What Jen and I and most of Jen's family misheard her (Irish) mum to say in the pub last night:
What's the difference between a ship and a boat?
… Is it a yacht?
I've just worked out why, when the Halifax Bank merged with the Bank of Scotland to make HBOS, they chose to merge the two banks' initials in the order that they did.
Sunday Times: No MMR? Then you won't start school
Children will be banned from starting school until they receive the MMR jab, under new Labour party proposals. Parents will have to provide proof their offspring have had a full range of vaccinations when they put in applications for primary schools.
You've got to hand it to this Labour government: in power for over a decade, and they're still somehow managing to dredge up new stuff to ban. Who says they lack imagination?
If you remember, back in February, I proposed a much more logical solution to this MMR nonsense.
The more observant of you—the more observant of you who are not reading this via an RSS reader at least—might have noticed that the banner across the top of the page has changed from a tasteful orange colour to a rather dramatic red. At the same time, the text has changed from black to white.
Why have I made this change? Well, exactly the same red and white colour scheme will soon be adorning my new study. The shelves, windows, skirting board and ceiling will be white, and the walls red. This exact red, in fact. For some reason, the paint manufacturer has chosen to call it incarnadine. It's a disappointing name, compared with those of some of the other reds I was tempted by: blazer, dragon's blood, volcanic splash, and something I can't remember with the word passion in the title. Even rectory red has more of a ring to it than incardanine. Didn't he star in Kung Fu in the 1970s?
Unfortunately, incarnadine turns out to be a rather specialist (for which, read expensive) paint, so the shop didn't have enough. They've had to order some more.
The new study, once it has a desk and computer will become the official new Gruts Central. So I thought I might as well change the colour scheme at the top of the page to be a bit more corporate.
I don't know how long it will last.
Makes you proud to be British.
Is it my imagination, or are there more ducks than is usual for the time of year flying about at the moment? Not significantly more, but noticeably more. Noticeable enough that, if you happened to have a website where you were prone to make observations of such a nature, you would probably mention it on the off-chance that you had actually noticed something rather profound. I admit it seems unlikely, but you never know: perhaps there's a reason why there are noticeably more ducks flying around than is usual for the time of year. Or perhaps it really is just my imagination.
They're mallards mostly, from what I can tell at the sort of distances I'm talking about. Actually, I haven't mentioned distances yet, but I'm just about to: 50 to 100 yards, approximately. They tend to be flying very fast, very low and very determinedly in a straight line, quite often in an easterly direction. I suppose they could be the same ducks going round and round, but this seems unlikely, bearing in mind how very determinedly they are flying in a straight line. Not to say impossible.
Ducks are surprisingly fast fliers. In fact, I'm pretty sure my edition of The Guinness Book of Records from some time in the 1970s said that the fastest horizontal bird flight ever measured was that of a mallard. I forget the speed. Peregrine falcons can reach faster speeds, of course, but only in a vertical stoop.
A surprising thing I've noticed about ducks' flight while I've been observing the noticeably more of them than is usual for the time of year recently is how short their wing-beats are. They're very short indeed, bearing in mind the horizontal speeds they achieve. Ducks take tiny wing-beats, but travel at great speed.
There's a lesson for us all there, I think.
I repeat:
In case you didn't quite catch that…
No comebacks, Phil. They're not dignified.
I'm sorry, Beeb, you'll have to give us more to go on that that. Which particular tax are you talking about?
BBC: Nuclear threat sparked tea worry
The threat of a nuclear attack on the UK in the 1950s caused concern over the supply of tea, top-secret documents which have now been released reveal.
Government officials planning food supplies said the tea situation would be "very serious" after a nuclear war.
Those were the days: a UK government actually getting its priorities right. Tea had got us through two world wars, and we were going to need reliable supplies to make it through a third.
Of course, it all started going downhill in 1938 with the invention of Nescafé. Now, we've turned into a nation of hyperactive, migrane-ridden instant coffee swillers. It was all part of a sinister American plot to destroy our empire.
More tea? Don't mind if I do!
BBC: Ofsted 'can deter would-be heads'
Ofsted inspection pressures deter talented teachers from taking on the top jobs in schools, research suggests.
A National Association of Head Teachers survey of 500 members found 86% thought the impact of Ofsted meant potential head teachers were put off applying.
Yeah, and I could have been a great ballerina, if only I'd been prepared to lose a few pounds and go through the sex-change.
