Have you ever wondered where some of these cable TV companies get their titles, and car manufacturers the names for their products? What then about the rather fanciful names for paint colours?
You see, none of the above can actually be said to mis-represent their wares - they haven't represented them at all! The fact that some of these products fall short of what we might reasonably expect in terms of both quality and appearance seems to have passed unnoticed, so I suppose names sell, and are not just the product of some prat with a twisted mind who's paid to churn out this nonsense.
One TV channel - which purports to feature historical programmes - is a wonderful example of a channel which does not, in fact, feature programmes of an historical nature - unless, that is, you consider Ice Road Truckers, Duck Dynasty, and Storage Wars, constitute important stages in the development of Mankind, and not sensationalist junk about hairy-arsed macho morons with the common sense of lemmings.
Likewise, BL's disastrous Allegro suggested by name nothing of the shoddily-built, bend-in-the-middle, hideously-shaped nightmare that it was, and the Maestro was anything but. Perhaps it's unfair to single-out the now-defunct BL, but you know what I mean. And just what are Jukes, Qashquais, and Navaras anyway?
Paint is even worse, and I very much doubt that there's anyone out there who can tell a colour by it's name unless they have a mental image of 'Early Spring', 'Found Fossil', Ancient Artifact', or 'Love Note'. No? I thought not. And in case you think I have finally slipped the bonds of reality, and passed into that soft, pink, place beyond, let me tell you those are all colours from the current range of a well-known manufacturer with a penchant for Old English Sheepdogs.
Wouldn't it be nice if they were made to use names which gave an honest description of the goods? It'd never work, I suppose, but it's an entertaining thought. We'd have known where we stood with the Austin Bastardo, or the Peugeot Tas de Merde, wouldn't we? So here's to Shit TV+1, The Crap Channel, and the Bloody Repeats Network. Raise your glasses to Mortuary Grey Paint, or redecorate the lounge with a colour from the new 'Pub Closing-Time' range. Possibly 'Technicolour Yawn', or 'Takeaway Pavement'. 'Snot Green' is popular this year, and 'Hypertension Purple' is a timeless favourite.
A little less bullshit and a little more honesty would be soooo refreshing.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
Ramblings on Remembrance Sunday
It was that time of year again; a time to make sure we'd bought our poppies - and a time to reflect, too. Time, perhaps, to take a break from being a dry, cynical old git with (I am told by others) a 'slightly waspish humour', and reflect that I may very well have been nothing at all without the sacrifice of some very brave people.
The late Leonard Cheshire VC - a war hero if ever there was one - was also an extremely modest man. He dismissed the suggestion that he possessed more courage than less famous men, saying that he simply wasn't scared, and that it was just his make-up. He remarked that, in his opinion, those who were absolutey terrified yet still carried on and did the job that had been put in front of them were the really courageous ones, and it's a point that is very well made, I feel.
Perhaps because of my daily historical excursions, I'm also aware of those not in the spotlight in the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The wives and children and families of those we rightly remember also have their story, because, if war changes many things, the things it changes most of all - and usually irrevocably - are the people who fight it.
This happens in all wars, and is happening to someone right now, right here in Colchester Garrison, as I write this. It is inevitable, given the trauma and horror of the whole bloody business. My own great uncle, returning from the carnage of Flanders after four years of mud, corpses, disease and despair, was a man change beyond recognition. Physically unharmed, you would have called him lucky - not to say protected by the angels themselves. He was not lucky. He was de-sensitised, de-humanised, traumatised, and utterly unable to integrate into society. The Great War had turned a tough, cheery, little Colchester lad into a cold, remote, killer, and afterwards it was all he knew how to be. The lives of his family were changed for ever - and not for the best.
For anyone who has visited Flanders, the sight of "countless white crosses standing mute in the sand" - as Davey Arthur and the Furies so eloquently put it - is a deeply moving and troubling experience that never leaves one. On a bitter day in March, with snow on the ground and a wind full of bayonets howling across the Douai Plains, I stood at the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy Ridge to pay tribute to my ancestor, young David James McGlashon, who was just eighteen years old when he fell. I shall stand there in my mind all the days of my life.
It isn't, of course, just the Great War - they are all disastrous examples of man's blind indifference and failure to tolerate one another - but it is a very good example. The Second World War, in which my dad fought - was worse in terms of lives lost, and there have been others. There will be more, I have no doubt.
We honour them all every year with a poppy and a minute of our time - little enough, you may think for what they did for us, which is why, when I read that some twenty-one year-old prat has been convicted of putting graffiti on the Bomber Command Memorial in Green Park, I have an overwhelming urge to treat him to his own very personal and utterly spectacular war. The term 'disproportionate response' springs to mind.
Which would be only the start of what my father - a rear-gunner in Lancasters - would have done to him, and he was a man who was 2 years younger than the graffiti idiot when he first went on 'ops' over Germany!
The late Leonard Cheshire VC - a war hero if ever there was one - was also an extremely modest man. He dismissed the suggestion that he possessed more courage than less famous men, saying that he simply wasn't scared, and that it was just his make-up. He remarked that, in his opinion, those who were absolutey terrified yet still carried on and did the job that had been put in front of them were the really courageous ones, and it's a point that is very well made, I feel.
Perhaps because of my daily historical excursions, I'm also aware of those not in the spotlight in the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The wives and children and families of those we rightly remember also have their story, because, if war changes many things, the things it changes most of all - and usually irrevocably - are the people who fight it.
This happens in all wars, and is happening to someone right now, right here in Colchester Garrison, as I write this. It is inevitable, given the trauma and horror of the whole bloody business. My own great uncle, returning from the carnage of Flanders after four years of mud, corpses, disease and despair, was a man change beyond recognition. Physically unharmed, you would have called him lucky - not to say protected by the angels themselves. He was not lucky. He was de-sensitised, de-humanised, traumatised, and utterly unable to integrate into society. The Great War had turned a tough, cheery, little Colchester lad into a cold, remote, killer, and afterwards it was all he knew how to be. The lives of his family were changed for ever - and not for the best.
For anyone who has visited Flanders, the sight of "countless white crosses standing mute in the sand" - as Davey Arthur and the Furies so eloquently put it - is a deeply moving and troubling experience that never leaves one. On a bitter day in March, with snow on the ground and a wind full of bayonets howling across the Douai Plains, I stood at the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy Ridge to pay tribute to my ancestor, young David James McGlashon, who was just eighteen years old when he fell. I shall stand there in my mind all the days of my life.
