Thoroughly Thought Through

Jerry Lewis -- the Goat.

2010-06-05T01:59:00.000-07:00

This goat sounds just like Jerry Lewis. I don't know how much more plain I can make it.

Rollerblading Mozart

2010-05-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

There is a lot of misanthropy about these days, but sometimes humans do things that make you proud you weren't born a fish or something instead.

Soul Train Line Dance

2010-02-16T07:16:00.000-08:00

Instead of workers leaving at night like something out of an Orwellian nightmare, every employee should be made to pair up and leave the premises just like this:

How to laugh your way out of a job.

2009-11-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

Grocery Store Musical

2009-10-21T03:44:00.000-07:00

From the people who just want to make the world a happier place:

My Life is Average . . .

2009-10-15T04:58:00.001-07:00

http://mylifeisaverage.com/ . . . where people are invited to post about their normal, mediocre lives.

These are my favourite posting there so far:

Today, the girl that sits next to me asked me how to spell orange during our english essay. I just stared at for a second before saying, "O-R-A-N-G-E." She then shook her head & said seriously, "No, not the fruit, the colour." I thought she was joking. She wasn't.

Today, I received a letter that I wrote to myself in 8th grade. When I opened it, a quarter came out. I had put it in there in case my future self was poor. Later, I went through the drive through and realized I was a quarter short for a soda. I'm so glad my past self knew I would be thirsty today.

Today, I was called by a telemarketer. When he asked to speak to the head of the household, I began speaking frantic spanish (mostly "No comprendo"). He told me to hold on. After waiting a few seconds, a spanish woman was put on the line. She began speaking, and after a few words I started saying "I can't understand you!". The line went silent and a different english speaking man was put on the line. I got them to switch 4 times.

Yesterday, I made cookies in Home Ec. I sat at my bus stop after school, eating them out of a paper bag and couldn't finish them. Instead of wasting them, I wrote "Dear Stranger, please enjoy these cookies. I didn't spit in them. Love, Me." and left the paper bag there. Today they were gone, with a note that said "Dear you, Thanks. Love, Stranger."

Love Leaves You Tongue-Tied

2009-10-12T04:16:00.000-07:00

I have been going through some more of my great uncle Percy's letters. There are hundreds of them: yellowed and bound together with string. His handwriting was immaculate, though not always easy to read with its lavish loops and personal flourishes, but I managed.

A few days ago I found a bundle that still smelt faintly of perfume. They were conveniently in order and they made for riveting reading. It was a series of correspondences with a lady named Mabel Guthrie of 10, Railway Cottages, Cheltenham, Glos. and it seemed my great uncle was very fond of her.

This is significant as Percy never married and as far as anyone in the family is aware there never was any prospect of a first Mrs Percival Augustus Seymour. But these letters reveal the old relative had not always been such a confirmed bachelor and had, indeed, had a serious crisis of faith in that regard.

Great uncle Percival Augustus Seymour, KBE, MBE, BBC, IBM, AT&T, was travelling from London by rail to visit a friend in the country, a Colonel Price-Price, when a young lady entered the carriage he had had to himself, till then, at Swindon.

Percy, being a Seymour, stood when she entered and nodded respectfully before returning to his Times crossword.

It was the crossword which broke the ice, if such an expression were around then. The lady could see my uncle struggling with one of the clues (which clue I am afraid my uncle did not record for future generations) and she, it appears, could not help but offer her services.

Even today, suggesting to an English gentleman that he might need assistance with the Times Crossword, especially a gentleman who is travelling by rail, is frowned upon; in my uncle Percy's day it would have been downright shocking. But as has been previously stated in this and other blogs, my uncle Percy was a Seymour. His easy manner had been forged in countless diplomatic emergencies, international crises and other epoch shaping events. He merely smiled and politely declined.

But the lady, who introduced herself as Mabel, was not able to contain herself.

"Is it one of Jack's?"

Even a man of such mental acuity as my uncle was thrown by this. It transpired that Jack Heap had compiled the crossword Percy was struggling with. And Mabel knew him well. In fact, after some subtle probing by my uncle, who had learnt the art of questioning in the course of training for a number of special missions overseas, prized from Mabel that she was herself a compiler of crosswords.

He was fascinated by this and struck up a conversation with his companion and the last two hours of the journey flashed by in mere moments. They parted briefly on the platform for Mabel was being picked up by her sister and Percy had a car waiting, but Percy called Mabel back and asked her if she would like to dine with him the following evening. She gushed and said she'd be delighted. Though not quite so concisely. Her exact reply, as recorded by my great uncle, was: "I'd be . . . the sensation of pleasure to a high degree. Nine letters."