Stop bloody whinging. Dealing with Ofsted inspections is part of the job of being a head teacher. You can't pick and choose which aspects of the role you want to fulfil. Managing a school requires an entirely different set of skills to overseeing a class of kids. If you don't think you've got what it takes, don't apply for the bloody job.
Simple as that.
BBC: Johnson wins London mayoral race
Boris Johnson has won the race to become the next mayor of London - ending Ken Livingstone's eight-year reign at City Hall.
Dick-wit in town… Geddit?
Suit yourselves.
(I should be a headline writer for the Sun, you know.)
David Bowie: one of those musicians I always respected as a genuine talent, without actually being a fan. For years now, Jen has been trying to convince me that, in his heyday, the Brixton Bard was a genius. With evidence like this, who am I to argue?
Sorry for the lack of updates. My phone line's down yet again. Seems to happen at least twice a year. Bloody BT. Serves me right for living in the back of beyond, I suppose.
This update published via the sexy, little handheld computer Jen bought me for my birthday, Bluetoothing out via my mobile phone.
We have the technology.
BBC: Humphrey Lyttleton: Your comments
I shall miss writing to you.
Mrs Trellis, North Wales
The ultimate train song: Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band - Click-Clack:
Jen and I had Arbroath smokies for our lunch last Saturday.
Jesus!
For those of you not in the know, an Arbroath smokie is a smoked haddock from the village of Arbroath in Scotland. (Those of you who are already in the know will not need to be reminded.)
Have you ever stood a bit too close to a bonfire and accidentally inhaled more than is strictly good for you, so that you end up coughing your lungs out, and all you can taste for the next three days is bonfire? Well, that's what eating an Arbroath smokie is like.
I'm not kidding, after a meal of pie and peas and a couple of beers on Saturday evening, I gave a discreet, satisfied burp, and all I could taste was that afternoon's Arbroath smokie.
Fantastic!
You certainly get your money's worth with an Arbroath smokie. It's the smoked fish equivalent of a glass of Laphroaig. And you won't get any higher praise than that from this astute gourmand.
Me: Bloody hell! Do you know what that is?
Jen: What, the cow?
Me: It's not a cow, it's a bloody buffalo! You don't see many of those in Yorkshire!
Jen: I don't know… There's another one over there.
A buffalo! Honest injun! No bull!
Jen and I have a couple of phrases we like to use tongue-in-cheek when one of us puts forward a totally ridiculous hyphothesis: "There you go: jumping to the obvious conclusion yet again" and "It's the only logical explanation". A typical conversation might go something like this:
"Have you seen the cheese-grater? It's not in the drawer."
"I think it must have been stolen by aliens wanting to learn about our advanced technology."
"There you go: jumping to the obvious conclusion yet again!"
"It's the only logical explanation."
Our use of these phrases is intended as a tribute to the many thousands of nutters out there who come up with horse-shit hypotheses which, for some bizarre reason, they genuinely expect us to believe.
This from the London Review of Books letters page earlier this month:
What Really Happened
Frank Kermode does not include in his discussion of the resurrection the gospel reference that gives the best clue about the death and resurrection of Jesus, namely John 19.34: 'Forthwith came there out blood and water' (LRB, 20 March). There can be only one possible explanation for this happening after the spear had been thrust into his side: Jesus had a large pleural effusion, which the spear released. This diagnosis explains a good deal that is otherwise puzzling in the gospel stories. Although he had previously walked everywhere, Jesus needed an ass for his final entry into Jerusalem. Also, he was unable to carry his cross, which other men of his age could carry easily. A pleural effusion this size would have been accumulating for some time. It would have been tuberculous, and so Jesus would have been getting steadily weaker. It isn't surprising that he felt 'he was not long for this world.'
The story in John implies that the soldiers were surprised to find Jesus dead so soon. With the effusion pressing on his heart and his body fixed upright he would probably have gone into severe heart failure, and would have appeared dead even though his heart itself was perfectly sound. The spear blow that was expected to finish him off might actually have saved his life by relieving the pressure on his heart. Being laid horizontally would have allowed the blood and fluids pooled in his legs to return into circulation, a process assisted by the coolness of the tomb. He might, in these circumstances, have regained consciousness and thus have seemed to be resurrected.
Dr Roger James
Portsmouth
This chap's got real class. You can read Frank Kermode's response here.
