If you’ve ever wondered about any of the banner images that appear across the top of the Gruts home page and various other pages on this website, I have just uploaded copies of all the original photos from which the banners are taken to my Flickr account. They are filed in the Banner Images photoset.
So now you know.
Dear Richard,
I’m writing to let you know that I’ve finished reading the copy of Fanny Cradock’s “The Lormes of Castle Rising” that I won in your “My Fanny in your Hands” competition some months ago.
I can’t deny that it’s been hard going, but I was determined to finish it and I’m glad I did, if only for the satisfaction found in completing such a Sisyphean task.
I found it a bit heavy on historical detail and a bit light on imagination and ripping yarns, but I’ve got to give her some credit for writing a better novel than I’ll ever manage to write.
Thanks again for letting me get my hands on your Fanny.
I intend to give the book to my sister-in-law for her birthday. She likes cooking and likes reading so it should be a dead cert’ for loads of Brownie points.
Yours sincerely,
Justin
Text message from Carolyn:
H[oward] spent all Fri. pm making stock for his soup and I thought it was dirty water and threw it away. He wasn’t very pleased!
BBC: Grey squirrels face massive cull
A massive cull of grey squirrels is to take place across Britain to try to halt declining numbers of the endangered native red population.
Biodiversity minister Jim Knight said “humane and targeted pest control” would cull greys in areas where red squirrels are being ‘squeezed out’.
Most reds are confined to Cumbrian and Northumbrian conifer woods, the Isle of Wight and islands in Poole Harbour.
(…and Scotland, BBC. Let’s not forget Scotland. You know, that place where BBC Scotland is based—where the whisky comes from.)
This squirrel decision is long overdue. The so-called animal rights people will probably go ballistic, but it needs doing. I hope the goverment has the guts to follow it through.
What I do object to, however, are the double-standards: over 120 million of our native wild animals are butchered each year by viscious predators that we maintain in unnaturally high and environmentally unsustainable populations by feeding them Whiskas™.
When is this brave Knight going to announce a nationwide cat cull?
…You can’t say I’m not consistent.
BBC: Acupuncture ‘deactivates brain’
Acupuncture works by deactivating the area of the brain governing pain, a TV show will claim.
Tuesday’s programme – the first of three on complementary medicine – will show researchers carrying out brain scans on people having acupuncture.
I think you’ll find that acupuncture only ‘works’ for people who deactivate their brains beforehand.
Note how the opening sentence of this story might mislead you into thinking that there really is something in acupuncture over and above the placebo effect. The truth is buried away right at the end of the story:
Professor Tony Wildsmith, a pain relief expert at the University of Dundee, said he thought the findings were possible. But he added: “The thing about acupuncture is that it does not work on everyone. It is more likely to be effective if you believe it.
The placebo effect is a genuine and interesting phenomenon, but let’s drop the nonsense with the needles, why don’t we? Rixology is far less invasive.
This one went on to the list straight away…
Said to me at work today:
This one’s going to hit us like the proverbial brick shit-house.
This made stuff come out of my nose. It was the word proverbial that did it.
I don’t know any Spanish, but, thanks to the Babelfish translator, I now know that the organisation going by the rather wonderful name of the Sindicato de Trabajadores de la Escuela Normal Superior translates (approximately) into English as The Union of Workers of the Superior Normal School. Which is kind of interesting.
Why the sudden interest in a Mexican trade union? Check out their web address.
BBC: Brown speech promotes Britishness
…”Instead of the BNP using it as a symbol of racial division, the flag should be a symbol of unity and part of a modern expression of patriotism too,” [UK Chancellor] Mr Brown said.
“All the United Kingdom should honour it, not ignore it. We should assert that the Union flag by definition is a flag for tolerance and inclusion.”
That’s as maybe, but there is one big problem with honouring the Union flag: it’s totally shite. Honestly, how could anyone celebrate anything as garish and, well, contrived as that? It’s totally without merit. Why can’t we have a cool flag, like… oh, hang on a second, they’re all pretty rubbish, come to think of it.
Couldn’t we have a designer logo instead? Very New Labour.
BBC: ‘Four mothers’ for Europe’s Jews
Almost half of Europe’s Jews are descended from just four women, according to a new study.
