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Over the years, I must have received a couple of hundred postcards from friends and colleagues telling me what a lovely time they're having on their holidays. Yet, in all that time, not once have I received a postcard from someone telling me what a fabulous time they're having at work.
I think that speaks volumes.
Telegraph: Paul Newman - the nuclear secret he took to his grave
Paul Newman, who died recently, took a carefully guarded secret to his grave - something that would have disgraced him in Hollywood.
Did he have a secret mistress? (No, that wouldn't disgrace him.) Did he have a clandestine fleet of SUVs? (That's more like it.) Was he addicted to McDonald's hamburgers? No, Paul Newman was a closet but increasingly open supporter of nuclear power.
This is so bloody infuriating: a prominent environmentalist who listens with an open mind to the arguments and is gradually persuaded to turn pro-nuclear, but who feels he can't admit it because it will harm his charity interests. Climate change is the most important issue facing the planet, yet people who care passionately about the subject are being gagged by peer-pressure.
This planet really is fucked if we're not even allowed to mention our last, best hope.
For the record, I am pro-nuclear-power. (But you probably already knew that.)
One of our friends has an adult son named George. George has a very broad Yorkshire accent and tends to talk quickly in a deep, mumbling voice, so it is sometimes difficult to understand what he is saying—even for his mum.
This week, George went to the supermarket to buy some beer. While he was standing in the queue, a bossy posh woman behind him asked him to pass her one of little signs they use to separate different people's items on the conveyor-belt. George wasn't at the front of the queue, so the signs were well out of his reach.
"I'm sorry, I can't reach them," said George.
"Honestly!" exclaimed the woman to the people behind her in the queue. "These foreigners are so rude!" Evidently, she had mistaken George's accent for Polish.
Having paid for his beer, George made a point of thanking the girl on the till in the poshest voice he could muster.
Hebden Bridge Times: Denise puts up clock in memory of her late husband
Yesterday, I noticed a leaflet pinned to the health and safety noticeboard at work entitled Musculo-skeletal disorders.
It occurred to me that Musculo would make a great name for a cartoon super-villain—a worthy adversary for Superman™ or Spiderman™ or Batman™. So, indeed, would Skeletal.
I imagine Musculo must have fallen into a vat of steroids as a child, whereas Skeletal overdosed on weight-loss tablets having been spurned as a fatty by the woman of his dreams. These two embittered men have now teamed up to wreak Musculo-Skeletal Disorder throughout the world.
Note to Marvel™ and DC™ Comics: Let the bidding war commence.
She's put it on eBay apparently. It's in excellent condition, but it's out-of-keeping with the rest of her decor—or so she says.
Buyer to collect.
BBC: Airship's Channel crossing fails
A French amateur pilot's attempt to be the first to cross the channel on a pedal-propelled airship has failed.
All those professional pedal-propelled airship pilots must be laughing their heads off.
I went for a walk on the moors yesterday. The grouse-shooters were out, so I took their photo. I don't think they were very pleased. They probably thought I was some sort of animal rights nutter.
The tactics employed by grouse-shooters are tried and tested. They set themselves up in a line of little dugouts (the technical name is butts, but let's not go there), and employ people with sticks (the technical name is beaters, but let's not go there either) to walk through the heather, driving the grouse towards them. The low-flying grouse are literally sitting ducks. (I use the word literally in its non-literal sense.)
I had no desire to witness the impending blood-bath, so I continued my walk.
Then I got to thinking: what a shame our lads didn't employ similar tactics on the Somme. How many British lives might have been saved had our chaps in the trenches employed beaters with sticks to drive the Hun towards them? It really could have been all over by Christmas. Instead, there were to be another two years of mindless carnage.
It kind of makes you think.
(My granddad fought the Nazis, you know.)
Where Gruts leads, the BBC follows.