It isn't, of course, just the Great War - they are all disastrous examples of man's blind indifference and failure to tolerate one another - but it is a very good example. The Second World War, in which my dad fought - was worse in terms of lives lost, and there have been others. There will be more, I have no doubt.
We honour them all every year with a poppy and a minute of our time - little enough, you may think for what they did for us, which is why, when I read that some twenty-one year-old prat has been convicted of putting graffiti on the Bomber Command Memorial in Green Park, I have an overwhelming urge to treat him to his own very personal and utterly spectacular war. The term 'disproportionate response' springs to mind.
Which would be only the start of what my father - a rear-gunner in Lancasters - would have done to him, and he was a man who was 2 years younger than the graffiti idiot when he first went on 'ops' over Germany!
Saturday, 26 October 2013
The Enigmatic Aristocrat
Yes, I know it's an odd title, but it contains clues as to the identity of the subject. What, you may ask yourself, is so mysterious and unfathomable - not to say inscrutable - and at the same time clearly aware of its status of Superior Being? Exactly - it could only possibly be Felis Silvestris Catus, or the (un)common Domestic Cat, two examples of which employ us for domestic duties.
Millions of words have been written about them, which, of course, they expect - this is perfectly natural for a creature that was once revered by the Pharoahs. It has taken centuries of patience, knowledge, a little light bullying, some love, and many tantrums, but at last, the training is complete; they now have us precisely where they want us.
It has taken millenia for them to achieve the prodigious feat of taking an upright, intelligent being with complete manual dexterity and a complex language structure, and bend its will to such an extent that it can be very easily manipulated by a small, furry, quadruped that eats mice. They will even allow their human to give them instructions - as one would a dog - which the cat will, if it feels like it, obey, whilst at the same time doing exactly what it likes.
Dogs do what they are told because they are pack animals, and - if you've got it right - you are the leader of the pack, and the dog wishes to please you. Being a Good Dog is vital to its psychological well-being. Cats, on the other hand, wish to please themselves - there are no bad cats or good cats, merely cats that are doing precisely what they want to - and when. Make no mistake - they do not give a flying wossname whether what they're doing pleases you or not, they like it.
Are cats capable of affection - or is it simply a way of getting what they want? Some people say they are capable, others that they're a bunch of users, in it to win it no matter what. My own feeling is that cats - much like us - vary enormously in their characters. Those who know us will know that our Florence -a tiny and gentle little tabby who would not hurt a soul - is unique. Love Flo, and she'll love you right back. She has no hidden agenda, and is possibly the only cat in the universe who likes you to blow raspberries on her belly - usually a recipe for losing your ears. She has trained us well, and it is interesting to see that we are not the only pair of gullible prats who spend hours browsing the cat-food shelves in Sainsbury's trying to find a food that she hasn't got bored with or doesn't like at the moment. Having found one she is keen on, we buy a quantity, and she will immediately go off it! Trying to second-guess Flo is about as easy as not loving her - quite impossible.
Digit, our Polydactile (five toes instead of four and looks weird) nightmare is quite different. She goes from a purring, happy, fluff-ball with the brains of a brick to a psycotic little shit in under a nano-second. Rough, tough, and possibly wearing the wrong jersey when the whistle went, she too is a character, and just as interesting in a different way.
So if you're thinking of getting a cat, remember that everything you've ever read about them is probably true; proud, cruel, arrogant, smug, noted for being thieves and users, they are still curiously appealing. Almost human, aren't they?
Good luck
Millions of words have been written about them, which, of course, they expect - this is perfectly natural for a creature that was once revered by the Pharoahs. It has taken centuries of patience, knowledge, a little light bullying, some love, and many tantrums, but at last, the training is complete; they now have us precisely where they want us.
It has taken millenia for them to achieve the prodigious feat of taking an upright, intelligent being with complete manual dexterity and a complex language structure, and bend its will to such an extent that it can be very easily manipulated by a small, furry, quadruped that eats mice. They will even allow their human to give them instructions - as one would a dog - which the cat will, if it feels like it, obey, whilst at the same time doing exactly what it likes.
Dogs do what they are told because they are pack animals, and - if you've got it right - you are the leader of the pack, and the dog wishes to please you. Being a Good Dog is vital to its psychological well-being. Cats, on the other hand, wish to please themselves - there are no bad cats or good cats, merely cats that are doing precisely what they want to - and when. Make no mistake - they do not give a flying wossname whether what they're doing pleases you or not, they like it.
Are cats capable of affection - or is it simply a way of getting what they want? Some people say they are capable, others that they're a bunch of users, in it to win it no matter what. My own feeling is that cats - much like us - vary enormously in their characters. Those who know us will know that our Florence -a tiny and gentle little tabby who would not hurt a soul - is unique. Love Flo, and she'll love you right back. She has no hidden agenda, and is possibly the only cat in the universe who likes you to blow raspberries on her belly - usually a recipe for losing your ears. She has trained us well, and it is interesting to see that we are not the only pair of gullible prats who spend hours browsing the cat-food shelves in Sainsbury's trying to find a food that she hasn't got bored with or doesn't like at the moment. Having found one she is keen on, we buy a quantity, and she will immediately go off it! Trying to second-guess Flo is about as easy as not loving her - quite impossible.
Digit, our Polydactile (five toes instead of four and looks weird) nightmare is quite different. She goes from a purring, happy, fluff-ball with the brains of a brick to a psycotic little shit in under a nano-second. Rough, tough, and possibly wearing the wrong jersey when the whistle went, she too is a character, and just as interesting in a different way.
So if you're thinking of getting a cat, remember that everything you've ever read about them is probably true; proud, cruel, arrogant, smug, noted for being thieves and users, they are still curiously appealing. Almost human, aren't they?
Good luck
Monday, 14 October 2013
What Seems To Be The Trouble?
I recently changed my doctor - or, to be more precise - my doctors's surgery, as my doctor retired. There were other reasons, too - I did not fancy the two remaining practitioners one little bit, and the reception and admin staff were from Hell.
Getting an appointment while still alive could be well-nigh impossible, and then some genius had an idea; don't bother to ring up for an appointment, because surgery policy is 'No'. Far better to have a 'Drop-In Surgery' where you turn up at 8 am, when someone may grudgingly open the door. You then form an orderly queue, leave your name at reception, and wait..........and wait...........and wait..........you know what I mean, I'm sure.
