…And helium continues its sink, presumably.
Note: In case you were wondering, Bob Birrell was my chemistry teacher. He was also North of England Champion 120-yards hurdler (1960—62, 64, 66—69), and reached the quarter finals of the 110 metres hurdles in the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome, which he ran in 14.82s.
St Petersburg Times: Youth Groups Say the Time Has Come to Oppose Putin
Two liberal youth movements joined forces on Thursday in their fight against President Vladimir Putin’s policies and claimed the time was right for a mass pro-democracy movement in Russia similar to those in Ukraine and Serbia…
If such a movement were to form in Russia, the Kremlin would see its worst nightmare come true, political analysts said.
Blue Mass. Group: Howie Carr gives you another reason to vote for Tim Schofield
…Howie has just given you yet another good reason to go out and work to help Tim Schofield win tomorrow’s special election to fill the 18th Suffolk seat: you can make Howie Carr’s worst nightmare come true.
These politicians must have awfully tame nightmares, if that’s the worst they can come up with.
My worst nightmare involved my grandmother’s fur stole coming alive and leaping at my throat. I was about five at the time. For years afterwards, I was totally terrified of weasels and stoats (I didn’t know the dead thing around my grandmother’s neck was called a mink).
Now that’s a worst nightmare.
I’m no Philistine, but I’m not exactly a culture-vulture either. I read plenty of books, but I don’t get through many novels (life’s too short). I enjoy a huge variety of music, but, as far as I’m concerned, rap should be spelt with a capital C. I don’t claim to know much about art, but I know what’s shite.
Floating high amongst the shite come two of the most highly subsidised art forms: ballet and opera. Never been there, never seen either, never bought the T-shirt—and probably never will. (OK, maybe I am a bit of a Philistine.)
But hold on! I’ve just had a totally awesome idea for a new art form. I thought of it, so I get to name it. I’m calling it bapera.
As the name implies, it’s a cross between ballet and opera.
If you think about it, ballet and opera have a lot in common (both done to music, both shite), but there is also a huge gulf between them:
ballet: ultra-fit, ultra-lean homosexuals in leotards, keeping their mouths shut;
opera: ultra-fat, ultra-bearded heterosexuals in togas, bellowing their lungs out.
Bapera merges the two: ultra-fat, bearded tenors, prancing around the stage in leotards, bellowing on about swans!
Hell, I’d pay top whack to see that!
Remember, you heard it here first.
Postscript: Hey, I’ve just thought of another one—a cross between rap and opera. I’m calling it crapera.
BBC: Cat allergies ‘could be blocked’
Scientists say they have developed a technique which could prevent allergies caused by cats.
Wouldn’t it be far easier—and more environmentally friendly—simply to prevent cats?
New Scientist (28-Apr-2001): Every year in Britain, pet cats kill about 120 million birds and mammals—and about 6 million reptiles and amphibians. Thanks to feeding by humans, this predator has achieved densities that no natural ecosystem could support, to the detriment of wildlife.
Aren’t cats one form of bio-terrorism we can actually do something about? Put a solution to the real cat problem in your manifesto, Messrs. Blair, Kennedy or (no, really) Howard, and you’ll get my vote.
Go on, you cowards. I dare you!
See also: A Modest Proposal
Observer: Blair seeks the Christian vote
Tony Blair will make a fresh pitch for the Christian vote this week as Labour tries to refocus the debate over religion and politics away from inflammatory rows over abortion.
BBC: Williams urges debate on abortion
The Archbishop of Canterbury has joined the debate on abortion by calling for an urgent review of the current law.
Religion and politics, eh, don’t you just love them? We’re turning into America. Anyone would think there was a general election in the offing.
While we’re at it, can we please also have an urgent review of the separation of church and state (or lack thereof in England), hereditary bishops in the House of Lords, creationism in British schools, homophobia in the Anglican church, and whether the existence of an omniscient god denies humans free will?
They don’t like it up ‘em, Mr Mainwaring!
Durham University, Tuesday, 19th March, 1985, evening:
Hitchin has somehow convinced me, a northern, beer-swilling science undergraduate, to come along to the Law Department disco. I have no idea how he managed to do this. The event is held at the Q-Ball Club, a pool- and snooker-themed discothèque near the centre of town. (Don’t look for it, it’s not there any more.) I have been warned to be on my best behaviour.
So Hitchin and I and a few lawyer types are sitting drinking beer, and talking, as one does in such company, without prejudice, about Carlill v The Carbolic Smokeball Company and torts and lawyerly stuff like that, when this TOTAL BABE walks up to our table, and starts talking to the lawyers.
I immediately realise that this must be her, the heart-throb of the Law Department—the young lady I have heard so much about from another lawyer acquaintance of mine, Keith (but definitely not—for the record, Soo, if you’re reading this—from Hitchin, oh Good Lord no!). At the risk of repeating myself, this young lady is a TOTAL BABE.
At this point, I should probably try to describe the vision of loveliness before me. But I’m not going to for a very good reason: I have no recollection whatsoever of what she looked like (other than her being a TOTAL BABE, that is—did I mention that?). We’re talking twenty years ago, for Pete’s sake! My memory is one big blur.
THAT’S IT! THAT’S WHAT SHE LOOKED LIKE! ONE BIG BLUR!
I was just starting my seventh pint, you see.
So, anyway, I’m averting my eyes, trying not to draw attention to myself by saying anything (a fundamental flaw in my chat-up technique), when I suddenly realise that the TOTAL BABE is addressing me! I remember her words exactly:
“Come on, let’s dance!”
I look behind me to see who she’s really talking to, but there’s nobody there. She’s asking me for a dance! Yeah, right. Hitchin has put her up to this, the bastard.
I explain to the TOTAL BABE that I don’t do dancing. She repeats that she’d very much like to dance with me. I say that I’m really not into dancing. She says please. I say that, in fact, I’m totally crap at dancing. She is insistent, saying that it doesn’t matter that I can’t dance. I explain that I’ve just got myself a pint. She (I’m not making this up) picks up my pint and downs it in one!
MY KIND OF WOMAN!
The next thing I know, I’m surrounded by four hefty lawyers. They grab my arms and legs, carry me over to the dance floor, and dump me on my back on the flashing perspex.
I’m not going to be pushed around by a bunch of lawyers. So I stay there, lying flat on my back in the middle of the dance floor, while the TOTAL BABE and assorted lawyers dance round me.
Later, after he has given me a well-deserved slapping, Hitchin swears blind he didn’t put her up to it.
I never saw her again.
BBC: Atmosphere found on Saturn moon
…[Saturn's moon,] Enceladus is the most reflective object in the Solar System.
I reckon my bathroom mirror would give it a good run for its money.
Pitchfork: The Fall to Release 6xCD Peel Sessions Box
On April 25, 50,000 people (give or take) will get even poorer when Sanctuary Records releases a six-disc collection of the Fall’s sessions with John Peel. With performances starting from 1978 and continuing through 2004, the set will constitute as exhaustive and thorough a Fall collection as is currently on the market (lofty praise, given that the band has 25 studio albums and approximately 50 live and compilation albums floating around). The Fall: The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004 will bring together, as the title clearly implies, all 24 of the band’s Peel Sessions, and will include a 30-page booklet with some insight into the recording sessions or, at the very least, some pretty pictures.
And get this: it will even include a Fall cover of Captain Beefhearts Beatle Bones ‘N’ Smokin’ Stones .
Wooo! It’s like heaven, I said!
BBC: Wolfowitz to spread neo-con gospel
By nominating Paul Wolfowitz to be head of the World Bank, President George Bush appears to be sending a message to the world that he intends to spread into development policy the same neo-conservative philosophy that has led his foreign policy.
Neo-conservative, eh? That’s new conservative. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one. With the emphasis on the moron.
Fitz is always stealing my jokes and then accusing me of having stolen them off him, so, just for the record, here’s a dead clever joke I just thought of, which he will now no doubt steal:
Q: Who started the Pedant’s Revolt?
A: Which Tyler!
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Don’t get it? Check out here.
OK, I tell a lie: it’s Fitz’s joke. (You see, Fitz, it doesn’t hurt.)
Totally out of the blue (at 19:58 this evening):
Carolyn: What’s your favourite colour?Me: Depends whether I’m wearing it, decorating with it, or eating it. But I quite like green.Carolyn: Oh dear! What’s your second favourite?
BBC: Cardinal demands lottery boycott
Calls have been made by the leader of Scotland’s Roman Catholics for a boycott of the National Lottery.
Cardinal Keith O’Brien is angry that £3.3m is handed to Brook Advisory Centres and the FPA—formerly the Family Planning Association.
The organisations support women who are having abortions.
So, the church that advocates the rhythm method of contraception wants people to boycott a lottery.
Who says God doesn’t do irony?
Hands up who remembers Fanny Cradock.
No, Fanny Cradock wasn’t some unsavoury medical condition which ran rampant throughout Scotland until the advent of penicillin. For those young whippersnappers amongst you who don’t remember her, Fanny Cradock was one of the first in a long and continuing line of British TV celebrity cooks.
When people of a certain age reminisce about Fanny Cradock, the words harridan, battleaxe and snob slide effortlessly into the conversation, like a hot knife sliding into a lump of pâté de fois gras.
Fanny Cradock was also a terrible bully. She was a bully to her long-suffering on-screen (and, in later years, real-life) husband, Johnnie; she was a bully to her terrified assistant, Sarah; she was even a bully to us, her audience—which is probably why we watched her.
Fanny Cradock was certainly no Delia (although neither, it would seem, is Delia these days).
Anyway, I’m not here to give you a potted meaty biography of Fanny Cradock. If you’d like an extra helping, there’s one somebody prepared earlier over in the Wikipedia. No, I’m here to talk about Fanny Cradock’s other career: as a writer of historical fiction.
Actually, no I’m not. To be honest, I had absolutely no idea Fanny Cradock wrote novels until I came across one last month in, rather appropriately, an excellent little Italian restaurant. The restaurant had a shelf of second-hand books on sale (all proceeds to local charities). And there it was:
The Lormes of Castle Rising
by Fanny Cradock
Intrigued, I read the bumf on the back cover:
The first in a remarkable saga charting the rise, decline and ultimate fall of a great family…
The Lormes of Castle Rising
A family of Norman origin who landed with the Conqueror, the Lormes were famed for their devoted allegiance to the crown. Despite the fluctuations and vicissitudes due largely to a persistent taint in the line, they weathered the centuries to reach their zenith during the Edwardian era.
The novel lovingly recaptures the serenity of the idyllic days when all was elegant above, and servile below, stairs.
Sunday TimesDelicious reading.
Daily ExpressWINNER OF THE NATIONAL LISTENING LIBRARY AWARD
The Lormes of Castle Rising was 50p, but I simply had to have it.
But later, having bought the book, and having sobered up a bit, it occurred to me, no, why should I be the lucky owner of this undoubted masterpiece, when it is unlikely in the extreme that I shall ever read it? It just doesn’t seem right. Far better that I give it away to a more discerning reader.
Which is where you come in—whoever you are.
You’re reading Gruts. That makes you a discerning reader in anyone’s book. How would you like a chance to win my personal copy of The Lormes of Castle Rising? Tempted? I can see you’re salivating already.
Click the following link for details of how to enter this exciting competition:
Go on, you know you want it.
Pie and mushy peas for tea (not dinner) last night. Black pudding for breakfast this morning. Help! I’m turning into a northern stereotype!
Reet, am off te tek whippets furra walk on tops.
‘appen.
My VHS player has just gone all surreal on me. Whenever I press the fast-forward button on my remote control, the words BOBINOGS GOING appear for two seconds across the bottom of the screen.
A quick Google search reveals that Bobinogs are some BBC Wales kids’ educational thing. But my telly can’t get Children’s BBC, and it can’t get BBC Wales, and, besides, I’m not even watching the telly.
What the hell is going on?
…Hang on! It’s nothing to do with my VHS. It happens every time the channel switches to BBC2!
I’m scared.
Postscript: Bobinogs Gone!
BBC: Comedian Dave Allen dies aged 68
Irish comedian Dave Allen, famed for his TV routines as he perched on a stool with drink and cigarette in hand, has died in his sleep aged 68.
He was most famous for his TV shows Tonight With Dave Allen and Dave Allen at Large, which featured his satires on topics including religion.
Damn!
I’ll never forget Dave Allen’s routine about cars that make noises like their names (my dad drove a Triumph-umph-uuummmpppphhh! at the time), nor the one about anagrams of famous people’s names (Ronald Regan = Da Lon’ Ranger, and Dave Allen = Anal Delve). Anagrams have held a puerile fascination for me ever since. And then, of course, there was his poking fun at the pope. Come to think of it, Dave Allen was a hell of an influence on me.
But I think the most fitting (in Alfie Noakes’s sense of the word) tribute came on the BBC’s website:
BBC: Dave Allen: Your tributes
…How fitting that we say goodbye to a funny, funny man on Red Nose Day. Thank you for making as [sic] laugh over so many years.
Alfie Noakes, North of England, UK
Listen, Alfie Noakes (if that is your real name), the word you’re looking for isn’t fitting, it’s ironic… Dave Allen: funny; Red Nose Day: not funny. Got it?
Postscript: Check out the comments to find out who Alfie Noakes really was.
BBC: Is beer less fattening than wine?
…The sight of burly, whiskery men propping up the bar with a pint in one hand and a gravity-affirming paunch may conjure many descriptions, but “beautiful” is probably not one of them.
Oh piss off, you Bacardi™-and-Coke™-sipping tosser!
And, besides, as everyone should know by now (see tip 10 in my public service article, A Warm Welcome), no serious connoisseur of real ale would be caught dead propping up the bar.
MI Magazine: Sensei Brady and Aikido in the UK
…Public perception of martial arts is a major contributory factor in their credibility. Over the years, Hollywood films and the media in general have not done real martial arts any favors at all. The notion of one man taking on 100 armed men has done much to fill the coiffeurs of the movie men
Observer: Former bishop of Liverpool dies
David Sheppard, the former England cricket captain turned Bishop of Liverpool, died last night after a long struggle with cancer. Today would have been his 76th birthday.
I don’t have much time for bishops, but David Sheppard was undoubtedly one of the better ones—and, unlike certain other churchmen I could mention, he did at least bother to reply to his correspondence.
