And that's just the domestic stuff. Where did it all go wrong? No matter who you vote for, the government always seems to get in.
I think I'll put my vote on eBay next time. Proceeds to Amnesty International. I might as well try to get some good out of it.
I don't know if it's some sort of reaction to Jack Straw's recent comments about Moslem veils, but there certainly seem to be a lot more women wearing burkas in Liverpool in recent months.
Well, I assume they're women.
On Tuesday, someone wearing a black burka with an extremely thin eye-slit walked past me carrying a cup of Starbucks™ coffee. I then proceeded to spend far more time than was sensible wondering how a person wearing a burka manages to drink coffee in public without revealing their face. As I thought about the problem in depth, I found myself conjuring up various contraptions involving drinking straws' passing through eye-slits.
I think I might have spotted a gap in the market—and a market in the gap.
BBC: Gang foiled over Banksy theft bid
A gang of thieves disguised as workmen tried to cash in on the popularity of guerilla artist Banksy—by trying to steal the door of a derelict building.
The Bristol-based artist had daubed a painting on the steel door in Slater Street, Liverpool, as part of the city's biennial in 2004.
The gang attempted to steal it but they were scared off by cleaners…
The work on the door, known as Liverpool Love Rat, has not been valued but is now under lock and key.
They would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for those pesky cleaners.
Fortunately, for those of you who might have missed it, I was prescient enough to capture the work of art in situ for posterity:
Ah, yes, but is it really art?
Ever since I was a little kid and read Bobby Brewster, Detective, I've been a compulsive notebook collector. Not that I ever wrote anything in them, you understand—they were far too nice to spoil with my scrawl.
Then, a few years back, my poor old Psion Organiser finally went west, and I was suddenly without something to note down amusing stuff that might eventually make it into one of my letters to Stense, or something like that. So I finally cracked open one of my many unused Moleskine™ notebooks and started jotting stuff down.
Much of the crap that has appeared on Gruts over the last few years appeared in first draft in that notebook. It has been pretty much my constant companion since 15th December, 2003.
Last week came the end of an era: I finally filled my Moleskine. It was kind of sad. Over the years, in addition to covering its pages with my untidy (and often drunken) handwriting, I had padded it out by sticking in stuff which happened to come to hand. It became a sort of scrapbook. Stuck amongst the pages, you will find collections of fruit stickers, train tickets, idle doodles made on loose pieces of paper, and the occasional raffle ticket.
Here, for example is a pensive bird I doodled on 17th May this year. It's some sort of finch, by the look of it. When I showed it to Stense during one of our hot dates, she suddenly went all dewy-eyed and girlie on me, saying it was gorgeous, and wasn't I a talented artist? I didn't like to tell her it started off life as a doodle of a parrot which went horribly wrong.
So, anyway, it turns out that my Moleskine is packed full of rather a lot of sentimental rubbish and fond memories. Which is why it was kind of sad to finish it.
I've started a new one, of course, but I haven't really broken it in yet: its pages are far too pristine and, well, white. But I'm sure I'll soon knock it out of shape.
BBC: Goldie calls for jail drug tests
Drug tests should be mandatory for new prisoners and all inmates should be tested regularly, according to the leader of the Scottish Conservatives.
So much more humane than testing them on animals.
Why doesn't untoward mean the same as away from?
Anne Robinson: Which three-letter word beginning with 'D' is a colloquial name for a parent?
Contestant: Mum.
I nearly forgot all about this one. Last Friday, Jen and I did a spot of Christmas shopping in Manchester. While we were in Marks and Sparks, I took the opportunity to powder my nose. As I walked into the gents, a scruffy-looking man followed me in carrying a huge pair of branch-loppers. This was rather off-putting.
On his way out, rather than using the door handle like any normal person, the scruffy-looking man opened the door by reaching up and pulling on the mechanical door-closer. He did it on both sets of doors. I thought this was pretty odd, so I gave him a few seconds before I followed him out.
Thinking about it afterwards, I've come up with four possible explanations for his strange door-opening technique:
- he had a toilet-door-handle phobia
- he was a fugitive from the law and didn't want to leave any prints
- he was drunk
- he was nuts
Any other suggestions?