One of the biggest problems with this (apart from the interminable wait) was the fact that - in order to be seen at all - it was necessary to turn up at 7.30 am at the latest, which of course was half an hour before they opened the doors. This was bad news for an elderly person who felt ill on a winter's morning, and I'm sure I don't have to draw you a picture. I pointed this out to the Surgery Manager (who is probably undeserving of the capitals), who replied that the system worked well, and more patients could be 'processed' - I noted that word. I pointed out that many patients must have felt a good deal worse (or have died) by the time some smug bitch opened the door at 8 o'clock, and anyone who thought that queue was a good thing had never stood in it - I then left - in high dudgeon and a Ford Mondeo - never to return.
My new surgery is light -years away from this shambles, with a spacious surgery offering a walk-in facility, blood-tests, ECG tests, and a choice of seeing a nurse or a doctor - and all that is for people who aren't registered with them! I can be seen by a doctor from 7am until 10 pm, seven days a week, and every day of the year. I may not always get the same one, it's true, but when they're all so capable and charming, who cares? The receptionists are a complete joy, and this has not previously been my experience.
My last set of receptionists (I believe the collective noun for receptionists of the medical variety is 'a bitching' of receptionists) were, as I have said, from Hell. No matter how polite I was (and I can, surprisingly, be very polite), I was clearly as welcome as diarrhoea in a swimming-pool, and the very audacity of requesting an appointment................well, I mean!
All is now well, and as I was chatting to my doctor a while ago, she explained why it all worked so well. As doctors, she said, they were well aware of the 'grumpy' - nay, negative, attitude of some medical support staff, and this appeared to be endemic throughout the NHS. For this reason, they had been particularly careful to recruit all their support staff from commerce and business, where high levels of customer care were the norm - and, indeed, essential.
This simple idea has ensured that they have people, she hoped, to whom the patient (customer) is important, and they are made to feel that they matter. They are there to solve problems, and bring about a successful conclusion - as they would in commerce, with the result that people are much happier - and probably get better quicker.
It's so simple, it's a wonder they don't all do it.
Which would allow all those self-important old ratbags with an attitude-adjustment requirement to go back to Tesco.
Getting an appointment while still alive could be well-nigh impossible, and then some genius had an idea; don't bother to ring up for an appointment, because surgery policy is 'No'. Far better to have a 'Drop-In Surgery' where you turn up at 8 am, when someone may grudgingly open the door. You then form an orderly queue, leave your name at reception, and wait..........and wait...........and wait..........you know what I mean, I'm sure.
One of the biggest problems with this (apart from the interminable wait) was the fact that - in order to be seen at all - it was necessary to turn up at 7.30 am at the latest, which of course was half an hour before they opened the doors. This was bad news for an elderly person who felt ill on a winter's morning, and I'm sure I don't have to draw you a picture. I pointed this out to the Surgery Manager (who is probably undeserving of the capitals), who replied that the system worked well, and more patients could be 'processed' - I noted that word. I pointed out that many patients must have felt a good deal worse (or have died) by the time some smug bitch opened the door at 8 o'clock, and anyone who thought that queue was a good thing had never stood in it - I then left - in high dudgeon and a Ford Mondeo - never to return.
My new surgery is light -years away from this shambles, with a spacious surgery offering a walk-in facility, blood-tests, ECG tests, and a choice of seeing a nurse or a doctor - and all that is for people who aren't registered with them! I can be seen by a doctor from 7am until 10 pm, seven days a week, and every day of the year. I may not always get the same one, it's true, but when they're all so capable and charming, who cares? The receptionists are a complete joy, and this has not previously been my experience.
My last set of receptionists (I believe the collective noun for receptionists of the medical variety is 'a bitching' of receptionists) were, as I have said, from Hell. No matter how polite I was (and I can, surprisingly, be very polite), I was clearly as welcome as diarrhoea in a swimming-pool, and the very audacity of requesting an appointment................well, I mean!
All is now well, and as I was chatting to my doctor a while ago, she explained why it all worked so well. As doctors, she said, they were well aware of the 'grumpy' - nay, negative, attitude of some medical support staff, and this appeared to be endemic throughout the NHS. For this reason, they had been particularly careful to recruit all their support staff from commerce and business, where high levels of customer care were the norm - and, indeed, essential.
This simple idea has ensured that they have people, she hoped, to whom the patient (customer) is important, and they are made to feel that they matter. They are there to solve problems, and bring about a successful conclusion - as they would in commerce, with the result that people are much happier - and probably get better quicker.
It's so simple, it's a wonder they don't all do it.
Which would allow all those self-important old ratbags with an attitude-adjustment requirement to go back to Tesco.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Is There Anybody There?
I am intrigued - nay, astonished - at the amount of cheaply-made TV programmes that are hurled at us these days, from the so-called 'reality' shows that show a kind of reality you would not want at any price, to the unexplained, and - sadly in the majority of cases - the unwatchable.
UFOs, aliens, hauntings, prophecies, the apocalypse and strange beasts abound on our screens, but probably nowhere else. It's pure entertainment - or it might have been the first time it was screened, but after twenty or so showings it's kind of lost it's punchiness. It's ability to amaze - never strong at best - has evaporated quicker than one of Nick Clegg's promises.
I mean, where's the evidence? Seriously, it's a simple enough question that you may have thought the producers may have asked themselves, but of course, if they had considered evidence to be essential, there would have been no programme. They always say they have new evidence, but what they really have is new hearsay, conjecture, wishful thinking or downright lies. It's not the technical aspect of the ufo thing that I doubt - it's simply that any race technologically advanced enough to get here probably wouldn't want to.
I suspect that the truth is certainly out there somewhere, and that is where it's likely to remain. I further suspect that certain people have been abducted by aliens - I mean, who could possibly doubt the testimony of someone like David Icke? It is after listening to this self-proclaimed Son of God that one can readily understand just why the aliens sent him back. How could they have explained him to their top brass on the good 'ole home planet?
Terry Pratchett teaches us the aliens are not always perfect, and there have been cock-ups ranging from them abducting each other (very embarrassing) to an unfortunate misunderstanding of instructions that resulted in forming cattle into circles and mutilating cabbages.
One 'top-ranking American intelligence officer' has even stated that much of our modern-day technology is derived from alien sources, and due to the vast numbers of crashed ufos, I have no doubt he's right, and it's possible that Microsoft is an alien joke we didn't get - like Peugeot or Virgin Media.
