When I'm 41

I went for one of my frequent strolls around the Albert Dock in Liverpool on Tuesday. The shops there have gone a bit more up-market recently, but there is still plenty of tourist-friendly tat on display. This time, a miniature, fake-bronze bust of John Lennon caught my eye. On the plinth underneath was a short, tasteful inscription:

JOHN LENNON
1940–1980

It finally hit home: Jesus Christ! I am older than John Lennon!

No, it's worse than that: next year, I overtake Elvis.

See also: King all shook up

Confused

Jen and I have been catching up on a major backlog of episodes from the latest series of 24, and we're very confused:

[Spoiler Alert]

Sam

Sam Gamgee had his key-pass stolen, and didn't report it, right? The terrorists needed the key-pass to gain access to CTU to release the nerve gas, right? This was because of the very tight security at CTU, right? No key-pass, no entry.

So how did Sam Gamgee manage to get back into CTU after being mugged, when he no longer had a key-pass? Answer us that!

And, come to think of it, how did the terrorists know that Sam Gamgee was going to be in CTU in the first place, when he was only sent in from Division a couple of hours ago?

And, come to think of it some more, how did the terrorists know that they would need access to CTU at all, when their original plan was to escape the country with the nerve gas? Are you telling us they managed to make contact and broker a deal with Sam Gamgee's drug-addict sister's boyfriend in the space of a couple of hours? Come off it!

And why does everyone keep referring to Sam Gamgee as Lynn? Lynn is a girl's name!

This one has conspiracy written all over it.

Published
Filed under: Nonsense Tags:

Goodness gracious, small balls of fire

Small balls of fire
Some indistinguishable icons yesterday.

I must be getting old. Either that, or my eyes are going. I keep launching the wrong programs from my Windows Start menu. I must have done it a dozen times in the last couple of days. It's starting to get really annoying.

The thing is, to an ageing codger like me, all the desktop icons these days are starting to look remarkably similar. They all seem to be round, with wavy lines or flames shooting out of them. Very much like the old Fireball club pendant/logo from Bullet comic in the 1970s, in fact (don't ask).

Call me old-fashioned, but isn't the whole point of icons supposed to be to help you distinguish one program from another?

Well, then!

Telling porkies

Yahoo News: 'Koranic' tuna inspires, awes Kenyan Muslims

A tuna fish caught in the Indian Ocean this week has excited Kenyan Muslims who are flocking here by the hundreds to see a Koranic verse apparently embedded in its scales…

Arabic scholars examined the fish and determined the writing was a Koranic verse meaning "God is the greatest of all providers," said Hassan Mohamed Hassan, an education officer with the National Museums of Kenya in Mombasa.

Co-incidentally, I found some mysterious writing on a rasher of bacon this morning. It had begun to turn green (my standard indicator for determining whether the stuff is inedible). I was about to chuck it in the bin, when I noticed what appeared to be some tiny dayglo-green lettering in the rind. On careful examination, I discerned the letters to read:

SHANG A LANG

Why almighty God, in His infinite wisdom, would choose the title of a classic 1974 Bay City Rollers album as his porcine message to mankind, I have absolutely no idea.

The Lord moves in mysterious ways.

Emmelle

Me Talk Pretty One DayI've just finished reading Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. Stense bought it for me the other week. Thanks, mate, you were right: it is very funny.

The title of the book is taken from Sedaris's early attempts to learn French. There is an amusing passage in which Sedaris and his fellow students try to explain the concept of Easter to a Moslem in French. It reminded me of Irish Mick's fifteenth (I think) birthday party in (if memory serves) 1980. Carolyn and I were invited, as was Carolyn's friend, Sandra, who brought along her very attractive, French penfriend, Emmelle.

Irish Mick and Carolyn and I were all studying for our French 'O' levels at the time, but this was the first time we had met a real-live French person. It was pretty embarrassing. Mind you, Emmelle was pretty embarrassed too: "Would you like a drink, Emmelle?" we would ask (en Anglais). "Ah don't maand," replied Emmelle, shyly. "How about some food?" "Ah don't maand." "Would you like to sit outside?" "Ah don't maand." Ah don't maand seemed to be Emmelle's stock response to everything we asked, which opened up tantalising possibilities to the hormone-drenched lads present.

After a while, I decided that the embarrassed silence was getting ridiculous, so I decided to try to engage Emmelle in a conversation:

"So, then, Emmelle, I've not heard that name before. Is it the French equivalent of Emily?"
"Par-don?"
"Is Emmelle the French for Emily?"
"No, no! My name it is Marie-Louise!"
"Sandra said is was Emmelle!
"Sandra, she calls me M-L. It is short for Marie-Louise!"
"Oh, right…"
[More embarrassed silence. Come on, Richard, you idiot, try to think of something intelligent to say:]
"…So do you French really eat snails, then?"
"Snells?"
"Snails… Erm… Escargots!"
"Ah, oui! We do eat the snails sometimes!"
"How about slugs?"
"Slergs? What is slergs?"
"Erm… Molluscs… Erm… Escargots sans maisons!"
"[Laughs] Non, we do not eat ze slergs."

It could have been the start of a beautiful relationship.

Cl(apt)one

I kept bumping into Eric Clapton in Liverpool this week. Four times, I saw him: he was just in front of me in the sandwiches queue at Marks & Spencer on Monday; he stepped out of a barber's as I walked past on Wednesday; he was in Waterstone's this lunchtime; and, half an hour later, we nodded at each other en passant in the stairwell at work.

Eric Patrick Clapton certainly gets around.

Either that, or there are at least four of him.

Knock-knock!

I phoned Carolyn on Tuesday evening. She was driving her kids in the car at the time, so we spoke on her hands-free:

Me: Knock-knock!
Carolyn & Kids: Who's there?
Me: One-Tup.
Carolyn & Kids: One-Tup who?
Me: Well you'd better go to the toilet, then.
Kids: [Laugh their heads off.]
Carolyn: I don't get it.

See also: Quoting Peter Kaye…

Play

I'm thinking of writing a play about two French blokes, hanging around together, hoping they will soon be joined by a sexy movie star.

I'm going to call it Waiting for Bardot.

Too late!

BBC: Blair backs nuclear power plans

Prime Minister Tony Blair has given his strongest signal yet that he backs the building of a new generation of nuclear power stations in the UK.

Blair needed to do this during his first term in office, not during his twilight months. No doubt whichever spineless politician replaces him will soon start back-pedalling, and will faff around for the next ten years, avoiding the only realistic solution to the country's energy needs.