Don't bald men seem to spend an awful lot of time rubbing their heads? They want to get over it. I'm fat, but I don't spend all day rubbing my stomach.
But perhaps I've got it the wrong way round. Perhaps rubbing their heads all day is what made them go bald in the first place.
Someone should do a study.
I'd just poured myself a glass of wine on Thursday night, when Carolyn sent me an instant message asking for some computer assistance. I didn't really understand what she was on about, so I rang her. It turned out she was about to pour herself a glass of wine too, so we had a virtual drink together. It's the best we seem to be able to manage these days.
The following conversation took place:
R: Which wine are you drinking?C: It's a posh one with lots of gold thread round the bottle: Marques de Valido… REE-ODJA.R: REE-OCKA, it's pronounced REE-OCKA.C: No, that's a type of cheese!R: No, that's ricotta.[Howls of laughter on both our parts.]C: It's very good: nineteen ninety-nine.R: Bloody hell! It should be… Oh, you don't mean the price, do you? You mean the year.[More howls of laughter.]C: You were really impressed for a moment, then, weren't you?
Of course, Carolyn wasn't quite sure whether to believe me about Rioja being a wine and not a cheese, so she took the precaution of checking with her dad the following morning. He said he was fairly sure it was a wine.
I wonder what treatment they offer to people with a morbid fear of hypnotherapy.
BBC: Euro jackpot lost in player error
Members of a Belgian lottery syndicate who thought they had won 27m euros were dealt a huge blow when they found their winning numbers had not been entered…
[T]he group of friends were crushed when it turned out the person charged with buying the ticket had allowed the machine to choose random numbers.
This is exactly the reason why, in my two-person lottery syndicate with Carolyn, I insist on choosing random numbers each week. Carolyn, however, believes in the Gambler's Fallacy, so, in her two-person lottery syndicate with me, she always chooses the same numbers.
To date, my randomly chosen numbers have won us fifty quid, whereas Carolyn's lucky numbers have won exactly zero sausages.
Not that that proves anything.
You'll never guess what I saw in Tesco, Prestwich, last Thursday—right next to the HP Sauce. Go on, have a guess.
No, that's not it.
No, that's not it either.
Pickled quails' eggs. I kid you not. In Tesco. Who do they think they are?
Come to think of it, what sort of person actually wants to buy pickled quails' eggs in the first place? Have you ever seen a quail's egg? They're not exactly filling. I reckon I could get one in my nostril at a push. And, even if this mythical customer was in the market for a few pickled quails' eggs, can you imagine them saying to themself, "I wonder if they'll have any at Tesco."
Hardly bloody likely, is it?
(Unless they read this, of course.)
Spotted on a gravestone this morning:
MARY JONES
(STUMP)
I thought Stump was a pretty odd nickname for a woman, and wondered whether she had been rather short and squat. She mustn't have minded her nickname, I reckoned, for it to have been carved on her gravestone.
Then I worked out that Stump had probably been her maiden name.
Note discovered in my new Moleskine™ this morning after a session on the ale with Fitz (the tosser) last night:
Did you know, if you rearrange the letters of the name 'Richard Carter', you can spell 'This anagram doesn't work'?
Other than that, we talked a load of bollocks for three and a half hours, if memory serves. Which it probably doesn't.
You've got to hand it to those Chinese for their lateral thinking… It's your typical, everyday problem: a couple of dolphins have swallowed some plastic that is likely to kill them; you've tried removing it using medical equipment, to no avail; you can't operate; what do you do? Thinks…
I know! What if we found someone with really long arms…
Simple, yet brilliant!
The funnies page in New Scientist magazine has recently been recounting stories of readers' childhood religious misunderstandings. Plenty of people have sent in the hoary old chesnut, Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear. Me? I could never understand why Jesus died to save arse-holes. But, the other week, one reader's recollection made stuff come out of my nose:
Luela Palmer thought the words she heard as a coffin was lowered into the ground were: 'Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, into the hole he goes'.
Genius.
My parents were having a bit of a clear-out last week, when they found this:
I am now exactly twice the age of the innocent, barefaced boy in this photo. Where did it all go wrong? Mind you, the signature hasn't changed much, and I can still fit into that tweed jacket.