My uncle replied, with the usual Seymour quick wit, that he was esteemed with a high level of credit — eight letters, second and fourth letters 'o' — that she had so graciously accepted.

The following evening, after a morning spent walking briskly and an afternoon wiled away fishing, my great uncle Percy arrived at the local country pub to find Mabel already there.

"My dear lady, I am not late, am I?"

"No, not at all. I arrived prior to the appointed time, five letters."

My uncle Percy replied that he had been looking forward all day to the 'to search for gold, eight letters' of continuing the conversation of the day before. It is not recorded what the meal was but it must have gone well for he took leave owed to him by the Ministry of Defence, for whom he was working at the time, and stayed in the country with her. He was, in his own words, subjected to magical influence, nine letters, by Mabel while she, for her part, admitted to a feeling of 'the name given to the effect of a force that causes an object to tend towards another, ten letters', that left her scrabbling for words, though there doesn't seem to be any evidence of that.

After a few weeks of this, Percy was recalled to London after Soviet troop movements caused within the Ministry 'an establishment or business of commercial standing', but Percy and Mabel kept up their correspondence. However, the separation did seem to put some strain on the relationship. Though, to be precise, accurate, exact, it was more the strain of him having to decipher Mabel's increasingly cryptic messages and having to come up with his own in order to impress her.

This led in my great uncle, from a letter to a friend sent at the same time, to feelings of 'phonetic emphasis placed on words or syllables by means of a special effort made in their vocalisation, six letters'.

The emotional and intellectual toil of his relationship with Mabel was removed from him when he was sent to the Balkans to construct a spy ring. His letter to Mabel, breaking off the romance, I have decided to reproduce in its entirety here:

Dear Mabel,

'That which acts as an agency, instrument of power or means, eight letters', by whom I am 'to be occupied or devoted to, eight letters', has seen fit to send me abroad on 'a series of religious services designed to convert non-believers, seven letters', of great importance to national security. I may be gone for some months, even years. I am greatly 'to disturb, disorder or over turn as in a pitcher of milk or a house of cards, five letters', and I 'to display a sense of sorrow, six letters', that I must 'to train away from a habit, five letters', our 'connection between two or more things, twelve letters', and to 'the extremity or last part of something that is broader in length than breadth, three letters', all 'agreement and conformity, fourteen letters', 'immediately, without delay, nine letters', for I may have no 'junction of two electrical conductors, seven letters' with anyone except my immediate 'greater in quantity or amount, eight letters'.

I will never 'to fail to think of, six letters', you. I hope you 'to be fully cognizant of the facts of a matter, ten letters', and do not 'the expression of extreme dislike, four letters', me too much.

'An expression of farewell when leaving the company of another or others, seven letters'.

Percy.

Mabel's reply:

Dear 'the flesh of a mature sheep' brains.

Go 'to heat a liquid till it becomes agitated and begins to turn into a gaseous state, four letters' your 'the position or place of leadership, four letters'.

Mabel

[No further correspondence.]

Spanish Guitar

2009-10-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

If I could do this I might cry, too.

The Beautiful South

2009-10-10T02:17:00.001-07:00

I had forgotten all about them! I loved them in the 90s, without ever really realising I did. I wasn't 'into' music then. I just knew what I liked, not who I liked; if that makes any sense. They had a few female vocalists over the years. Jacqui Abbot has perhaps the loveliest voice but my favourite is still Alison Wheeler, who sings in the video below. Fans can't get together without arguing over that as far as I can tell.

The band split up a few years ago, but some of the members reformed as New Beautiful South.

Only in Britain

2009-10-09T02:38:00.000-07:00

Where else in the world would the same circumstances coalesce so perfectly to make the feel-good story of the year? Two drunken morons pick a fight first with someone dressed as Spiderman and then with two men dressed as women who turned out to be cage fighters in fancy dress.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/8296190.stm

Any report that has in it: "After throwing a punch at him, Gardner and then Fender are both quickly floored by Mr Lerwell, wearing a short black dress with stockings and suspenders" has to be worth reading.

Revive the semi-colon!

2009-10-09T01:59:00.000-07:00

I have read a lot of books and been moved by some truly wonderful passages of writing; but nothing — nothing — that can reach the heights this one paragraph from Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway soared to. I thought I had stumbled on a hidden gem, but apparently it's been spotted by a lot of other people too. Here it is:

As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet from Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of her struggles has become famous.

I don't know about you but I don't exhale during that sentence. I am led through it, my toes floating just above the ground, till I am put back down again gently and I can breathe once more.