That’s nothing: the entire human race is descended from just one female. The evolutionists and the creationists can agree on that one—although they don’t quite see eye-to-eye on some of the finer details.
Ooooh! Just what we’ve been waiting for:
BBC: Taiwan breeds green-glowing pigs
Scientists in Taiwan say they have bred three pigs that “glow in the dark”.
They claim that while other researchers have bred partly fluorescent pigs, theirs are the only pigs in the world which are green through and through.
The pigs are transgenic, created by adding genetic material from jellyfish into a normal pig embryo.
For goodness’ sake! How bloody irresponsible can you get? I rely on bacon turning green and starting to glow in the dark to inform me that it’s probably past its best. How am I going to tell now? I do wish these so-called scientists would stop to think before they start meddling with nature.
If they really must mess around with the porcine genome, why don’t they produce something useful for a change, like an even-better-tasting pig (hard to imagine, I know), or one that can mow the lawn or something?
It’s stuff like this that gives science a bad name.
Conversation at work yesterday (I’m the one trying to tell the joke):
“I finally managed to get some pea soup at lunchtime. I’ve been after some for ages.”
“Ah! What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?”
“What do you mean? They’re totally different?”
“It’s an old joke: What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?“
“I don’t know.”
“Anyone can roast beef.”
“Actually, that’s not true; some people find it very difficult.”
“It’s a JOKE! Anyone can roast beef!“
“…?”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“No.”
“Think about it.”
“…?”
“Question: What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup? Answer: Anyone can roast beef—but…“
“…?”
“…not many people can…?“
“…roast soup!”
“Are you doing this deliberately?”
“Roast peas?”
“PEE SOUP! IT’S PEE SOUP! ANYONE CAN ROAST BEEF, BUT NOT MANY PEOPLE CAN PEE SOUP!”
“…Oh, I get it! That’s quite good!”
“I used to think so.”
I’m driving home this evening, happily hollering along with Tom Waits, when I realise that, for the first time in the history of the universe, I might just make it through a particular set of traffic lights first go: there are absolutely no cars in front of me. So I speed up a bit, and whoop in triumph as I cruise through the lights—just as some bloke in a uniform steps out from under a tree and zaps me with his speed gun.
Has anyone noticed the date?
Postscript (05-Feb-2006): Looks as if I got away with it.
I have a magnificent singing voice. Even when I’m full of cold, it is extremely rare for me to hit a bum note. And, as for my vocal range, it’s phenomenal. I’m not quite sure what an octave is, but, believe me, I can do them all. I am an undiscovered musical genius. If that tosser from Pop Idol wasn’t such a tosser, he would snap me up immediately.
I spend a lot time in my car each week, so I get plenty of time to practice my singing. Recently, I’ve been singing along to my new iPod, which I’ve had cranked up to eleven. Yesterday, on the way home, I outbellowed Beefheart, did the Ressurection Shuffle with Sir Tom Live at Caesar’s Palace, hit the high notes with Emmylou, and made the Boss sound like a laryngitic softie. Forget the ginger-headed yodeller from that Bunnymen tribute band, Coldplay, I’m the chap with the voice of the decade!
Honestly, I know you’ll think I’m joking, but my singing really has to be heard to be believed. Unfortunately for you, you never will get to hear it: I am a shy, retiring and modest man, and my music is a private pleasure.
And, no, before you ask, you won’t be hearing about any of my other private pleasures either. This is a family website.
I’ve just entered week three of the 48-hour cold I caught between Christmas and New Year.
Now I know He’s omnipotent and everything, but I can’t help feeling that, if I were God, I’d have given colds a miss. Colds and cats and athlete’s foot: they’re just not necessary. If I were Him, I’d have taken an extra day off instead, or spent a bit more time back at the old drawing-board, trying to sort out the total mess that is the human knee. Don’t get me started on knees.
Talking of design faults in the human body, here’s something I’ve noticed since I’ve had my cold: have you ever tried blowing your nose into a handkerchief using only one hand—while you’re driving a car, for instance? I know it doesn’t sound like much of a big deal, but I’ve discovered it’s impossible. It can’t be done.
Try it, if you don’t believe me.
I’ll tell you one thing that’s really cool about the internet: you can ask any stupid question you want, and maybe, just maybe, several years later, out of the blue, someone will send you an answer:
Gruts (23-Jun-2001): Two Black & White Masterpieces
Photo of the photo in O'Donoghue's back room.
(Sorry about the blurring - it's very dark in there.)
…A sticky label stuck on the bottom of the photograph presumably once gave some details of who the distinguished gentlemen were, but it has faded over the years and is now completely illegible. If anyone reading this knows anything about this photograph, please e-mail me.
Just before Christmas, I received an email from a chap named Cliff, who lives in New York:
Hello Richard, I regularly read your page. We both enjoy drinking in O’Donoghues in Dublin. I was there recently and found out (with a high level of certainty) that the middle fellow in the picture in the back room is the Irish singer Joe Heaney. No one knew who the other men in the photo were. Joe Heaney sang mostly in Gaelic and died in 1984.
And, damn it, if he isn’t right:
Mystery figure.
Joe Heaney.
(Note the two very different approaches to problem-solving: the Brit simply wonders out loud and doesn’t do anything about it; the American flies across the Atlantic to ask the people in the bar.)
Thanks, Cliff. Mystery solved.
A silly thought occurred to me on Friday: could dogs (or, indeed, volcanoes) who are just good friends be said to have Plutonic relationships?
Phophetic words from this week’s Guardian Guide:
Judge John Deed 8:30pm, BBC1 [06-Jan-2006]
So impeccably liberal he could replace Charles Kennedy tomorrow…
See also: Defiant Kennedy urged to quit now (BBC: 06-Jan-2006)
I don’t claim to know much about women, but one thing I do know is that you should never offer an opinion in front of one of them—even if they ask you for one. Life’s too short. It just isn’t worth the hassle.
Which is why, if Jen puts the kettle on and asks whether I’d prefer tea or coffee, I naturally assume it’s a trick question, and insist she tells me the right answer. You might think there couldn’t possibly be a wrong answer to the question would you prefer tea or coffee?, but, believe me, there can be.
Far, far worse than expressing an opinion, however, is to accuse a woman of being downright wrong: “You’re wrong” is the second* most dangerous thing you can say to a woman. Trust me, don’t go there.
But I forgot this golden rule when I was out with Stense last week: Stense asked me a question, I rather stupidly gave her a straight answer, she told me I was wrong, I stood my ground, she stood hers, things started to turn a bit nasty, so, of course, I eventually had to back down—even though Stense was totally wrong, and, I have to say, totally out of order.
In over 15 years of friendship, it was our first falling out. I record the momentous argument here for posterity:
“How tall are you, Rich?”
“Five foot eight.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am! I’m five foot eight!”
“No way!”
“Well how tall am I, then?”
“Five foot seven, at the very most.”
“No, I’m five foot eight—172 centimetres—it says so on my passport.”
“Richard…“
“OK, OK, you’re right, I’m five foot seven.”
(I can always tell when I’m skating on thin ice with Stense: she starts using my full name.)
OK, so maybe it wasn’t exactly the world’s biggest tiff, and we soon made friends again afterwards, but the episode has been niggling me ever since. Who the bloody hell did Stense think she was, telling me I didn’t even know my own height?
So, on Sunday afternoon, I asked Jen to measure my height. Yes, that’s right, Stense had reduced me to this: I actually stood in my bare feet with my back against the coal-hole door, while Jen made a mark on the wood. And it was all done scientifically, so that Stense couldn’t possibly object: Jen stood on the bottom rung of a step-ladder to ensure that her eyes were level with the top of my head (no parallax errors there); she placed a horizontal ruler on top of my head to make sure her mark was level; she checked that my heels and toes were on the floor as she did so (no cheating!); and she measured the height of the mark above the floor with a long, metal tape measure.
And it turns out that, just as I had said, I am five foot eight inches tall.
…Well, five foot seven-and-a-half.
BBC: Indian budget air market hots up
A new Indian budget airline took to the skies on Tuesday, with a flight from the capital, Delhi, to Mumbai (Bombay)… Spicejet is offering some seats for as low as 99 rupees ($2.30) for the first three months of operations, and hopes to woo train passengers.
Don’t see it myself: all those passengers sitting on the plane roofs sounds a bit dangerous.