In an episode of 'The X-Files', someone asks an 'Intelligence Operative' "Are they here?, referring to alien visitations. The reply is "They have always been here". I believe this to be true - they've certainly always been here. There are some on an estate near you, you may be sure, worming their way insidiously into our society - bringing about the fall of mankind from the inside with advanced technology like hoodies, Staffordshire bull-terriers and super-strength lager. Fuelled by benefits and class A drugs, they hurtle silently through our universe in highly-advanced Vauxhall Novas, buggering-up all before them. They are responsible for many of humanity's woes, including the Beckhams, Jonathan King, the EDL, and - worst of all by far - Simon Cowell.
Know them well, for they are among us, although ED - a member of The Flat Earth Society - says it's all bollocks. Oh, yes, the truth is out there.
But a whole industry has sprung up out of the lies.
UFOs, aliens, hauntings, prophecies, the apocalypse and strange beasts abound on our screens, but probably nowhere else. It's pure entertainment - or it might have been the first time it was screened, but after twenty or so showings it's kind of lost it's punchiness. It's ability to amaze - never strong at best - has evaporated quicker than one of Nick Clegg's promises.
I mean, where's the evidence? Seriously, it's a simple enough question that you may have thought the producers may have asked themselves, but of course, if they had considered evidence to be essential, there would have been no programme. They always say they have new evidence, but what they really have is new hearsay, conjecture, wishful thinking or downright lies. It's not the technical aspect of the ufo thing that I doubt - it's simply that any race technologically advanced enough to get here probably wouldn't want to.
I suspect that the truth is certainly out there somewhere, and that is where it's likely to remain. I further suspect that certain people have been abducted by aliens - I mean, who could possibly doubt the testimony of someone like David Icke? It is after listening to this self-proclaimed Son of God that one can readily understand just why the aliens sent him back. How could they have explained him to their top brass on the good 'ole home planet?
Terry Pratchett teaches us the aliens are not always perfect, and there have been cock-ups ranging from them abducting each other (very embarrassing) to an unfortunate misunderstanding of instructions that resulted in forming cattle into circles and mutilating cabbages.
One 'top-ranking American intelligence officer' has even stated that much of our modern-day technology is derived from alien sources, and due to the vast numbers of crashed ufos, I have no doubt he's right, and it's possible that Microsoft is an alien joke we didn't get - like Peugeot or Virgin Media.
In an episode of 'The X-Files', someone asks an 'Intelligence Operative' "Are they here?, referring to alien visitations. The reply is "They have always been here". I believe this to be true - they've certainly always been here. There are some on an estate near you, you may be sure, worming their way insidiously into our society - bringing about the fall of mankind from the inside with advanced technology like hoodies, Staffordshire bull-terriers and super-strength lager. Fuelled by benefits and class A drugs, they hurtle silently through our universe in highly-advanced Vauxhall Novas, buggering-up all before them. They are responsible for many of humanity's woes, including the Beckhams, Jonathan King, the EDL, and - worst of all by far - Simon Cowell.
Know them well, for they are among us, although ED - a member of The Flat Earth Society - says it's all bollocks. Oh, yes, the truth is out there.
But a whole industry has sprung up out of the lies.
Monday, 16 September 2013
Welcome to Stralia
We have recently welcomed my cousin and his wife from Yarragon, Australia, and spent a blissful week-end with them. We were sad to see them go, we have learned much about 'down under' and it's people.
For a start, they are not all like the ghastly (but hilarious) caricatures created by Barry Humphries, nor do they all act like Barry Mackenzie or Kerry Packer. Not a bit of it. Our two Aussies are very intelligent, articulate, sensitive and self-effacing people, and they offered an interesting insight into the Australia of today, its wildlife, and its people. It is true that they have their embarrassments, and were quick to distance themselves from Rupert Murdoch, Kevin Rudd, and the entire cast of 'Home and Away'. I don't blame them. I reciprocated by denying any empathy whatever with Nick Clegg, Vince Cable, or Sir Tony Robinson - fortunately, they had not heard of David Dickinson.
I am a great fan and supporter of the wildlife of Great Britain, and - after hearing of the stuff they've got - will support it even more fervently. Bloody Hell! They owned a dog for six months, but it died, bitten by a Tiger Snake in their back yard. After spending aus $50,000 on fencing for the little farm they've bought, Wombats have dug a lot of it up - and Wombats, let me tell you, are as thick as a yard of lard. They dig a hole to get in - which seems reasonable - but do they exit through the same hole? Oh, no - Mr Thicky Wombat digs another hole by the side of it, and off he goes! The result is that Geoff's paddock now looks like a modern Antipodean version of Vimy Ridge, or The Somme.
The previous owners couldn't cope with the snakes. I don't blame them, neither could I. "They're more frightened of you, than you are of them" said cousin. Oh, really? They must be scared shitless then, because I'm bloody terrified just hearing about them. Here's a list of some of the little sweeties that await you if you visit this septic isle, it's not exhaustive, and further horrors await the unsuspecting (Kevin Rudd again), and a lot of the descriptions are courtesy of Geoff's lovely lady, who was kind enough to write them down for us:
Wombat: No respecter of fences, built like a tank, ruins your radiator if you hit it (it'll be fine).
Koala: Harmless, really, and sleeps a lot. There's not a lot of energy in the leaves it eats, but there is a narcotic, which means that your average Koala spends most of it's life completely stoned. Hey, man.........................
Emu: Think they're funny? Rod Hull spring to mind, huh? Forget it. They may have the flying characteristics of a lawn-mower, but the male - who incubates the eggs - can run at incredible speed, and is perfectly capable of kicking a human being to death.
Possum: Sweet and really, really cute - unless it's living in your ceiling or eating your roses.
Kangaroo: Graceful in flight, and makes really good low-fat meat. Mmm, mmmmmmmmmmm!
Duck-Billed Platypus: If ever an animal was designed by a committee that got it wrong, this is it! Shy and elusive, you're probably breathing a sigh of relief. Don't. And don't corner it, either, because the male has poisonous spurs on his back feet, and one scratch means half a day out with the undertaker - really!
Almost everything else (including snakes, spiders, Crocs (obviously) Sharks ( the Bull Sharks in Sidney Harbour are described as 'grumpy'), and most of the sheep, will kill you without a word.
Oh, and they have this group of people with limited intelligence ( they struggle with long words like 'the', 'and', and 'but'), who live on estates, claim benefits, steal things, and wear Burberry baseball caps. They call them 'Bogans', and they may be ringing some bells with some of you already.
So.................Welcome to 'Stralia - no wonder it was a penal colony - but thank God for Australians, a breath of fresh air in a ridiculous world
For a start, they are not all like the ghastly (but hilarious) caricatures created by Barry Humphries, nor do they all act like Barry Mackenzie or Kerry Packer. Not a bit of it. Our two Aussies are very intelligent, articulate, sensitive and self-effacing people, and they offered an interesting insight into the Australia of today, its wildlife, and its people. It is true that they have their embarrassments, and were quick to distance themselves from Rupert Murdoch, Kevin Rudd, and the entire cast of 'Home and Away'. I don't blame them. I reciprocated by denying any empathy whatever with Nick Clegg, Vince Cable, or Sir Tony Robinson - fortunately, they had not heard of David Dickinson.
I am a great fan and supporter of the wildlife of Great Britain, and - after hearing of the stuff they've got - will support it even more fervently. Bloody Hell! They owned a dog for six months, but it died, bitten by a Tiger Snake in their back yard. After spending aus $50,000 on fencing for the little farm they've bought, Wombats have dug a lot of it up - and Wombats, let me tell you, are as thick as a yard of lard. They dig a hole to get in - which seems reasonable - but do they exit through the same hole? Oh, no - Mr Thicky Wombat digs another hole by the side of it, and off he goes! The result is that Geoff's paddock now looks like a modern Antipodean version of Vimy Ridge, or The Somme.
The previous owners couldn't cope with the snakes. I don't blame them, neither could I. "They're more frightened of you, than you are of them" said cousin. Oh, really? They must be scared shitless then, because I'm bloody terrified just hearing about them. Here's a list of some of the little sweeties that await you if you visit this septic isle, it's not exhaustive, and further horrors await the unsuspecting (Kevin Rudd again), and a lot of the descriptions are courtesy of Geoff's lovely lady, who was kind enough to write them down for us:
Wombat: No respecter of fences, built like a tank, ruins your radiator if you hit it (it'll be fine).
Koala: Harmless, really, and sleeps a lot. There's not a lot of energy in the leaves it eats, but there is a narcotic, which means that your average Koala spends most of it's life completely stoned. Hey, man.........................
Emu: Think they're funny? Rod Hull spring to mind, huh? Forget it. They may have the flying characteristics of a lawn-mower, but the male - who incubates the eggs - can run at incredible speed, and is perfectly capable of kicking a human being to death.
Possum: Sweet and really, really cute - unless it's living in your ceiling or eating your roses.
Kangaroo: Graceful in flight, and makes really good low-fat meat. Mmm, mmmmmmmmmmm!
Duck-Billed Platypus: If ever an animal was designed by a committee that got it wrong, this is it! Shy and elusive, you're probably breathing a sigh of relief. Don't. And don't corner it, either, because the male has poisonous spurs on his back feet, and one scratch means half a day out with the undertaker - really!
Almost everything else (including snakes, spiders, Crocs (obviously) Sharks ( the Bull Sharks in Sidney Harbour are described as 'grumpy'), and most of the sheep, will kill you without a word.
Oh, and they have this group of people with limited intelligence ( they struggle with long words like 'the', 'and', and 'but'), who live on estates, claim benefits, steal things, and wear Burberry baseball caps. They call them 'Bogans', and they may be ringing some bells with some of you already.
So.................Welcome to 'Stralia - no wonder it was a penal colony - but thank God for Australians, a breath of fresh air in a ridiculous world
Thursday, 12 September 2013
Is It Only Me?
I am pleased to note that the Railwayman from C2C who saved a woman's life has been re-instated, presumably with a warning not to do it again. Bob Crow, the Union boss, called it a 'victory for common sense'. I don't. I call it a senseless waste of time and money ( which probably came from fare-payers), when a simple "nice one, mate, but we'd better alter our procedures, so you don't have to risk your neck again, and people in wheelchairs can't fall on to the track" would have done. Still, I'm glad everyone's alright, and hope C2C have learned something...........
The depressing Syria problem refuses to go away, and now Mr Putin has taken centre stage. His idea may be good - or possibly just clever - but there's no doubt that he's taken the wind out of America's sails. The wrong-footed White House is now in between a rock and a hard place. There seems to be little appetite for intervention in the States, despite Mr Kerry and Co. frantically trying to drum up support to put the money where Obama's mouth is.
I think the biggest problem here is knowing who your friends are - which, of course, means knowing your enemies as well. Subtracting the enemies from the total does not mean that anyone remaining is your friend - or is even going to stay your friend once you've dug 'em out of the cack. There is no doubt at all that Assad's regime is oppressive (I worked with a Syrian who knew just how oppressive it is when the secret police murdered his brother and threatened him, so I'm not just making this up), and the man will stop at nothing. There is also no doubt that Vlad didn't thrive all those years in the KGB without being very capable.
But what are we replacing them with? Another bunch of evil old clerics who preach murder in the name of a peaceful god? Al-Quaida? A Syrian version of the world's greatest chauvinists, the Taliban? Are we condemning Syria to something at least as bad as Assad, or even worse? Do we know? And - call me Mr Cynic - where's the money? Because whoever controls the MIddle East has the key to the world.
Or is it only me?
The depressing Syria problem refuses to go away, and now Mr Putin has taken centre stage. His idea may be good - or possibly just clever - but there's no doubt that he's taken the wind out of America's sails. The wrong-footed White House is now in between a rock and a hard place. There seems to be little appetite for intervention in the States, despite Mr Kerry and Co. frantically trying to drum up support to put the money where Obama's mouth is.
I think the biggest problem here is knowing who your friends are - which, of course, means knowing your enemies as well. Subtracting the enemies from the total does not mean that anyone remaining is your friend - or is even going to stay your friend once you've dug 'em out of the cack. There is no doubt at all that Assad's regime is oppressive (I worked with a Syrian who knew just how oppressive it is when the secret police murdered his brother and threatened him, so I'm not just making this up), and the man will stop at nothing. There is also no doubt that Vlad didn't thrive all those years in the KGB without being very capable.
But what are we replacing them with? Another bunch of evil old clerics who preach murder in the name of a peaceful god? Al-Quaida? A Syrian version of the world's greatest chauvinists, the Taliban? Are we condemning Syria to something at least as bad as Assad, or even worse? Do we know? And - call me Mr Cynic - where's the money? Because whoever controls the MIddle East has the key to the world.
Or is it only me?
Friday, 6 September 2013
Health and Stupidity
Here in Essex a member of a rail company has been suspended for the heinous crime of saving someone's life. Clearly, this sort of thing cannot be tolerated, and there is a possibility that the man in question could lose his job. Quite what he could have been thinking of when he rushed onto the line after a woman in a wheelchair fell on to it, I cannot imagine. The train was a mere three minutes away, and, had he waited, would have cleared her off the tracks a treat, without endangering him at all.