Before you ask, I haven't a clue what that thing on my head is. Some sort of hat, I reckon.
(OK, so I lied about the jacket.)
BBC: Target prostitute users - Harman
… [Minister for Constitutional Affairs and would-be Deputy Leader of the Labour Party,] Ms Harman said the murders of five prostitutes in Ipswich showed more should be done to end vice in the UK.
No, what it shows is that there is some nutter going around murdering prostitutes.
If he (for I assume the twisted fuckwit is a he) had been murdering vicars, would Ms Harman say that more should be done to prevent people from going to church? If he had been murdering librarians, would she want us to stamp out reading?
Whatever your views on prostitution, this is New Labour spin of the worst order: trying to use the murders of five women to further one's political agenda.
Ms Harman should resign immediately.
…who needs enemas?
I showed Stense my 1985 student union membership card last night. She said I looked like Ian Brady.
Don't quite see it myself:
Coincidentally, in the comments, Nite Owl reckons I looked like James Hanratty.
On the reverse of a joke found in a cracker yesterday:
Safety Warning
These crackers are for adult use only and not suitable for children under 5 years of age as they may contain a functional sharp point of edge, or small parts, which may constitute a choking hazard.
It seems to me as if they haven't really thought this one through. The logic of placing the warning against using a cracker inside the actual cracker itself quite escapes me. Were a child of four, say, to use the cracker and injure themself on a functional sharp point of edge, or small parts, the cracker manufacturers have left themselves wide open to a major law suit.
But enough of this legal nonsense. The joke:
Q: What's a hedgehog's favourite food?
A: Prickled onions.
(Not bad for a cracker, actually.)
It's that time of year again: Christmas Eve—time for my annual ascent of Moel Famau. That's 19 years out of 19.
Stense and Carolyn both stood me up this year, so I had to make do with Irish Mick.
The weather was absolutely amazing: bloody freezing down in the car park, but with incredible views over to Snowdonia, marred only by the obligatory wind powerstation (which, I couldn't help observing, was becalmed).
We passed through a layer of low mist and up into sunshine, giving me one of the best cloud sea views I've seen for many years. Then, after a cup of tea and a photo opportunity, we headed back down into the woods and mist.
Here's to number 20.
Jen and I have a house-guest over Christmas: Jen's mum's old-but-spritely cocker spaniel, the seasonally named Holly.
Holly likes visiting our place: there are nice new walks to go on, there are cats to chase in the garden, there are interesting smells to explore (sorry about that, it must be all the apricot stuffing), there are turkey leftovers, and the fat bearded man's idea of what constitutes two handfuls of dog food supplement is considerably more generous than the usual waiter's.
Oh, yes, and if you whimper like a poor, lost puppy, the people here give you lots of attention.
The only thing Holly doesn't like about staying here is the plate glass patio door, which she sometimes thinks is open when it's shut, and tries to leap through to great comic effect.
It's good having a dog around the house, but, with the amount of time Jen and I are away from home, there is no prospect of our having a dog of our own until we win the Big One on the lottery.
In our house, a dog is just for Christmas.
BBC: Blair plan for 'people's panels'
The prime minister has called for "people's panels" to help push through key public service reforms.
Tony Blair says the panels will be made up of members of the public who will be asked to advise ministers on the most difficult areas of policy.
This is so depressing.
The reason we appoint members of parliament is to give them our proxy votes when making exactly these sorts of decisions. At times, we naively hope that they might actually vote as intelligent, thoughtful individuals, rather than along party lines. If we don't like the way they vote, we reserve the right not to vote for them again. It's not a particularly good system for making decisions, but it sort of works.
Now Blair wants to corral 100 panel members to advise our elected representatives on how they should be using their proxy votes. Who will choose these 100 super-voters, do you reckon? Do you think they'll be chosen at random, or might the Prime Minister possibly have more than a little say in their selection?