Why does it do that to me and to a lot of other people who read it? There is only one period and that is at the very end. One sentence 107 words in length: a stream of thought uninterrupted by anything so vulgar as a stop.

Do you have any idea of the artistry required to write not only that one paragraph but an entire book with that lightness of touch? I don't. I can only guess at it. But while I'd not copy Woolf's style, let alone her writing, I can and have learnt so much from her use of punctuation. I used to think they were mere mechanical devices, holding sentences up like rivets, but they are more like the deft suggestions of form you get from an impressionists brush; at least in skilled hands.

I use semi-colons a lot in my writing, though not as much as I could. The reason I do is Virginia Woolf.

Then there's the elegant hyphen — which is under assault as most modern keyboards ask you to hold down the 'alt' key or, as with my laptop, the 'alt' and 'fn' keys while entering 0, 1, 5, 1. (Now there's commitment to the cause for you!)

Mustn't forget the colon: it pushes you on into the sentence with a great big shove in the back. It is a great promiser of things to come; a top-hatted impresario who draws back the curtain and beckons you in to the wonders that lie beyond.

I do feel sorry for the humble and overworked comma, though. The comma, along with the simple full stop, is increasingly asked to do the work of the semi-colon, dash and colon. In America, it is even made to take on roles for which it is not needed: the last comma in a list is not needed. 'And' does that job just fine on its own.

So, you see, punctuation is beautiful; or can be: an art that oils the space between words; that dictates rhythm so that the line between writing on a page and music becomes blurred.

You'll have to excuse me: I am becoming quite emotional.

If Stephen King made pianos . . .

2009-10-09T01:54:00.000-07:00

. . . this is the piano he'd make:

One comment a friend of mine made was that musically it's better than jazz. I liked that so much I wished I had said it. By the end of today, I will have done.

One Day Like This

2009-08-29T02:48:00.001-07:00

"Throw those curtains wide, one day like this a year would see me right."

Alarming Escalation!

2009-06-08T08:55:00.000-07:00

If you haven't seen my old blog about the bovine conspiracy, you may do so here. Thousands of us all around the world who have tumbled the cows spend hundreds of thousands of hours between us, each week, monitoring media sources so we can warn the world of an all-out attack before it is too late.

We in the bovine conspiracy community, known as Cow Watchers, are becoming more and more concerned at the increasing incidents of cow violence toward humans. And we were alarmed, to say the least, that they have stepped up their campaign with an attack on former British cabinet minister, David Blunkett, on his 62nd birthday. For those who do not know, the most sickening aspect of the attack is that Mr Blunkett is blind. The cows went for his guide dog! The dog's fine — his training kicked in — but I think you will agree that this marks a terrifying escalation in hostilities, for he is still a member of Her Majesty's goverment and what happened at the weekend is tantamount to a declaration of war. Mr Blunkett has a broken rib but it could have been much worse. In an effort to protect his dog he was trampled. Mr Blunkett reports that if the cow had fallen on him he would have surely been killed.

I don't want to spread panic among the general population, but we could be only weeks away from enslavement.

What the Maid Saw [Cont.]

2009-05-13T03:16:00.001-07:00

I left you hanging in the air, rather, dear reader and I am sorry for that. I hear my great uncle Percy had a flair for the dramatic so maybe I inherited that from him. I was about to tell you what the maid, Mabel Starky, heard that stirred in my great uncle some memory of what happened to him during his lost years (1969-1974). According to Mabel's diary, which I have no reason to disbelieve, it happened at dinner, during the fish course.

I know what you're thinking: omit all extraneous detail, Richard! But the fact the fish course was being served is critical to understanding the matter, for it was a fish — a halibut, according to Mabel — that did it. Whether or not it was a halibut is important I don't know. But we cannot discount it. What happened was this: it had been a perfectly ordinary meal up to that point. Lord and Lady Aurthur Chesterton, Sir Clive Ashford and other assorted lowly members of the British aristocracy, plus the patriarchal head of a London bank, were in attendance and conversation was both witty and interesting. My great uncle Percy, of course, leading the anecdote count.

The fish was served and my uncle peered down, armed with a knife and fork and, as witnessed by the serving waiter and recounted to Mabel in the kitchen later, he went pale. Queries as to his health seemed destined to go unanswered until he spoke, barely above a whisper. These, apparently, were his words: 'That's how she looked at me.' He then got up, asked the butler to pack his bags for him and called for a car. Half an hour later he was on his way back to London where he got a job as senior cultural adviser to the royal household.