A spokesman for the company said the man had breached health and safety rules by going on the track, which he was not allowed to do. Only trains and people in wheelchairs can do that.
I am not kidding. No, really, I'm not, honest. Anyway, you couldn't really make it up, could you? I'm very much afraid that it truly has happened, and provoked a storm of protest, obviously. You may remember my comments about one man's hero being another man's horse's arse (see Fred)?
Well, I rather think that our hero -which he obviously is - has come up against a horse's arse. He put his life in danger - a conscious choice - to save someone who was helpless to save themselves. Several other people helped him. Who's a naughty boy then?
So, if you're a fireman, policeman or paramedic - or even just human - don't go saving people's lives if it's dangerous, let them get on with it.
The next thing will be a national undertaker's strike if this kind of thing is allowed to continue.
Where will it all end?
A spokesman for the company said the man had breached health and safety rules by going on the track, which he was not allowed to do. Only trains and people in wheelchairs can do that.
I am not kidding. No, really, I'm not, honest. Anyway, you couldn't really make it up, could you? I'm very much afraid that it truly has happened, and provoked a storm of protest, obviously. You may remember my comments about one man's hero being another man's horse's arse (see Fred)?
Well, I rather think that our hero -which he obviously is - has come up against a horse's arse. He put his life in danger - a conscious choice - to save someone who was helpless to save themselves. Several other people helped him. Who's a naughty boy then?
So, if you're a fireman, policeman or paramedic - or even just human - don't go saving people's lives if it's dangerous, let them get on with it.
The next thing will be a national undertaker's strike if this kind of thing is allowed to continue.
Where will it all end?
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Insert Name Here
The title of this blog is taken from a phrase frequently used by Terry Pratchett's disastrous imp-powered Personal Disorganizer - a sort of medieval i-pad. It is used in place of a name, which is why our new granddaughter has acquired it.
She arrived in this rather tatty old world at 3.15 this morning, and I was alerted to her presence by her doting father, who obviously saw no reason why he should be the only one deprived of sleep.
We went to see them this afternoon - there would have been no living with ED if I'd refused, and anyway, I wanted to see her, too - and she is beautiful. So sure were her parents that she was going to be a boy, that they are now dithering around trying to choose a name, and she has, so to speak, completely wrong-footed them.
INH (for short - but hopefully, not for long) is blissfully unaware of all this kerfuffle, and is patiently awaiting her new name, whatever it may be. I cling to the hope it will not be something bloody daft like a drowning man clinging to a log.
So, welcome to the world, little Insert Name Here, may it treat you kindly all of your life. We will love you whatever they call you.
As long as it isn't Britney, of course.
She arrived in this rather tatty old world at 3.15 this morning, and I was alerted to her presence by her doting father, who obviously saw no reason why he should be the only one deprived of sleep.
We went to see them this afternoon - there would have been no living with ED if I'd refused, and anyway, I wanted to see her, too - and she is beautiful. So sure were her parents that she was going to be a boy, that they are now dithering around trying to choose a name, and she has, so to speak, completely wrong-footed them.
INH (for short - but hopefully, not for long) is blissfully unaware of all this kerfuffle, and is patiently awaiting her new name, whatever it may be. I cling to the hope it will not be something bloody daft like a drowning man clinging to a log.
So, welcome to the world, little Insert Name Here, may it treat you kindly all of your life. We will love you whatever they call you.
As long as it isn't Britney, of course.
Wednesday, 4 September 2013
Fed Up With Syria
I actually e-mailed the core of this blog to friends a while ago - before Eton Dave came second in the Parliamentary vote on Syria - but the feeling is still there. It is the feeling that someone, somewhere, is going to goof - and badly. Even as I right this, there are people calling for a re-think. These people include the Mayor of London - the Right 'Orrible Boris Johnson - who is, let me tell you, by no means the affable prat he pretends to be. No-one - but no-one - could have survived so many cock-ups and lies without being not only astute, but utterly ruthless - but I digress.
To take an objective look at our past military intervention, select a country we have intervened in - you know, Kosovo, Afghanistan, Iraq - and then ask yourself which one you'd take the wife and kids to for a holiday. See what I mean? That works, doesn't it? No, of course not.
Dave has to stop the swagger, because he has nothing to swagger with. We cannot afford it. We cannot cut back on everything from the NHS, benefits for the elderly (that's me, folks!) and street lighting (not to mention the emergency services) and finance a war against an unknown enemy.
The author of 'The Devil's Dictionary' - Ambrose Bierce, said that war was a way of teaching Americans geography, a highly-accurate if cynical view. We are not turning the other cheek here. For years now, this country has given shelter and new opportunities to people whose countries were in turmoil - very often because they lacked the humanity to sort themselves out. We cannot right all wrongs, and sometimes it must be up to others, because we have always been the others, and we are tired, Mr Cameron and Mr Obama - we are tired.
Still, take heart chaps, in the knowledge that I trust you both at least as much as I do Mr Putin.
To take an objective look at our past military intervention, select a country we have intervened in - you know, Kosovo, Afghanistan, Iraq - and then ask yourself which one you'd take the wife and kids to for a holiday. See what I mean? That works, doesn't it? No, of course not.
Dave has to stop the swagger, because he has nothing to swagger with. We cannot afford it. We cannot cut back on everything from the NHS, benefits for the elderly (that's me, folks!) and street lighting (not to mention the emergency services) and finance a war against an unknown enemy.
The author of 'The Devil's Dictionary' - Ambrose Bierce, said that war was a way of teaching Americans geography, a highly-accurate if cynical view. We are not turning the other cheek here. For years now, this country has given shelter and new opportunities to people whose countries were in turmoil - very often because they lacked the humanity to sort themselves out. We cannot right all wrongs, and sometimes it must be up to others, because we have always been the others, and we are tired, Mr Cameron and Mr Obama - we are tired.
Still, take heart chaps, in the knowledge that I trust you both at least as much as I do Mr Putin.
Human or Animal
A columnist who writes from time to time in our local rag made an interesting statement the other day, which got me wondering. He is not a huge fan of animals - unless of course, they - or parts thereof - are presented on a plate, with seasonal vegetables, and maybe a splash of gravy. It goes without saying that he is not a pet person, although he grudgingly acknowledges the educational role that pets can play. His daughter, apparently, has learned a lot about death from having several hamsters.
