragraph’ and ‘petroleum’. ‘What is he talking about?’ you may be thinking, ‘it is common knowledge that parapet stems from the traditional fencing erected by paratroopers around their roofs when they are away from home for a long time designed to stop pigeons falling off their perches’. This is in fact wrong. A paragraph is a body of writing – of one or more sentences – which contains a new idea. The similarity between parapets and paragraphs is that they are both designed to protect people. You may have heard the saying “the pen is mightier than the sword” similarly a saying of my own devising is “the parapet-of-stone is mightier than the parapet-in-theory”. Paragraphs were commonly quoted during wars of the middle ages, particularly among many of the wars between the English and the Scots. This was seen as a sort of white flag indicating surrender of the individual – not the entire army - but it also invoked an ancient rite set out in the early drafts of the Magna Carta meaning that if the paragraph was of sufficient length and quality the individual was to be permitted to walk free from hindrance by either side and the listener was obliged to run themselves through with their own sword. It was a theory created, somewhat bizarrely, to make the lives of many soldiers easier. While this tradition may seem absurdly harsh and unjust from our modern hedonistic stance it was seen as a great honour among armies of both sides and during the early seventeen hundreds there were many soldiers who fell on their own swords simply for the pleasure of doing so and others who, instead of waiting for the customary paragraph, simply took any speech, be it grunt or murmur, as an opportunity to kebab oneself. Robert Burns wrote in his poem To a mouse about this debacle: “The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley”.
The link to petroleum, or ‘rock oil’, is that petroleum, in its untreated form is very viscous and so was often sculpted, in countries where it was, and is, plentiful into garden ornaments. Where in British or American gardens one may have a pond or some other water feature; there, gardens often just contained a sludgy mound of petroleum in which children can play, small birds can fester and wealthy old men can lather themselves. This tradition almost died out completely in the early 1990’s but was recommenced when some American business people thought it would make a handy expression of wealth and status to have a petroleum pit in the workplace to wow investors. They considered it as indicating a free-thinking nature much more than a flash car or watch and often, before key meetings, would scoop up a handful and massage it into the scalp where it was thought to relieve tension. Tragically this was shown not to be true with the only effects being slightly increase the risk of cancer and the appearance of a dishevelled and unwashed hamster.
So I have guided you through the world of parapets and now you are experts in the field. There is nothing more about parapets that is worth knowing that you do not know. Feel free to contact me with suggestions for the next subject that I will study and relay to you for your pleasure and delectation. Aren’t you so glad you read widely?
A parapet is a raised area at the top of a main raised area such as a wall. If this definition has left you with any doubt as to what I mean then you are an idiot as the identification of a parapet is a simple and basic task that most human beings should have no trouble with. However if you are an idiot I will expand; if you do have a brain please skip ahead: A parapet can either be a raised fortification, such as a wall or battlement or a smaller raised barrier at the edge of a balcony or similar. I like to imagine that everyone will have read that regardless of how they responded to allegations that they live a brain-free life. ‘He can’t possibly know if I read this bit specifically designed for epsilon-minus morons, as Huxley may have said. I am loath to miss it lest I find myself without a key piece or knowledge or a witty insight.’ Of course, if you did skip that section then you did miss out
on a masterful piece of amateur psychology which is something of a tragic loss.
The origin of the word parapet is not what you’d think. It comes from a conjoining of the two words ‘paragraph’ and ‘petroleum’. ‘What is he talking about?’ you may be thinking, ‘it is common knowledge that parapet stems from the traditional fencing erected by paratroopers around their roofs when they are away from home for a long time designed to stop pigeons falling off their perches’. This is in fact wrong. A paragraph is a body of writing – of one or more sentences – which contains a new idea. The similarity between parapets and paragraphs is that they are both designed to protect people. You may have heard the saying “the pen is mightier than the sword” similarly a saying of my own devising is “the parapet-of-stone is mightier than the parapet-in-theory”. Paragraphs were commonly quoted during wars of the middle ages, particularly among many of the wars between the English and the Scots. This was seen as a sort of white flag indicating surrender of the individual – not the entire army - but it also invoked an ancient rite set out in the early drafts of the Magna Carta meaning that if the paragraph was of sufficient length and quality the individual was to be permitted to walk free from hindrance by either side and the listener was obliged to run themselves through with their own sword. It was a theory created, somewhat bizarrely, to make the lives of many soldiers easier. While this tradition may seem absurdly harsh and unjust from our modern hedonistic stance it was seen as a great honour among armies of both sides and during the early seventeen hundreds there were many soldiers who fell on their own swords simply for the pleasure of doing so and others who, instead of waiting for the customary paragraph, simply took any speech, be it grunt or murmur, as an opportunity to kebab oneself. Robert Burns wrote in his poem To a mouse about this debacle: “The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley”.
The link to petroleum, or ‘rock oil’, is that petroleum, in its untreated form is very viscous and so was often sculpted, in countries where it was, and is, plentiful into garden ornaments. Where in British or American gardens one may have a pond or some other water feature; there, gardens often just contained a sludgy mound of petroleum in which children can play, small birds can fester and wealthy old men can lather themselves. This tradition almost died out completely in the early 1990’s but was recommenced when some American business people thought it would make a handy expression of wealth and status to have a petroleum pit in the workplace to wow investors. They considered it as indicating a free-thinking nature much more than a flash car or watch and often, before key meetings, would scoop up a handful and massage it into the scalp where it was thought to relieve tension. Tragically this was shown not to be true with the only effects being slightly increase the risk of cancer and the appearance of a dishevelled and unwashed hamster.