Mabel and the other staff stood around the aforementioned halibut, which had been brought back to the kitchen and placed on the table as some sort of Exhibit A. There was much discussion about what sort of look the fish had given great uncle Percy. Mabel thought it was one of wild surmise, and although she alluded to the fact there was no general agreement on that, she did not report on the differing opinions.

Since then, I have been staring into the faces — if faces is the word I want — of a good many halibut, and all I can get from them is something nearing cold reproach.

But who was the 'she' he referred to? So far, like the fish, the trail is cold. I am sure, though, the answer is out there, somewhere.

Vanishing Uncles

2009-05-13T02:31:00.000-07:00

I have been gone some time, and for that I apologise. I have been on a journey — no, a quest — to shed light on the so-called 'lost years' of my great uncle Percival Seymour KBE, MBE, BBC, IBM, AT&T. Between 1969 and, the year of my birth, 1974, my great uncle went missing. It took the family some time to realise he had for he often vanished for days and weeks on end. He would usually turn up in the foreign section of a newspaper, photographed looking drunk at the table of an international summit or in the background as some African dictator or other, having seized power, addressed the excited crowd.

It isn't that great uncle Percy was one of the world's power brokers, or that he took part in bloody coups. It is just that he had an uncanny habit of turning up right at the centre of things just as they were getting exciting. And the odd thing was, no one ever questioned his presence. He had one of those faces: he always looked liked he belonged.

But back in '69, after six months had passed and no sign of him had turned up, the family started to worry. The British Foreign Office denied he was on any secret mission, but then they would, wouldn't they? But one of great uncle Percy's old school chums, who worked for the security services, said he would keep an eye out for him and let us know if he surfaced.

He did surface, but not for five years. Many in the family had given him up for dead. But one day — June 8th, to be exact — he strolled into his private members' club in Pall Mall, London, in the same suit he was last seen in (pulled apart at the seams and terribly creased but still somehow stylish), a tangled, white beard that rested on his chest and hair that resembled, according to one eye witness, a bird's nest. Accounts differ, but it is generally agreed that my great uncle Percy sat in an arm chair, ordered a gin and tonic, which he drank in three gulps, under the gaze of the entire lunchtime membership, before his eyes glazed over and an eerie stillness overcame him.

The fear was he was dead. Major Haversham-Grimshaw, one of the first white men to fully explore the interior of Africa, stepped forward and placed the back of his hand below my great uncle Percy's nose. Feeling my uncle's breath he announced him to be alive and went on to say he had seen the same thing before in the jungles of Uganda. It seems a one time travelling companion of the major, a William Graves, was struck by a dart the major swears was shot at him by a monkey. The slow acting poison didn't strike for another three days at which time Graves became locked in suspended animation while teaching the natives how to play cricket. Conveniently he had been frozen in a perfect forward defensive position for two weeks and this gave his students the perfect opportunity to study him. When he snapped out of the trance Graves was unaware any time had passed at all. The members examined my great uncle Percy for dart wounds but found none.

It cannot be established with any degree of accuracy how long great uncle Percy was like that for. Some say only a few hours, whereas others claim it was as much as a week. What can be certain is that when he did finally come round, no one seemed more surprised than him. His doctor gave him a full examination but could find nothing wrong and recommended he went somewhere quiet for the summer to relax; so he travelled by rail to Derbyshire to visit the Warburton-Stanleys at their estate where, according to his sporadic diary entries, he walked, fished and read. Just what the doctor ordered, as they say.

In the seventh week in Derbyshire something happened to cause his memory to return. Although he never did reveal what it was he suddenly remembered, it had long been hoped that the nature of the cause itself would provide some clues.TheWarburton-Stanleys, if they ever knew, told no one. But I tracked down the grandson of a former maid who worked for the Warburton Stanleys at the time great uncle Percy was staying with them. I visited him in his flat in Manchester and asked if his grandmother had kept a diary. She had! I had to part with some money but eventually the grandson handed me the diary, which had been left to him in her will, and what it revealed just made the mystery more enigmatic.

[To Be Continued.]

BookCrossing

2009-01-09T07:06:00.000-08:00

My day was made yesterday. Have you heard of BookCrossing? It's where if you like a book, you leave it in a public place for someone else to find. It seems someone did that with my book, Members Only, and a young lady named Alison came across it in Rochester in Kent and read it. It had been slid into a gap in a brick wall, out of the elements but still visible. She emailed me yesterday to tell me how much she liked it. Thank you, Alison!

Book crossing is a great idea. I urge you all to do it. I will, too. Here is the official BookCrossing website. It's worth checking out.

I am now curious as to who left my book behind to be found. Was it you?

Into My Arms

2008-12-05T06:22:00.000-08:00

A love song written and performed by a man who's got a pair. (Thank you, T.)