(The cheese-grater was in the dishwasher, by the way.)
BBC: Flies get 'mind-control sex swap'
Scientists have been able to take control of flies' brains to make females behave just like males.
The scientists simply removed the female flies' brains, and they immediately began drinking lager, farting and talking incessantly about football.
(I thought I'd better say it before Jo Brand did.)
I know it must seem patently obvious, but, in case you were in any doubt, I'd better say this up-front: I really don't plan any of this crap beforehand, you know…
A week last Sunday, I urged you all to listen to what World-Cup-winning former England rugby coach, Sir Clive Woodward, had to say.
This afternoon I quite unexpectedly found myself doing just that—in the flesh, so to speak.
Don't believe me, huh?
Admit it: you're mildly impressed.
On 14th March, 1859, while in the middle of writing On the Origin of Species, Charles Darwin wrote to his oldest son:
Mrs Grut is more "gruttish" than ever, & almost talks one deaf, & can be consumedly saucy.—
Two days later, Mrs Grut's employment as children's governess at the Darwin household was terminated as a result of her volatile and insolent behaviour.
I have to say, I am deeply disappointed that my personal hero, Charles Darwin, didn't get on with someone going by the rather wonderful name of Mrs Grut. But I am delighted that he coined the word gruttish: a very useful adjective, I'm sure you'll all agree.
But what do you think it means?
If Jesus had incorporated talking animals into his parables, they might have appealed more to a younger audience.
The Beeb tiptoes delicately around the 'C' word:
BBC: Graffiti village name change plan
Residents living in a graffiti-plagued village on Merseyside are being asked to consider changing its name to tackle vandals who alter signs in the village.
Lunt, which dates back to Medieval times, has been repeatedly targeted by vandals who change the "L" to a "C".
Apparently, they're going to change the village's name to Ucking Hill.
They've not thought this through, have they?
… I say they've got a bloody cheek.
The Fall in reflective mood with Touch Sensitive:
Thanks to Beholder for the tip-off. Check out his nifty, new steam train timetable thing.
BBC: Johnson must be coach - Woodward
World Cup-winning coach Sir Clive Woodward says Martin Johnson is the right man to lead England's revival - but only if he is a hands-on coach.
Just thinking, wouldn't Scuffles be a brilliant name for an impish, ragamuffin of a terrier!
So, Charlton Heston has passed away. I'm off to California to pry his gun from his cold, dead hands. It's what he would have wanted.
Keith Beach, via email, observes:
Could never understand why he named himself after two small local towns, but it could have been worse - why not Hounslow Hayes? or Feltham Staines?
… or, indeed, Chorley Dumplington. Why on Earth would anyone whose real surname was Carter want to change it for Heston? It don't make sense!
(Two name-checks on consecutive days, Keith. They'll be asking for your autograph next. Hope you like the new avatar.)
I've just realised that today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of my paternal grandmother, Nanna Margaret. She died almost 20 years ago, but I'll be breaking out the Laphroaig in her memory this evening.
Seems like a good excuse.
Nanna Margaret didn't like the fact that I drank neat whisky. She said it would rot my liver. She knew this for a fact: she had worked in an off-licence and had been on a course where they put some cow's liver in a tumbler of whisky, and a few days later it had gone!
I wasn't falling for that one: Nanna Margaret had also told me that eating the crusts of my toast would make my hair curl.
Not that I ever wanted curly hair, you understand.
I've been working on a new comments feature for the Gruts website: avatars! Now, regular Gruts commenters have their own little picture next to their comments. The feature works off the email address you supply when commenting, so no email address, no avatar. Some of you occasionally use different email addresses; I have tried to cater for this.
At the moment, the avatars only appear on the recent comments page, but I will be adding them to the comments under each individual post in due course.
Apologies to any regular commenters I might have missed. Please drop me an email if you enter a comment and get the default avatar (an anonymous silhouette) and you would like a personal one. Also, if you don't like the avatar I have chosen for you, please feel free to send me another. All avatars are 48x48 pixels.
Note to Keith Beach: For some reason, your email address keeps getting lost against the comments, so your avatar isn't working at the moment. I know you supply an email address, but it gets deleted. I found a bug in the comments code which I have fixed, but you might need to re-enter your email address when you next comment.
Sod this for a game of soldiers. I'm off down the pub.
