Nobody I sent post cards to from Barcelona over a fortnight ago has received them yet. Friends, I sent them, honest I did – although I’m beginning to suspect that the yellow postbox I wasn’t too sure about might have been a Metro air-conditioning vent after all.

Postscript: The post cards finally arrived.

My dad’s favourite gardening fork broke recently, so he asked me if I could try to get him a new handle from the local hardware shop. Yes, that’s right, this morning I finally got to walk into a hardware shop and ask for “fork handles“.

The woman behind the counter smiled knowingly. “Would that be four candles, or handles for forks?”

I don’t know which of us was the most amused.

I’m losing my touch. I was at a meeting this morning where there were three people named Richard sitting next to each other. “I suppose this is what you call an embarrassment of Richards,” I remarked amusingly… Not a sausage; not even a snigger.

Then, to make matters worse, I meet Carolyn for coffee, and she tells me that she’s told all her kids about my farting the first note of (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, and they all think it’s incredibly funny. So much so that her two-year-old daughter now refers to me as your Richard who goes pump.

So, in summary: my colleagues didn’t think my rather sophisticated pun was in the least bit funny, whereas a two-year-old child is extremely amused by my farts.

I guess I’ve finally found my audience.

Eureka Alert: Men overestimate the number of sexual partners they have had in their lives [12-Mar-03]
…It remains, however, unclear as to how male overestimation could result in such a wide disparity in the reported number of lifetime sexual partners.

In my day, it was called bullshitting.

Postscript: What the hell am I talking about? It still is my day!

There’s absolutely no delicate way of putting this: I farted while getting dressed this morning, and the noise that emerged was a perfect rendition of the first note of (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. Yes, that’s right: my arse has perfect pitch; no bum notes from my backside, no siree.

Thinking about it, Satisfaction is a pretty appropriate Rolling Stones song to play by fart. I suppose I could have been less subtle and gone for laughs, blasting out Fart Me Up or Trumping Jack Flash (it’s a gas, gas, gas) – but the first note of Satisfaction is so much more instantly recognisable (and, let’s be honest, less challenging).

Another 2003 prediction comes true:

Daily Record: Our Boys are Boiling, Starving and Begging from the Americans [10-Mar-03]
Scots squaddies are suffering in the Gulf heat because they still haven’t got lightweight desert kit… One RAF aircraftman told his dad: “We beg everything from the Yanks. It is embarrassing but needs must. I am one of the lucky ones who has desert clothing. The rest are in normal greens which just cook you in temperatures of 100 degrees plus.”

Yes, that’s a news story (i.e. yarn) about RAF clothing. I tell you, if this was the sixteenth century, that Farthing woman would be burnt as a witch.

Have you seen the latest BBC 5-day weather forecast for my neck of the woods?

 

Yeah, right. Who are they tryng to kid? It’s quite clear they’re not from round these parts.

Conversation with the local coal merchant:

Just back from five days in Barcelona. Great city, but it’s a pity about all the graffiti.

It’s nice to see that bars in Barcelona know their audience. Note the sudden change into English on the following receipt:

L’ARC

TABERNA VASCA

MEIR-TETRO S.L. N.I.F:B-61.791.216

RAMBLAS, 77 (BARCELONA)

11/03/2003 20:47 ****** *02*

T001 CAJERO-2 MESA 59

2 CERV.JARRA 1/2L 4.36 8.72

SUBTOTAL 8.72

BASE IMPONIBLE 8.72

I.V.A. 0.61

EFFECTIVO 9.33

ENTREGADO 10.00 >>

CAMBIO 0.67 <<

TIP NOT INCLUDED

(By the way, you won’t tell any of my friends that I was drinking lager, will you?)

Today, BBC News published an interview with Henry Heimlich of lifesaving manoeuvre fame.

The interview got me thinking. It must be really cool to have an actual manoeuvre named after you. So I’ve gone ahead and invented a manoeuvre of my own, henceforth to be known as The Carter Manoeuvre.

The Carter Manoeuvre is used to recover from those embarrassing situations where you are walking along, quite happily minding your own business, and are suddenly startled by something that really shouldn’t startle you quite so much. I am particularly adept at this manoeuvre following loud barks from dogs which are safely secured by ropes or confined behind fences. The manoeuvre is initiated in mid-air following your instinctive, adrenaline-induced leap away from the source of alarm. As your parabolic trajectory brings you back towards the ground, slam your leading foot down as hard as you can, then quickly slow your pace and resume walking nonchalantly in your original direction of travel, remarking, “Got it!”

Jen has this crackpot theory that it always snows in this neck of the woods on her friend’s birthday. The theory might well be ludicrous, but it is at least capable of being falsified (i.e. it is possible to devise a test that could disprove the theory). According to the philosopher Karl Popper (1902-1994), this means that Jen’s snow theory counts as a scientific theory. Indeed, it could be argued that it is more scientific than a typical Meteorological Office prediction of a 20% chance of snow (how could you ever test that one?). So Jen’s weather forecast is in some ways far more scientific than that of the UK’s official weather forecasting organisation, with all its Cray super-computers and satellite images – even though it is clearly complete and utter bollocks.

Today is Jen’s friend’s birthday.

It’s snowing.

Conversation at work:

According to a passing visitor, gruts is Kiwi slang for underpants. Cool.

Conversation with Carolyn while removing a splinter from her finger with a tiny pair of tweezers: