A further selection of my writing. Read and enjoy!

The Writings of Antonius the Scribe

Translator’s Note: The writings of Antonius Clericus, better known to scholars as Antonius the Scribe, date from the first century and reveal their author to have enjoyed greater status than his name may suggest.  A leading member of the early Christian church, he wrote extensively about the persecutions in Rome and it is from his accounts that much of the history of that period is derived.  Few academics, however, have come across his Epistolae Admonitatae – his letters of advice to those who felt it their mission to preach to the members of the ever-growing church.

Recent developments in computer imaging have allowed researchers to obtain hard copy of the original manuscripts (which are otherwise too fragile to handle) and it is from these that I have worked to arrive at a translation of the texts.  Choosing a style for a translation is always difficult, but I felt that to go straight into the modern vernacular would lose something of the authority with which the originals are imbued.  I have therefore adopted the more archaic style of language favoured by adherents to the Book of Common Prayer.

Let it so be passed among you, O ye preachers of the Word, that there shall ever be unto thy homilies that manifestation of jocularity which the common weal oft refer to as ‘the joke’.[1]  For without such, no preacher may account himself worthy, but is as a dry leaf on the barren soil, bringing forth nothing; neither increase of knowledge nor growth of enlightenment.

The preacher that hath wisdom prepareth the joke full well and ensureth that it be surely delivered.  For the man that hearkeneth doth so but in vain, and, lo, great is his sadness, if that the homily shall be past and no joke shall have been given utterance therein.  Hold fast, however, unto the righteous path and be not desirous of the furtherance of jocundity.  For it is an ordinance truly wise that there shall be unto a homily but one joke; and that the sole and only manifestation thereof.

He that would follow custom bringeth forth the joke presently; yea, even at his commencing; lest, when the moment cometh for the joke’s just deliverance, the attendance of them that hearken hath not been sustained; and they shall have become like unto wool-gatherers, finding their wits to have wandered even into another time and another place. In this wise also, so may a preacher hold forth hope to his flock that whatsoever followeth shall be diverting in like manner.

He that showeth cunning like unto the wolf shall, with means insidious, ambush the unwary by utterance of the joke at the mean part; yea, even in the midst of his outpouring.  Thereby shall they whose hearts have not been uplifted be reawakened and recalled from contemplation of wordly things.  Even by the same means, yet others may be given furtherance of hope that the conclusion of the homily is signalled thereby, and thence an expectation of present release.  Thus may the preacher play even unto his heart’s delight upon the wits of them whose spirits may have become wearied of his message.

Forsake ye the path of them that keepeth the joke to the latest part; for such a course leadeth solely unto folly.  Whosoever hath endured the greater part of thy utterance shall in no wise be tempted unto jocularity; for lo, his wit shall have been reduced like unto a grain of mustard seed by the monotony thereof.  Neither seek ye by such a knavish trick thereby to render unto a restored state the spirit of him that hearkeneth not; for the joke is now lost unto him even as the chaff carried away by the wind.

[Footnote]   The word ‘joke’ is used here despite its modernity because of its link with the Latin word, ‘iocus’, found in the original manuscript.

Further Writings of Antonius the Scribe

It is with your editor’s kind consent that I continue to publish extracts from the ‘Sermones Admonitatae’ of the early Christian academic, Antonius Clericus, better known to many as Antonius the Scribe. In the following passage, Antonius continues his advice to the early Church on the delivery of sermons. He deals here specifically with the role which we would nowadays describe as that of the ‘visiting ‘preacher’.

TC

For lo, there shall come a time when the preacher shalt be called to speak unto brethren in a place other than that of his own custom. And oft the journey shall have been wearisome and provision for his comfort shall have been overlooked, but yet must he go forth with good heart and all disposition of cheerfulness; for fearsome and daunting is the task that lieth ahead.

For in sundry places one shall find all manner of custom and ceremony; the failing in the observance of the least of which shall be like unto a poke in the eye for them that thou visitest. It is thrice difficult to preach unto those thou hast offended; therefore the man that entereth unto another place to preach shall do well if that he hath an eye to whatsoever is done about him. 

If, perchance, one entereth unto a place where there is much use of fragrant smoke, then he doeth well that boweth oft to aught that moveth; yea, even unto things that moveth not. Yet, if the place seemeth bare and oft the brethren do cry aloud; Alleluia: then the wise man boweth not, but waveth his arms over his head in the manner of supplication and crieth Alleluia also.

When that the homily commenceth, the wise man followeth custom in this wise: 

His first discourse shall be an expression of abundant joy at being called to preach among the brethren there gathered. For whatever discomfort has been endured; yet must he make all appearance of delight lest he offend those who wait upon him.

His second discourse (in which it is permitted to include the joke) must show a conjunction between the preacher himself and the place wherein he preacheth. This is of the highest obligation and must be made no matter how tenuous it be.

Make thy commencement like unto this: ‘Brethren, it filleth me with exceeding great joy to be amongst ye all here at … (here the preacher may add the name of the place he visiteth). It hath long been my dearest wish to preach in this place; indeed, it was but ten short years ago that I first heard about the wonderful work of this place in this wise; it was told unto me by the sister of a man that once looked after the dog of a family who once came on holiday here.

Childhood Anxieties

I have no reason to believe that my childhood was significantly more filled with anxiety than anybody else’s, but I have been much exercised of late considering those anxieties and their sources.

I wasn’t a war-time baby. I was born at the end of 1953 just after rationing had ended and everybody was looking forward to a Coronation. Yet the war dominated much of my early life. My father who fought the Japanese in Burma and India would never talk about his war-time experiences and my mother would always try to protect him from them. The arrival of ‘Dad’s Army’ on our black and white TV was instantly banned. We were not to watch anything that would remind my father of the war. My mother too had suffered war-time losses. Her original boyfriend had gone down with his ship. The War in our house was a taboo subject.

Yet all around I was subject to the war-time hangover. My school playground rattled with machine gun fire as every young British ‘Tommy’ ran from cover to cover enthusiastically machine-gunning the unfortunates who happened to have been deemed to be Germans. Their job was to die spectacularly in a hail of bullets, preferably shouting ‘Ach!’ as they fell to the ground. We never questioned the whole thing. No-one had yet declared toy guns as politically incorrect. We slaughtered our enemies of only a few years before mercilessly.

We knew about the blitz. The old air raid shelter at my school was part of our play area. It was unpleasant and smelly and used by those who got ‘caught short’, but it was there, a casual reminder of things we could barely imagine, yet alone understand. We knew about doodlebugs and how we had to dive for cover when the engine cut out. One person would make the noise and then when he stopped, we would all have to make for cover. The slowest were deemed to have been blown limb from limb. All very ghoulish and unreal, yet in some ways I think we were expurgating something from society’s memory. Horrors once so real were now reduced to children’s’ games.

Comics, our staple reading, were full of stories about fictional wartime heroes who rampaged over enemy trenches bashing Nazi heads together while the Germans cowered and said, ‘Achtung! Ze Englisher pigdog is too ssschtrong for us!’ The message remained clear: the Germans were the enemy.

Small wonder then that some of my childhood anxieties came from this source. My Dad’s father had been gassed in WW1. I knew that people had had to carry gas masks; yet now we had none. What was to stop the nasty Germans suddenly launching a gas attack now? I felt vulnerable. Every plane that flew over had the potential to drop a stick of bombs. Any moment now a group of Gestapo might appear at my front door and take us all away.

The whole ‘war thing’ was ever present, yet very difficult for a 6/7 year old to grasp.

Of course, we also played cowboys and Indians when our interest in war games dwindled. Garden canes made excellent bows and arrows and, although we were frequently told we’d have ‘someone’s eye out with those’, we managed to avoid serious injury. Things were frequently just as blood thirsty and unpleasant as they were with our war games. I remember my mother coming home to find all my cuddly toys (and also those of my sisters) hanging in a macabre way from a gate frame. My friend Timmy and I had decided on a lynching.

Comics also fuelled other fears. One had the fearsome ‘jellymen’ who blew bubbles from their tentacle-like arms to entrap people. I can’t quite remember what happened to those entrapped, but the whole experience was not designed to be pleasant. How I feared that the ‘jellymen’ would come to our street!

Another ‘comic’ creation was the purple cloud. As far as memory serves this purple cloud ate all metal causing homes and tower blocks to collapse. One night I looked out of my bedroom window and there was the purple cloud! Some would probably have described it as a spectacular sunset, but to me it was a sign of impending doom.

I remember talk of something known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. I had no concept of what it was about, but it seemed to worry Mum and Dad. One day I came home from school and my mother was crying: a man named Kennedy had been assassinated. (We learnt to spell the word at school the following day.) The world was complicated, mysterious and somehow deeply troubling.

For all these apparent anxieties, I’m still glad I grew up when I did. In some ways we were innocent and free. We knew not to take sweets from a stranger and especially not to get in a car with one, but we didn’t know why. It was just one of those God-given rules. Maybe the occasional child did lose an eye to a bow and arrow game, but that sacrifice left the rest of us free to play and enjoy ourselves. Now no doubt there is a blanket ban on such dangerous pursuits.

Now I think about it, most of my anxieties were effectively of my own imagining. I suspect that children these days may not have the anxieties, but they live in a much more controlled and sanitized world.

A Plethora of Policies

In the event of a flying saucer landing on the school field, you would have to go and consult the policy for such an event and act accordingly. Shame that while you were checking the policy and discovering that the safety of the children was regarded as paramount, several dozens of them had been disintegrated by little green men toting ray guns. No matter… you had acted according to what had been laid down and could reasonably be held to be blameless.

Maybe, in a more probable set of events, there has been a spillage in the school dining room. Is it sufficient to just mop it up and get on? Heavens no! The spillage must first be cordoned off while a risk assessment is made. Is the spillage likely to make the floor slippery? May it still be hot to the touch? Is there a possibility of broken glass/crockery? A thousand dangers may lurk in a plateful of spilled lasagne! Once risk assessed, there is the problem of who is to clear it up. A specially trained member of the kitchen staff should be summoned who will arrive with appropriate equipment to ensure the safety of all involved. How do I know all this? It’s in the policy, of course.

Schools in the face of all these policies have to have a policy on the writing and updating of policies. This policies’ policy ensures that policies are similarly presented and all revised to a specified timetable.

Head teachers are no longer the people to whom the children look as an ultimate authority. They are but shepherds, watching over their flocks of policies. Imagine mountainsides of woolly policies all straying about baaing and needing attention. Should a policy go astray, it must be recovered at all costs. Should one be found to be inadequate, it must be given immediate attention and restored to health. Policies breed policies. One policy leads inexorably to the next. This is where my sheep analogy falls down. It takes two sheep to tango, but policies breed like bacteria.

Generally there is a need for a ‘catch-all’ policy. I said before that all conceivable circumstances had to be covered by policies. But what about the inconceivable? These too must be covered. A ‘Policy in the event of something unforeseen happening’ is needed else how are the staff to know what to do or how to react? Imagine the scenes of distress and chaos caused by the lack of a policy. Staff would be running about like headless chickens unable to think what to do.

Rubbish! My own policy towards policies is that in most cases they are a total waste of time, effort and energy. In my retirement I have not a single written policy to guide me through my days, yet somehow I seem to struggle by. Generally my life is guided by common sense – that elusive but oh so obvious stuff. Hard to define, yet somehow simple in its application, ‘use your common sense’ was the only policy I needed in my early career and it is the one I live by now. I don’t drive my car wearing a blindfold for reasons that seem obvious to me; I don’t need a policy subsection to tell me this is not a good idea. Getting the children away from bug-eyed aliens would be my instinctive response, policy or no policy.

I know I am a dinosaur and the world is advancing without me. My time may soon be spent and I shall depart, I hope, for a happier world. For my sake, please hope that St Peter doesn’t operate an overly-strict admissions policy.

Boxer’s Fate – With apologies to George Orwell

Napoleon banged his trotter on the table loudly to call the meeting to order.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘things here on Animal Farm are worse than we thought. The grain is almost all gone and we are selling every egg the hens can produce; yet we are not making ends meet. A new product is needed from the farm if we are to survive the rest of the winter. I open the meeting to any suggestions.’

‘Sausages?’ suggested a young porker of extremely limited intelligence.

‘SAUSAGES!’ roared Napoleon. ‘SAUSAGES?  You stupid boy. From what are most sausages made?’

The young pig gulped and said, ‘P… P… Pork.’

‘And where does ”P… P… Pork” come from?’ demanded Napoleon.

The young pig coloured the brightest red and hung his head in shame. The rest of the pigs shifted uncomfortably in their seats and an awkward silence ensued.

‘Oven-ready chickens?’ ventured a rather tremulous voice.

‘Fool,’ roared Napoleon. ‘If we sell the chickens, where are the eggs to come from? Am I surrounded by idiots? Now give me some sensible ideas before I withdraw your beer rations.’

No-one dared speak. In the silence, the sound of baa-ing could be heard through the windows. Anxious glances and nods were exchanged. A ‘You say it’ ,‘No you’ conversation was held silently and the loser gulped and said, ‘Joints of lamb?’

‘Hmm,’ mused Napoleon. ‘Squealer, what do you think?’

‘Excellency,’ replied Squealer. ‘Under the current circumstances and taking all things into consideration, it might well be that the entering into commercial relations with a party or parties who may be interested in the manufacture and distribution of ovine-based products could be financially efficacious. However, it must be borne in mind that our ovine comrades facilitate the passing of what might be unpopular pieces of legislation by their vociferous addiction to one of the party’s great maxims.’

‘What’s he saying?’ growled Napoleon to a pig called Bernard.

‘He’s saying that if we sell the sheep, they will no longer break up meetings by bleating ‘four legs good, two legs bad. Politically-speaking, they are too useful.’

‘He’s right,’ said Napoleon. ‘The sheep are necessary. Think again everyone.’

‘Cows?’ muttered a voice.

‘Milk,’ chorused the rest of the pigs.

At that point, something outside the window caught Squealer’s eye. ‘Napoleon,’ he said,’ I think I may have an idea.’

With a curt sweep of his trotter, Napoleon dismissed the rest of the meeting.

When he and Squealer were alone, Squealer said craftily, ‘Boxer’s not quite the horse he once was.’

Napoleon spluttered, ‘Horsemeat? You’re thinking of selling horsemeat? But it’s hardly worth anything.’

Squealer’s eyes narrowed and he said craftily, ‘Horsemeat is cheap, but what if we were to call it ‘extra value beef’? We could make enough from ‘extra value beef’ to see us through the winter. In fact, I happen to know an Irish butcher who would be very interested in doing business with us.’

’Excellent,’ cried Napoleon. ‘I shall leave the arrangements to you.’

The next day Boxer and Benjamin were grazing side by side in the meadow when a van pulled into the yard.   On its side in large white letters on a red background was a single word. Below in smaller letters was the word ‘lasagne’.

‘What does it say on the side of that van, Benjamin?’ asked Boxer.

‘Find us, ‘replied Benjamin. ‘Probably something to do with the yellow pages.’

‘Oh,’ said Boxer, and they both went back to their grazing.

Shortly after, Squealer came skipping over importantly, whisking his tail persuasively.

‘Comrade Boxer,’ he stated, ‘our leader, Comrade Napoleon, has decided you need a holiday and has arranged an all-expenses-paid trip to Ireland for you. Come now, quickly. The van will not wait forever.’

‘But I don’t want a holiday,’ objected Boxer.

‘Comrade Napoleon himself has requested that you take this holiday. You would not wish to disobey our great leader. Surely you do not want the humans to come back?’

Faced with this awful prospect, Boxer had no option but to agree, but he made one last effort. ‘Would Benjamin be able to accompany me?’ he asked.

Squealer moved his eyes shiftily and said, ‘It is possible that Benjamin may join you in a week or two.’

By now the news had spread around the farm and all the animals had gathered to see Boxer go.

‘Enjoy your holiday, Boxer,’ they cried. ‘Good luck!’

From somewhere the pigs found the money to keep the farm going through the winter and by the time the warmth of the spring came, Boxer had been forgotten.

Only Benjamin remained uneasy. ‘What the fuck is lasagne?’ he thought to himself.

[The above was written when a news story broke that horse meat had been discovered lurking in Findus frozen lasagnes.]

Funny Uncles

You’re in a pub or restaurant and suddenly the lights go out. There’s a general gasp. Then a voice rings out: ‘Put another shilling in the meter, mate!’ Har! Har!..  Har! Har!..  Har! Har! Har! (That’s my best attempt at suggesting loud and self-congratulatory laughter.) No one else laughs, except a few of his mates who feel duty bound to snigger. He has just announced himself. Every public place has one. He’s known to my family as a ‘funny uncle’ or an ‘FU’ for short.

FU’s flourish in environments where people can’t escape from them. They feel they’ve been sent to be the life and soul of the party… and nothing will deflect them from this task. In a moment of weakness you have booked yourself on a coach tour. All is going well and you are comfortably ensconced in your in your seat when a loud voice wafts up the coach steps. ‘Har! Har! Is this the mystery tour to Bognor? Har! Har! Har!’ You now know are doomed. Every coach tour has one and he has arrived. From now on, your journey will be punctuated by his ‘funny’ jokes from here to Marrakesh.

Hospital wards attract FU’s like moths to a flame. Every ward I’ve ever been on has had one. In his armoury is every bad NHS joke known to man. Phlebotomists are greeted with ‘Har! Har! That’s almost an armful! Har! Har!’. They sigh and go on their way, knowing that on the next ward another FU will be waiting with the same joke. Pharmacists get ‘Go on, love. Give me some of your best stuff. Har! Har!’ Cardiographers: ‘You won’t find a heart in there, mate’. For his fellow patients it is excruciating and embarrassing, but the FU carries on in blissful ignorance, quite assured that he is the wittiest person in the world.

Doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms are also a fertile habitat for FU’s. You’re feeling grotty and patiently waiting your turn, when loudmouth enters: ‘Har! Har! Bunch of miserable bleeders in here. You should worry. My wife’s sent me here for the snip. Har! Har! Har!’

I could go on, but the situations are almost endless… supermarket queues, bus stops, railway carriages, aeroplanes… anywhere with a trapped audience is the FU’s domain.

A loud voice is part of the FU’s armoury. No-one else must be able to be heard above him. The world is his audience and his alone. He will often have a few acolytes who feed his ideas of self-worth, but to the population at large he is a menace.

So next time you are out and about, see if you can spot an FU. It’s not a hard task as he makes himself as conspicuous as possible.

And if you’re thinking that I’m not aware that ‘eff you’ can mean something else, I claim that it is a fortunate coincidence because saying ‘FU’ to an FU is probably the best way of dealing with them.

[I’m wondering about ‘Har!’. I’m not sure it quite carries the explosive sense of the laughter. No one ever told this man not to laugh at his own jokes, so it has overtones of smug satisfaction which ‘Har!’ doesn’t quite capture. I wonder about ‘Arf!’

I had a colleague once who was an FU and he definitely said ‘Arf! Arf!’ when he laughed. Up until that time it had been a noise reserved solely for the use of ‘Colonel Blink’ from the ‘Beezer’. It was so obviously an ‘arf!’ sound that we made up a song with a chorus that went:  “Arf! Arf! He said, Arf! Arf! Oh isn’t it funny? Oh ain’t it a larf?”

It’s over to you. If you don’t like ‘Har!’ feel free to substitute ‘Arf!’.]

Excitable Women

Just as matter has anti-matter, so Funny Uncles have a female counterpart. These are known as Excitable Women or ‘EW’s. Unlike their male versions, ‘EW’s are not attention-seekers or even conscious that they are what they are. Excitable woman seem quite unaware of the effect they have on those around them, and behave as they do, not because they crave to be the centre of attention, but because this is the way nature has made them.

To an EW every minor setback is a crisis to be fussed over loudly and at great length. If Waitrose were ever to run out of fat-free, sugar-free, taste-free yoghurt of a specific brand, most of us would put the nearest equivalent in our baskets and go on our way. Not so the EW. Staff must be summoned, the manager called and an inquest held loudly and with near hysteria as to why the exact type of yoghurt is not available. The EW is single-minded and the idea of simply choosing an alternative does not occur to her. A fuss must be made because she has been thwarted and a fuss she will most definitely make. Oblivious to the crowd her antics may be drawing, your average EW manages to create a scene wherever she goes.

The husbands and children of ‘EW’s are long-suffering and wear non-committal grins which say to the world: ‘Yes, we are with her, but we wish we weren’t. Please don’t blame us.’ Heaven forefend that her children do anything childlike such as allowing ice cream to drip down their fronts. Such a calamity calls for screams of anguish. ‘Jocasta, Siegfried! Look at the mess you are making! Honestly, I can’t turn my back on you for one minute. Gerry, go and fetch the paper towels… and the wet wipes… Now! Yes, from the car, under the dashboard. Hurry, do! Jocasta’s dress will be ruined in a minute and it’s all over Siegfried’s shorts.’ And so it goes on. Siegfried and Jocasta have become immune to all the fuss and just carry on eating their ice creams. Gerry has to go and do as he is told. Anyone would think that washing machines had never been invented.

You will have noticed that I slipped the name ‘Gerry’ in there as deliberate link for those who remember ‘The Good Life’. The character of Margot is the archetypical EW. Fortunately, in the TV series, Margot never had children. If she had, they would have been fussed out of existence. In one memorable episode, Margot sends back ‘Christmas’ because the tree delivered was slightly too short. This sort of over-reaction is typical EW behaviour. Study Margot and you will know all that needs to be known about ‘EW’s.

Little can be done to remedy excitable women. They are as they are. For most of us we can usually avoid them; occasionally we may enjoy being the detached onlookers as a scene rises to its peak. However, we must always spare a thought for those who by mistake or accident of birth have to live alongside these tyrants. Time I feel is ripe for a charity devoted to the relief of the suffering caused by ‘EW’s.  Such suffering has fallen under the radars of the NSPCC and Save the Children; so, who’s in favour of forming SCREW, the Society for the Care of Relatives of Excitable Women?

Fatuous Platitudes and Other Irritants

‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step’, ‘Beyond the clouds, the sun always shines’, ‘Today is the day after yesterday’: if you read these and thought: ‘Of course it bloody is/does,’ then you are adept at spotting FP’s or fatuous platitudes. If you thought to yourself, ‘Oh, what a deep thought!’ then stop reading… this article is not for you.

Facebook in particular has become a breeding ground for FP’s. They are ‘fatuous’ because they are not worth saying and ‘platitudes’ because they state the obvious. Yet somehow these ‘words of wisdom’ are supposed to be uplifting, leading the individual to greater heights of sensitivity and insight. They are usually set against a pictorial background designed to emphasis the profundity of the statement.

My son and I had a competition to see who could post the worst FP on our Facebook pages. It is a credit to our friends that no one actually ‘liked’ any of our efforts. On the other hand, nobody told us to stop talking crap. My favourite at the moment is taken from ‘Chard Whitlow’, a parody of T S Eliot’s poetry: ‘As we get older, we do not get any younger.’ Read with great pomposity, it sounds so meaningful, but is in fact the perfect FP.

On the whole FP’s are harmless: more worrying are the posts which promise that everything can be achieved if you only put your mind to it and try harder. Crap, crap, crap. It’s this sort of idiocy that leads people to want to be on ‘The Apprentice’. Do they really believe that, if they puff themselves up and keep telling everyone they are a winner, it will make a jot of difference? Get real, guys and gals, you are TV’s cannon fodder. The great job is an illusion into which you have been persuaded to buy.

Some people with the right education and attributes may make their life a ‘success’ (in whatever terms they define that). Most people have to settle for a moderately tolerable job, somewhere to live, food on the table. If they pass through this life without doing too much harm to other people, then that is the best to which they can aspire.

Being bombarded with ‘you can do it, if…’s raising people’s aspirations when there is no hope of fulfilment can only lead to disenchantment and a sense of failure. ‘They told me I could be a success if I tried, but I did and I am not, so where does that leave me?’

Success in life is illusory. Much of what people count as success is pretty much worthless in the great scheme of things. Don’t be pressured into chasing rainbows. Find what happiness you can; do what good you can; spread what love you can; but don’t be misled by false promises.

From the High Command, MollersKurzenSchule.

Der Obergruppenführer has heard rumours that the Staff of the above establishment have been talking freely with parents, without having first obtained the necessary permissions from the High Command. This is a very worrying state of affairs which the High Command takes very seriously.

Accordingly, there follow two tests designed to see whether Staff are able to follow the rules.

Test 1: The Greeting

Situation:  A parent, Mrs Smith, enters your classroom and bids you ‘Good morning’.

Do you…

1. respond with ‘Good morning, Mrs Smith. Would you like to see my bottom?’?
2. respond with ‘Good morning, Mrs Smith. How are you today?’?
3. respond with ‘Your greeting has been noted and I will get back to you with an answer within the next 48 hours, unless the Obergruppenführer is out on a jolly, in which case the response time will be unduly lengthened.’?

Response 1) is wrong, but is what we fear that staff may say if left to their own devices. You are not trusted to behave in a professional manner.

Response 2) is polite and courteous, but has been made without reference to existing protocols. This is also wrong.

Response 3) is the correct response.

Test 2: The Enquiry

Situation: A Mrs Smith asks how her Bethany is doing at her English.

Do you…

1. respond with ‘Oh, OK, I suppose, but frankly I don’t give a toss anyway.’?
2. respond with ‘Quite well, but she would benefit from some remedial work on her spelling.’?
3. respond with ‘Your enquiry has been noted and I will get back to you with an answer within the next 48 hours, unless the Obergruppenführer is out on a jolly, in which case the response time will be unduly lengthened.’?

Response 1) is wrong, but is again what we fear that staff may say if left to their own devices. You are definitely not trusted to behave in a professional manner.

Response b) is polite and courteous, but has again been made without reference to existing protocols. This is also wrong.

Response c) is the correct response.

Now the rules have been made clear, it is expected that all staff will comply. Failure to do so will be rewarded with a trip to the Obergruppenführer’s study where you will be made to cry and plead for your job.

By order of the High Command.

[The above was written when we teachers were given an instruction that we should not chat with parents. Nonsensical!]

Hair

First let us be clear what I am talking about here… It is not the Sixties cult musical in which I, along with all the other sex-crazed adolescents at my school, showed an unhealthy interest. The show contained nudity never seen before on the London stage and so was the focus of our unhealthy imaginations. I don’t think any of us actually saw it; the fact it contained nudity was enough to let our rampant hormones out of the starting gates and endue it with an almost cult status.

Nor am I talking about what one of my pupils once (in a vain attempt to shock) described as ‘public’ hair. Enough said…

Nasal, facial, armpit, back, chest, ear… all of which I am generously endowed with… these types of hair are also to be denied entry into this discourse.

The hair I refer to is that which, in an ideal world, adorns the top of the head.

When my father died at a relatively advanced age, he had a luxuriant growth of wavy grey, almost white, hair. I now envy him. They say you should look to your paternal grandfather, not your father, to see how likely you are to go bald. My father lost his father at an early age, so I have no yardstick to go by, but one thing is for sure, I am not following the pattern set by my father.

It’s been going on a long time. My hair has got greyer and thinner very slowly, but now it is very thin and in some lights almost white. To add insult to injury, I have not gone bald in a distinguished professorial-looking way; oh no, fate is far too cruel for that. I have lost my hair starting at the crown of the head, so I have a huge hole at the back. I am tonsured like Friar Tuck, which, given my propensity towards stoutness, is an unfortunate comparison.

From the front, I look as though I have a head of albeit thin hair, but when I catch sight of the back of my head in the barber’s mirror or on some cctv screen… aargh! I have gone bald!

My hair is receding from the front very slowly. I almost wish it would hurry up and meet up with the hole so I will end up with fetching islands of hair either side of my head above my ears. Then I shall look as distinguished as Alastair Sim… a much better comparison than Friar Tuck.

There is only one problem with this plan – I have quite a ridge on the top of my head. At school, when I had to have a very short ‘short back and sides’, I was often teased by other boys about the way my hair stood up over this ridge. Maybe it will be less obvious when I am bald on top, or maybe not. Only time will tell.

I have always believed in growing old gracefully. No ‘crown toppers’ or suchlike for me. Fate seems to have decreed that one way or another, I am to be lacking in the follicle department.

At least my son should be able to maintain his hirsute looks.

If the Muse had struck differently…

When my children were young, I would often annoy them with a chorus of ‘Doh, a rabbit, a female rabbit’ on the basis that, had the muse struck Oscar Hammerstein II differently, this would have been a perfectly acceptable alternative. ‘Doh, a substance for making bread’ might also have emerged from his pen.
This has led me to thinking how our national culture would have been altered if some of our greatest writers had been differently inspired. How would Macbeth’s soliloquy have gone down if it had begun: ‘Tomorrow and the two days after, Creeps on this petty pace…’? Hamlet’s ‘To be, or maybe not’? Richard III’s ‘A horse, a horse, my doublet for a horse!’? Did these choice morsels end up on Shakespeare’s cutting room floor before he finally hit on the versions we know today?
Neither is popular culture immune from such speculation. Would the Beatles have made such a good start to their career with ‘Do, do love me’, ‘She is enamoured of me, three times yes’ and the well-known Isle of Wight hit, ‘Ticket to Ryde’?
Had Wordsworth taken a different route for his walk one morning, would we have children studying the famous ‘Lines written upon Battersea Bridge’? (Note to any pedants… the old one, not the current one which postdates W. W.) Also Wordsworth may have treated us to ‘Buttercups’ in the E. Blackadder edition: ‘I wandered lonely as a very lonely thing Which does what very lonely things do o’er Airedale and pups, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of yellow buttercups’.
Would Bob Dylan’s role as a guru to a generation have been diminished if he’d given us ‘The times they are a’passing’, ‘Like a rolling pin’ and ‘The answer is going in the bin’?
All idle speculation of course… so to finish, join me in a chorus of…
‘Doh, a rabbit, a female rabbit
Re, shot from an alien’s gun
Me, a slangy form of ‘my’
Fa, the length I’d go to get a bun
Soh, a thing you do with seeds
La, the end of ‘Ooh La La’
Te, where golfers place their balls
And so we’re back at Doh, Doh, Doh, Doh.
Doh, a rabbit,… (repeat ad nauseam)’

Vanity Publishing

When I was a teenager, amongst the advertisements in the back of Punch magazine was one which asked you to submit poems for assessment and possible publication. Intrigued, I sent them a selection of my ‘finest’ poems (some of which are available in the Poetry section of this site). I was hugely excited to receive a reply saying my poems were worthy of publication… at a cost of £6 each.

There was also an editor’s comment, covering all five poems which I quote verbatim: ‘You have manifestly put a great deal of thought into this work and show a great depth of understanding for your subject – I like your “sparse” use of words to acheive (sic) impact –  most sensitive use of the medium.’

Wow! This was it! I had arrived. Any time now I would receive a summons to become Poet Laureate. I was to be a published poet… give or take persuading my parents to part with £36. (No, I haven’t got my Maths. wrong. There was a footnote which said, ‘Owing to the length of one of the poems, it will have to be submitted as two poems.’) Now, £36 was a great deal of money in those days. Double it and add a ‘0’ and you are probably close to what it would be in today’s money.

Undismayed, I went to show my triumph to my parents, sure that they would make this great sacrifice in order to see their genius of a son an established, published poet.

The reception of my great news was not as I expected. I was about to learn a harsh lesson in life. I could hardly believe what my parents told me. Apparently, some people called ‘vanity publishers’ offered to print people’s poetry… at a cost… in books which were distributed to no-one but the authors. It was not a path to fame; it was a money-making scam.

With hindsight, I should have known. One comment to cover five disparate poems should have made me suspicious. That’s not to mention, the spelling error and the extraordinary punctuation. Now, after over thirty years as a school master, I can spot an attempt to say nothing useful in a lot of words a mile off: ah, but then I was innocent and totally impressed by the long words and apparent praise.

So why now, in my sixtieth year (Yes, I’m still banging on about that.) have I finally succumbed to ‘vanity publishing’ and released ‘The Ramblings’ as a paperback and ebook? Perhaps it’s to make up for the disappointment of years past. This time, however, things are very different. The ‘critics’ this time have been those who have responded (mainly positively) to the website, so no false flattery there. And the money? Technology now means that I do most of the work in preparing the text and the production costs are minimal. So far, I have spent less than £15 on the whole project.

Has this been an act of supreme vanity? Probably, but it’s been a great deal of fun and I now have two ISBN’s to my name, so what’s the harm?

Vox Pops and other abominations

First let me confess: I am not among the most intelligent people in the country. According to MENSA, IQ-wise I am in the top 3% (but not the top 2% and therefore ineligible to join that organisation). No problem. There are many who maybe score lower on IQ than I do, but they have talents and abilities I can only envy. There are many of the 97 people in 100 whose IQ’s are lower than mine who are good, hard-working people capable of articulate thought and with the ability to hold down useful jobs.

Why then is it that the ‘vox pops’ on the radio and television are entirely peopled by inarticulate people spouting what they believe to be common sense, but is, in fact, the fag ends of something that is taken as received wisdom down at the local pub? Why do broadcasters have this belief that the ‘man in the street’ can come up with informed and intelligent opinion on the most complex of matters? I don’t want to hear uninformed bigotry posing as ‘the wisdom of the people’. ‘It’s them Tories what done it… screwing over the working classes’ is not an informed contribution to an analysis of the latest economic crisis.

If you want proof that people are thick, look at some of the comments on internet news stories. They are excruciating. (If you find yourself agreeing with them, be worried… very worried.) Meteorology is a vast and complex science with a large and impressive array of data collecting equipment. Yet, if the forecast for Joe Bloggs’ back garden is not entirely accurate on the day of his barbecue, he’s on the internet saying, ‘I could do better with my piece of seaweed. (Hur, hur!)’ This is not constructive, useful or even funny, but he heard someone down the pub say it once, so he thinks this is a gem of information we should all share. All it does is show that he has no concept of the difficulty of the task of weather forecasting.

I suspect that most intelligent people would realise that, unless they happen to have a particular informed interest in a subject, they are not in a position to comment intelligently and therefore don’t try. For this reason, broadcasters find themselves reduced to interviewing the slime at the bottom of the barrel in order to get their sound bites. ‘Well, I’m entitled to my opinion, aren’t I?’ Have what opinions you like, but unless they are informed and based on sound evidence, frankly they are of no use to me.

There was a vox pop on Radio Four the other day about which politicians communicated well with the public. Those interviewed were nearly all inarticulate themselves and in no position to judge another’s ability to communicate, but I nearly exploded when one interviewee said, ‘I think that bloke whassisname… John summat… yeah that’s right John Prescott… ‘e really communicates well.’ Prescott! The man whose inability to put together a grammatical sentence is legendary. Small wonder the world is in a mess!

Internet sites, get rid of the comments sections: you will only harvest rotten fruit. Media interviewers, remember that a large proportion of the population are incapable of rational thought and their ‘common sense’ is not wisdom, just regurgitated nonsense. Spare us… please!

The Mystery of the Disappearing Pie Crust

Holmes sucked thoughtfully at his pipe and turned to the stranger who has just been admitted to his room by the ever-attentive Watson.

‘I deduce,’ he said, ‘that you have come here after a short sojourn in one of our nation’s hospitals.’

‘Good heavens,’ blustered Lord Clarke (for it was he).’How could you possibly know that? I have indeed just been in hospital for a period of nine days.’

‘Very easily,’ said Holmes. ‘Your general pallor, the marks on your hands where they have placed cannulas, the bags under your eyes – these are all tell-tale signs available to the more perceptive of minds. Besides, you smell of pee. Anyone who has been in hospital soon picks up the smell. That it is so strong on you indicates you have come here post-haste after your discharge.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Lord Clarke. ‘It is a matter of great urgency. Some malevolent force is stalking the hospital stealing all the pie crusts.’

‘And your evidence for this?’ queried Holmes.

‘On the first occasion, I filled in my menu card requesting the ‘Steak and Kidney Pie’ offered by the kindly manager of the Catering Department. The next day when it arrived there was a mess of sundry meat, which could by some stretch of the imagination have been steak and kidney, but to my consternation the pie crust was nowhere to be seen!’

‘But such things are readily explained,’ interjected Holmes. ‘Budget cuts, the parlous state of the NHS, a simple slip-up…’

‘But there is more,’ his Lordship persisted. ‘A day or so later ‘Beef Cobbler’ was offered and, when that arrived, there was beef (of sorts) but the cobbler was nowhere to be seen. It now seemed clear to me that dark forces were at work. What fiend would offer such enticements to men in weakened states of health and then disappoint them?’

‘Moriarty,’ muttered Watson under his breath, because he didn’t want to get forgotten in this scene in which he had had pitifully little to say.

Holmes narrowed his eyes and took another thoughtful draw on his pipe. ‘And is there more?’

‘Indeed there is,’ said Lord Clarke, warming to his theme. ‘I might mention the ‘Liver and Bacon’ which lacked the bacon and finally the ‘Turkey and Ham Pie’ which once again arrived topless. Surely here is a case worthy of your consideration.’

‘I need consider it no longer,’ Holmes stated with an elegant simplicity, ‘for the case is already solved.’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed his Lordship. ‘Already?’

‘But you must explain this to us, Sherlock,’ uttered Watson, pleased that his part in the scene had been further enhanced.

‘Since this case concerns food, I might be tempted to say “Alimentary, my dear Watson”, but that would be a very corny old joke that the writer of this scene would have been better off avoiding. The answer is, however, simple. Management read the menus but never, ever eat the food. ‘Pie’ or ‘Cobbler’ sounds much more appetising than ‘dark meat slop’ or ‘light meat slop’. The management can boast that pies and cobblers are served whilst in actuality the kitchen can get away with just two basic menus. There, your Lordship, lies the answer to your mystery.’

‘By crikey!’ exclaimed Lord Clarke. ‘You make the matter so very simple. Well done, Holmes.’

‘Allow me to show you out, your Lordship,’ said Watson, determined to have the last word.

The Monster at the Window

A young boy sits playing on the carpet in the sitting room of the suburban semi in which he was born. He is certainly less than five years old, probably about two years younger than that. His mother is busy in the kitchen just a few paces away through an open door. He can hear her clattering about and feels safe knowing she is around. What he is playing with is now a mystery but he knows that it absorbs him and, as his mother would say, ‘is keeping him out of mischief’. 

Who knew that this scene of simple domesticity was about to erupt into a moment of sheer terror?

In common with all its neighbours, the house has a bow window at the front, a window that lights the room where the child is playing. 

Suddenly there is an explosion of noise. The child starts. Something is battering at the window trying to make its way in. The child looks and sees a monster with great flapping wings pressed up against the window. He doesn’t understand monsters but he knows that this is a threat and he doesn’t like it. He screams and screams. Mother rushes through from the kitchen and scoops him into her arms. 

Slowly, so slowly, in the safety of the kitchen and the warmth of his mother’s lap, the child’s cries of terror subside. It seems the monster has not pursued him into the kitchen and, even if it had, loving, invincible mum would have protected him. To him she is unconquerable.

The turmoil subsides, but it will be a long time before he will happily play in that room again. The monster at the window will, in his mind, always be there, waiting to pounce.

There is a knock at the back door. Mother goes with her purse. ‘Window cleaner, Ma’am,’ says a voice. A few pence are passed over and he goes whistling on his way.

It will be some years before the child realizes that the two incidents are in any way connected.

Dingfarts

Families gather and adapt their own vocabularies to the extent that outsiders may sometimes be bemused by extraordinary usages. My mother always maintained that the word ‘dingfart’ was used in her Norfolk childhood to describe an apple that had not developed properly on the tree and had remained small and hard. The good apples were collected and stored and the dingfarts were thrown to one side for the pigs. 

Of course by implication the word soon came to mean anything small and useless, so it made a good term of abuse. ‘Oh you stupid dingfart, what did you do that for?’ may well have been shouted from sibling to sibling. 

The best derived use for the word, however, is the usage that has become current in my own home and with my own family. It seems that the cutting of potatoes into chips necessitates the production of multitudes of small slivers of potato. Once fried, these hard, crunchy, nibbly bits are nothing but a waste of space and are known in my family as ‘dingfarts’. A few dingfarts in a bag of chips seems acceptable, but some chip shops seem to buy cheap pre-cut chips comprising almost all dingfarts. Such a chip shop will not get a second visit… at least not from my family.

The very worst dingfarts are ones that still have some green potato on the end. Best avoided!

I used the word in front of a friend the other day who was surprised that I used the term in polite company. It may well be related to the word ‘fart’ but, to be honest, I don’t really know or care. It is a perfect word for its context. 

I also quite like the idea that a dingfart may be one of those short, high-pitched releases of gas that occasionally escape one, though my own preference is for the long, rolling, thunderous ones which, according to my son, rock the walls and ceiling of my bedroom at night. Well, I always did have a noisy system.

So next time you are in the chippy, tell the person serving that you don’t want too many dingfarts in your chips and see what response you get.