I don't want people's panels advising my representative on my behalf, thank you very much. If I feel strongly enough about a particular issue, I'll contact my MP directly. That's how it's supposed to work. Your typical member of the British public (as represented on Blair's new panels—if they really are chosen at random) is a tabloid-reading, lager-drinking, europhobic reality TV-viewer, who thinks it's a disgrace they got rid of the death penalty, is paranoid about asylum-seekers getting into the water supply, thinks wind-powerstations are going to solve our energy needs, and cares more about the death of Pauline Fowler than what has been going on in Darfur.
If I wanted ill-informed, unelected buffoons making decisions on my behalf, I'd be a royalist.
BBC: Betting opens on new Potter plot
Bets are being taken on whether boy wizard Harry Potter will die in the final instalment of the series - with his arch-enemy the predicted killer…
William Hill spokesman Rupert Adams said: "JK [Rowling] mentioned that Harry might be killed off and the general consensus seems to be that Harry is the final Horcrux and to ensure that Voldemort dies he will need to be sacrificed."
Close, but no Quidditch Cup, I think.
Ever since JK Rowling mentioned in an interview a couple of books back that she knew how the series would end, and that she had already decided the final book's final sentence, I have been sure that I knew what the ending would be. Those of you who do not want to know the result, please look away now. (To prevent accidental reading, I have cleverly encoded my prediction á la The Mirror of Erised.)
.em dna uoy ekil tsuj ,elggum dlo ,nialp a emoceb dna srewop yldraziw sih pu evig ot eb lliw ecifircas etamitlu sih tub ,tromedloV taefed deedni lliw rettoP yrraH
Remember, you heard it here first.
BBC: Ex-BBC chairman Lord Hussey dies
Former BBC chairman Marmaduke Hussey has died at the age of 83.
To his eternal credit, Fitz (the tosser) once wrote a letter to the then plain Mister Hussey, which began: "Begging your pardon, Marm".
We had four unexpected visitors in our garden this morning: a covey of grey partridges. They hung round for about half an hour, and obligingly let me take their photos.
That makes 46 different species of birds spotted in our garden since we moved in five years ago.
(I would have shot them, but we're a bit stuffed on cold turkey at the moment.)
Jen and I saw a little old man in Tesco this morning. He was was very little indeed: he could only just see over the handle of his shopping trolley.
He was wearing a flat cap and a long, brown raincoat. Actually, I suspect it was a short, brown raincoat, but it looked long on him. I wish I'd had my camera with me, because he made quite a picture. I mean that in a nice, non-condescending way: seeing him pushing his trolley just made you feel happy. He was evidently very happy himself, because he was whistling a little tune to himself as he went. Good for him! you thought.
A few minutes later, Jen and I spotted another old man pushing a shopping trolley. He was wearing an identical flat cap and short, brown raincoat, but this chap was about 6 ft tall. "Bloody hell, he's grown quickly!" I remarked to Jen, and we both laughed. Then, the little old man appeared in the same aisle alongside the second man. "Look: near; faraway; near; faraway!" I whispered, repeating the old Father Ted joke.
You had to be there, I suppose.
I really do wish I'd had my camera.
Compare and contrast:
Today Saddam Hussein was executed after receiving a fair trial - the kind of justice he denied the victims of his brutal regime.
Amnesty International has condemned the Iraqi Appeal Court's decision on 26 December 2006 to confirm the death sentences on Saddam Hussein and two of his co-accused in the al-Dujail trial and said the court should have ordered a re-trial. The organization said it opposed the death penalty in all circumstances but it was especially egregious when this ultimate punishment is imposed after an unfair trial.
The trial of Saddam Hussein and his seven co-accused before the Supreme Iraqi Criminal Tribunal (SICT) was deeply flawed and unfair, due to political interference which undermined the independence of the court and other serious failings," sad Malcolm Smart, Director of Amnesty International's Middle East and North Africa programme. "The Appeals Court should have addressed these deficiencies and ordered a fair re-trial, not simply confirmed the sentences as if all was satisfactory at the trial stage.
It was absolutely right that Saddam Hussein should be held to account for the massive violations of human rights committed by his regime, but justice requires a fair process and this, sadly, was far from that, "said Malcolm Smart."The trial should have been a landmark in the establishment of the rule of law in Iraq after the decades of Saddam Hussein's tyranny. It was an opportunity missed.