So I have guided you through the world of parapets and now you are experts in the field. There is nothing more about parapets that is worth knowing that you do not know. Feel free to contact me with suggestions for the next subject that I will study and relay to you for your pleasure and delectation. Aren’t you so glad you read widely?
Monday, 8 November 2010
A New Direction - Soap
Henceforth I shall cease to bless you with my verbose grumblings and continue along a different path, namely where I shall endeavour to write as much as I can about a word or phrase that I am given or find interesting.
Today: Soap.
Soap is something that could be in much greater use than it is currently. The number of people who stink is disgusting. Washing, ladies and gents, is not a huge task. You never know, you may even enjoy it. However, a little history for you:
Soap was first used by the ancient Babylonians who were of the opinion that it was the substance from which man was created. The last great king of the Babylonian empire – Anush the Aromatic – declared that soap was a national delicacy and so should be consumed with special meals as the national dish. Such was his fascination for the substance that, in his later years he decreed that every one of his subjects be issued with soap daily and scrub themselves with it. Tragically this caused the death of his daughter, Brugat, who suffered from severe skin irritations due to the soap resulting in her death age 5. In his later years, driven mad by the loss of his daughter Anush attempted to have a soap solution injected under the skin in an early type of tattoo. This resulted in his skin peeling and turning red, he was then known as Anush the Ablaze.
The colour of soap has great significance. Thatcher once attempted to pass a law banning the use of pink soap by men as she felt it encouraged the trade unions to rebel owing to its obvious socialist leanings. The Russians felt in the early 1900s that being clean was the role of the woman and as such it was not the business of a true man to smell hygienic. They thought that scent was a reflection of one’s social standing as one needed to be clean to have a job. Tragically this stance is now deemed unfashionable.
Like Korean casserole, soap is commonly made of the forgotten bits of small creatures. There has been a movement in the animal rights lobby to change this following evidence that the creatures were not given a choice in the matter. The soap brand Dove is so named because it was made following the gallant campaigning of a famed pigeon who fought to keep the soap industry clean. Dove made of plant matter and minerals entirely and was the first soap to make this leap.
Soap makes foam from which fairies come from until someone denies their existence and they die, so said J.M. Barrie. Barrie, curiously did not believe in fairies and it is thought that the Madju Fairie clan died entirely as a result of his exclamations. This may, however, emerge not to be true. Indeed, many terrorist groups are also seeking to take the credit for ridding the world of these lovely creatures.
Soap is also used as a lubricant, which is to say that it is commonly used when easing beached whales off Welsh beaches. Entire villages turned out to soap the whales which – biologists suggest – began deliberately beaching themselves as they so enjoyed the treatment. This practice had to stop however following claims by newspapers that there were a minority of people who, with some sick sense of humour, thought it amusing to lubricate the whales with oil got from actual whale blubber that they shipped in from Japan.
So I shall conclude by mentioning a final soap based fact: of all the criminals who have committed soap based robberies none have actually made a clean getaway, despite what popular stories may tell us. I shall also add that I cannot tell you how much of this is fact as I can’t remember.
Today: Soap.
Soap is something that could be in much greater use than it is currently. The number of people who stink is disgusting. Washing, ladies and gents, is not a huge task. You never know, you may even enjoy it. However, a little history for you:
Soap was first used by the ancient Babylonians who were of the opinion that it was the substance from which man was created. The last great king of the Babylonian empire – Anush the Aromatic – declared that soap was a national delicacy and so should be consumed with special meals as the national dish. Such was his fascination for the substance that, in his later years he decreed that every one of his subjects be issued with soap daily and scrub themselves with it. Tragically this caused the death of his daughter, Brugat, who suffered from severe skin irritations due to the soap resulting in her death age 5. In his later years, driven mad by the loss of his daughter Anush attempted to have a soap solution injected under the skin in an early type of tattoo. This resulted in his skin peeling and turning red, he was then known as Anush the Ablaze.
The colour of soap has great significance. Thatcher once attempted to pass a law banning the use of pink soap by men as she felt it encouraged the trade unions to rebel owing to its obvious socialist leanings. The Russians felt in the early 1900s that being clean was the role of the woman and as such it was not the business of a true man to smell hygienic. They thought that scent was a reflection of one’s social standing as one needed to be clean to have a job. Tragically this stance is now deemed unfashionable.
Like Korean casserole, soap is commonly made of the forgotten bits of small creatures. There has been a movement in the animal rights lobby to change this following evidence that the creatures were not given a choice in the matter. The soap brand Dove is so named because it was made following the gallant campaigning of a famed pigeon who fought to keep the soap industry clean. Dove made of plant matter and minerals entirely and was the first soap to make this leap.
Soap makes foam from which fairies come from until someone denies their existence and they die, so said J.M. Barrie. Barrie, curiously did not believe in fairies and it is thought that the Madju Fairie clan died entirely as a result of his exclamations. This may, however, emerge not to be true. Indeed, many terrorist groups are also seeking to take the credit for ridding the world of these lovely creatures.
Soap is also used as a lubricant, which is to say that it is commonly used when easing beached whales off Welsh beaches. Entire villages turned out to soap the whales which – biologists suggest – began deliberately beaching themselves as they so enjoyed the treatment. This practice had to stop however following claims by newspapers that there were a minority of people who, with some sick sense of humour, thought it amusing to lubricate the whales with oil got from actual whale blubber that they shipped in from Japan.
So I shall conclude by mentioning a final soap based fact: of all the criminals who have committed soap based robberies none have actually made a clean getaway, despite what popular stories may tell us. I shall also add that I cannot tell you how much of this is fact as I can’t remember.
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