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.

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....

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?