I don't have a problem with any of the above, nor, indeed, do I have one with his utter dislike of some of the more unpleasant species on the planet (no, not humans, although......). In fact, I agree with him. If all man-eating sharks, Crocodiles, and venomous nasties of all kinds were threatened with extinction, there would be no insomnia in this house.
But I do have slight worries about his disdain for people who say they prefer the company of animals to that of humans - not because they are right or wrong to make such a statement, but I feel the statements - his and theirs - require qualification. Under normal circumstances I prefer the company of ED ('er downstairs) to, say, that of a Great White Shark, although it does depend on how much she's had at the time. Budgies are somewhat limited conversation-wise, and Parrots seem to swear a lot. Dogs can be nice, if over-enthusiastic, company - my darling daughter's Newfoundland is an example of this. He is absolutely ideal for anyone who likes an eleven-stone furball with halitosis on their lap. Cats, of course, are a very emotive subject, and a purring cat on your lap is a relaxing experience. Right up until the moment the psychotic little bastard decides it's had enough and - instead of simply getting off - goes completely insane, claws you to shreds, and bites you.
I believe, though, that sometimes the company of animals is infinitely preferable to that of some humans. There are people out there you would not want to spend an evening with. I live in Essex, so I know what I'm talking about. For instance, would you like a few hours in the company of a Hoodie with a Staffie and eczema (the worst example of a human/animal relationship), or some of the druggies we see around here? There are numerous situations involving other humans that you just wouldn't want to be in - like a holiday with Nick Clegg, for instance.
On the other hand, if we treat our pets properly, they are rewarding and relaxing company, because the relationship is based on mutual trust and affection. Animals have no hidden agenda (except for some cats), and our little tabby would not consider hurting a thing. She's the sweetest-natured animal I've ever had, and I'm sorry, but I prefer her to a lot of humans.
Of course, if I was entertaining Julia Roberts, I could adjust my opinion, slightly.
I don't have a problem with any of the above, nor, indeed, do I have one with his utter dislike of some of the more unpleasant species on the planet (no, not humans, although......). In fact, I agree with him. If all man-eating sharks, Crocodiles, and venomous nasties of all kinds were threatened with extinction, there would be no insomnia in this house.
But I do have slight worries about his disdain for people who say they prefer the company of animals to that of humans - not because they are right or wrong to make such a statement, but I feel the statements - his and theirs - require qualification. Under normal circumstances I prefer the company of ED ('er downstairs) to, say, that of a Great White Shark, although it does depend on how much she's had at the time. Budgies are somewhat limited conversation-wise, and Parrots seem to swear a lot. Dogs can be nice, if over-enthusiastic, company - my darling daughter's Newfoundland is an example of this. He is absolutely ideal for anyone who likes an eleven-stone furball with halitosis on their lap. Cats, of course, are a very emotive subject, and a purring cat on your lap is a relaxing experience. Right up until the moment the psychotic little bastard decides it's had enough and - instead of simply getting off - goes completely insane, claws you to shreds, and bites you.
I believe, though, that sometimes the company of animals is infinitely preferable to that of some humans. There are people out there you would not want to spend an evening with. I live in Essex, so I know what I'm talking about. For instance, would you like a few hours in the company of a Hoodie with a Staffie and eczema (the worst example of a human/animal relationship), or some of the druggies we see around here? There are numerous situations involving other humans that you just wouldn't want to be in - like a holiday with Nick Clegg, for instance.
On the other hand, if we treat our pets properly, they are rewarding and relaxing company, because the relationship is based on mutual trust and affection. Animals have no hidden agenda (except for some cats), and our little tabby would not consider hurting a thing. She's the sweetest-natured animal I've ever had, and I'm sorry, but I prefer her to a lot of humans.
Of course, if I was entertaining Julia Roberts, I could adjust my opinion, slightly.
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
Jargon Boy
Ever noticed that the higher up in what is now termed I.T. people are, the less they are understood by others? Indeed, there comes a point when contact with the English language (and possibly reality, too) is lost completely.
I have had a shining example appear on my genealogy site (yes, contrary to popular opinion I do have ancestors, and I knew my parents also), and clearly this guy - a Chief Technology Officer, no less, needs help. He starts off fairly reasonably by stating that 'several members have asked for more information on the cause of recent disruption', which is technospeak for about a hundred-thousand people all shouting "WTF's going on?" He then goes on to say that they have to make 'smart and purposeful changes to our infrastructure' - sorry, I'll translate: 'we've been sitting here on our arses in a cosy little world of complacency, we've had a testicular moment, and we are in deep shite'. See? I'm sure you'll get the hang of it. 'This week-end is an example of how our current architecture could still use some updates'. OR 'This weekend was a complete fuck-up.'
You'll all be delighted to know, I'm sure, that Jargon Boy has promised to do a lot of powerful things. For example 'Re-architecting our base development framework' is on it's way, and I for one can hardly wait. Ok, ok, I don't know what it means any more than he does, alright? Not only that, dear friends, but he's going to apply 'additional levels of network and database monitoring, to more quickly detect and resolve problems', or: 'We are going to try to stay awake'.
Now, I'm sorry, but having spent my hard-earned on this company, I don't expect patronising bullshit like this. I ask only that the site works with reasonable efficiency, and that if they wish to make contact with me, they do it in English, which is my only language. It beggars belief that Jargon Boy would expect normal people to understand this clap-trap, but he clearly does. This, I believe, is a measure of just how many light-years from reality he really is. I'm not saying he's ill, oh, no, but just keep him away from anything sharp, that's all.
He will 'evolve the site, and invest in new core product features', so that's alright then, but I've saved the worst until last; he's threatened to keep us informed at all times! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
I have had a shining example appear on my genealogy site (yes, contrary to popular opinion I do have ancestors, and I knew my parents also), and clearly this guy - a Chief Technology Officer, no less, needs help. He starts off fairly reasonably by stating that 'several members have asked for more information on the cause of recent disruption', which is technospeak for about a hundred-thousand people all shouting "WTF's going on?" He then goes on to say that they have to make 'smart and purposeful changes to our infrastructure' - sorry, I'll translate: 'we've been sitting here on our arses in a cosy little world of complacency, we've had a testicular moment, and we are in deep shite'. See? I'm sure you'll get the hang of it. 'This week-end is an example of how our current architecture could still use some updates'. OR 'This weekend was a complete fuck-up.'
You'll all be delighted to know, I'm sure, that Jargon Boy has promised to do a lot of powerful things. For example 'Re-architecting our base development framework' is on it's way, and I for one can hardly wait. Ok, ok, I don't know what it means any more than he does, alright? Not only that, dear friends, but he's going to apply 'additional levels of network and database monitoring, to more quickly detect and resolve problems', or: 'We are going to try to stay awake'.
Now, I'm sorry, but having spent my hard-earned on this company, I don't expect patronising bullshit like this. I ask only that the site works with reasonable efficiency, and that if they wish to make contact with me, they do it in English, which is my only language. It beggars belief that Jargon Boy would expect normal people to understand this clap-trap, but he clearly does. This, I believe, is a measure of just how many light-years from reality he really is. I'm not saying he's ill, oh, no, but just keep him away from anything sharp, that's all.
He will 'evolve the site, and invest in new core product features', so that's alright then, but I've saved the worst until last; he's threatened to keep us informed at all times! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Minister for Verbal Abuse
Without wishing to harp on about Syria, I was a tad miffed to see that a member of HM Government - or a minion thereof - had referred to Labour leader Ed Milliband as a f***ing c**t, because he opposed Eton Dave over military intervention. I'm glad that's out of the way, because those asterisks are bloody hard to pronounce, I can tell you.
Now, there can't be many people - including a lot of Labour supporters - who haven't reflected on the wisdom of Mr M's appointment as leader from time to time, but the obscenities do seem rather harsh.
What Ed Milliband said, in effect, was that his party was not prepared to give Dave an open cheque with which to go get him some Arab. They - quite rightly in a lot of people's opinion - asked that concrete evidence of who was responsible for the crime be provided before the punishment was meted out - always assuming we had the legal right to punish in the first place.
Seems reasonable to me. What our new Minsister for Verbal Abuse has done is to call most of the British public f***ing c**ts, because most people have - rightly or wrongly - been saying the same as Ed.
It's an aboose of 'ooman rights is what it is, but do not worry, because Eton Dave is dead against any such abuse.
Our Minister for Verbal Abuse will be gone very shortly, his house a smoking crater after a punitive air-strike by RAF Tornados.
After all, what's sauce for the goose................................................
Now, there can't be many people - including a lot of Labour supporters - who haven't reflected on the wisdom of Mr M's appointment as leader from time to time, but the obscenities do seem rather harsh.
What Ed Milliband said, in effect, was that his party was not prepared to give Dave an open cheque with which to go get him some Arab. They - quite rightly in a lot of people's opinion - asked that concrete evidence of who was responsible for the crime be provided before the punishment was meted out - always assuming we had the legal right to punish in the first place.
Seems reasonable to me. What our new Minsister for Verbal Abuse has done is to call most of the British public f***ing c**ts, because most people have - rightly or wrongly - been saying the same as Ed.
It's an aboose of 'ooman rights is what it is, but do not worry, because Eton Dave is dead against any such abuse.
Our Minister for Verbal Abuse will be gone very shortly, his house a smoking crater after a punitive air-strike by RAF Tornados.
After all, what's sauce for the goose................................................
Fred
Just recently, my other half bought a book for me. The occasion, if it can be called that, was my sixty-eighth birthday, not a cause for jubilation, you may say, but when you consider the alternative it could be worse. Sadly, the author of this worthy piece did not make it past sixty-six, sadder still because he was one of my heroes.
Now, the selection of heroes is a very personal thing, of course. One man's hero is another man's horse's arse, so to speak. I am - obviously - fond of my heroes, although I willingly accept that others may not agree with my choice. I have no problem with this, just as long as the insults don't get too personal.
However, I feel fairly confident that very few people would rubbish this particular hero, essentially because it would be difficult to find a man with less malice and arrogance in his soul, making him very, very difficult to dislike.
The book is called 'Did You Like That ?', and it was by the late and very much - lamented Fred Dibnah. If Fred had have had a list of his ingredients stamped on him, that list would have contained many of the ones that had put the 'Great' in Great Britain. Never an academic, Fred was tough, intelligent, modest and open. He also had, by his own admission, somewhat Victorian values, and I suggest that may not be such a bad thing. He was not, of course, perfect ('er downstairs informs me that neither am I - a great surprise!), and his obsession with steam-engines was an award-winning marriage wrecker, as I suppose, are all obsessions.
He was a natural teacher, possessing all three of the essential requirements; he knew what he was on about, he had a tremendous enthusiasm, and that enthusiam was contagious. He seemed to communicate in a way that many university lecturers can only envy. He were a good lad, were Fred.
Just rambling thoughts on a good bloke really, but I miss him, because he was so essentially English - as comforting as a whistling kettle and Sunday tea. I hope he's sitting on a great big chimney, with a pint of Guiness in his hand, watching the trains (steam, naturally), and chatting with some mates.
My first glimpse of Fred on TV was when a figure emerged from a dust-cloud wearing a flat cap and a manic grin, asking "Did you like that?"
We did.
Now, the selection of heroes is a very personal thing, of course. One man's hero is another man's horse's arse, so to speak. I am - obviously - fond of my heroes, although I willingly accept that others may not agree with my choice. I have no problem with this, just as long as the insults don't get too personal.
However, I feel fairly confident that very few people would rubbish this particular hero, essentially because it would be difficult to find a man with less malice and arrogance in his soul, making him very, very difficult to dislike.
The book is called 'Did You Like That ?', and it was by the late and very much - lamented Fred Dibnah. If Fred had have had a list of his ingredients stamped on him, that list would have contained many of the ones that had put the 'Great' in Great Britain. Never an academic, Fred was tough, intelligent, modest and open. He also had, by his own admission, somewhat Victorian values, and I suggest that may not be such a bad thing. He was not, of course, perfect ('er downstairs informs me that neither am I - a great surprise!), and his obsession with steam-engines was an award-winning marriage wrecker, as I suppose, are all obsessions.
He was a natural teacher, possessing all three of the essential requirements; he knew what he was on about, he had a tremendous enthusiasm, and that enthusiam was contagious. He seemed to communicate in a way that many university lecturers can only envy. He were a good lad, were Fred.
Just rambling thoughts on a good bloke really, but I miss him, because he was so essentially English - as comforting as a whistling kettle and Sunday tea. I hope he's sitting on a great big chimney, with a pint of Guiness in his hand, watching the trains (steam, naturally), and chatting with some mates.
My first glimpse of Fred on TV was when a figure emerged from a dust-cloud wearing a flat cap and a manic grin, asking "Did you like that?"
We did.
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