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

I don't know if you're aware, but . . .

2008-11-30T15:22:00.000-08:00

What have you been doing?

So I asked my dad to make me a bow tie.

2008-11-19T02:46:00.001-08:00

A comment for the video of Teletext Alex singing Bohemian Rhapsody with every lyric changed to a footballers' name (below) said that as good as it was, nothing would ever touch: 'So I asked my dad to make me a bow tie.' I had never heard it before but here it is. Strap yourselves in: it's FUNNY.

Shiver Me Timbers!

2008-11-18T14:52:00.000-08:00

May I just say that I am really glad to see piracy making a comeback? And may I also commend the media for referring to the hijackers off the coast of Somalia actually as 'pirates'? Well, most of them. One outlet (it may have been Sky) started calling them 'hijackers' today and I began to lose enthusiasm for the story and all sympathy for the criminals inolved.

Other criminals I'd like to see revived are highwaymen and bandits. I don't know, there just seemed to be a style and romance to them our modern criminals lack. Where once we wore black handkerchiefs over our faces we now cover ourselves with hoods. It's a question of taste, and we in Britain used to lead the world in that respect; now we must leave it to the rest of the world to show us the way.

One of my ancestors, Edgar Bartholomew Seymour, was a pirate. Well, he tried his hand at it. To be honest, we Seymours have never been good sailors. In 1787, Edgar, always on the look out for a money-making scheme to fund his gambling and opium habit, stole a ship from Plymouth harbour with a couple of friends and set out for the Horn of Africa, which he heard was a lucrative market for pirates. Unfortunately, the supplies they stowed aboard consisted of twenty barrels of wine and nothing else.

They circled the Bay of Biscay for six weeks before drunkenly running ashore, at which point soon after they were arrested for lewd conduct. You had to be pretty lewd to be arrested for that in France in those days! These days, too, now I come to think of it. Representations were made and Edgar and his crew were released and they returned to England where they regaled their fellow London clubmen with tails of grass-skirted savages, Indonesian girls, hundred-foot waves, giant squid and treasure.

To this day, no Seymour is allowed to set foot in France.

Danny Baker

2008-11-18T11:45:00.001-08:00

I have heard it said that there is a top table in British radio broadcasting and only one man sits at it: Danny Baker. I concur, wholeheartedly. Here are a couple of clips from his shows on the BBC. They are all like this.

And this is from his BBC London show.

President Seymour

2008-11-05T05:00:00.001-08:00

These US elections have caused me to remember a story my Great Uncle Percival Seymour KBE, MBE, BBC, IBM, AT&T, told me just before he died. Very few Americans know this, and even fewer will believe it now, but my Great Uncle Percy served as the president of the United States between August 1958 and July 1959.

During this period, President Dwight D. Eisenhower believed himself to be a canary. His personal doctor recommended only that they put a small mirror in his cage so he'd feel as if he had the company of another canary. Other than that, he felt the madness would pass.

Under normal circumstances, the vice-president would assume the duties of the president. At this time, the vice-president was Richard Nixon. You would have thought that a man with such naked ambition as Nixon would have leapt at the chance, but back then he was far too occupied with working on an alternative recipe to the popular drink, Dr Pepper, with which, he told anyone who'd listen, he'd make himself the richest man in the world.

Harold Macmillan, the then Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, heard about this through an intelligence operative working secretly at the White House whose job it was to make sure the president always had enough birdseed in his cage. He picked up his red phone and, after some temporary embarrassment, the full extent of the problem was indicated in full. Macmillan simply smiled and told Washington to leave it to him. He hung up the phone and picked up another to his secretary.

"Get me Percy."

It was a Thursday afternoon, so Great Uncle Percy was in the smoking room of his club when the call from Downing Street came through. Fifteen minutes later he was in the prime minister's office, lighting a pipe with the PM, an old school chum, being apprised of the situation and given details of his most unusual mission: he was to act as a stand-in.

You see, my Great Uncle Percy looked exactly like Dwight D. Eisenhower. Many people had remarked on the fact; and a number of his closest friends had won a great deal of money by betting that the thirty-fourth president of the United States was about to, for instance, turn up at Lord's cricket ground for an afternoon of cricket. Such was the likeness, no one ever quibbled but just paid up.

Only a very few people knew of the plan. In the U.K. only the prime minister and her majesty the queen knew. In the US, Hoover, and one or two others were fully aware, but no one else.

That period of American history was relatively quiet, though a number of trade deals that favoured UK companies were pushed through and, although you'd never have known it, cricket was declared the national sport. In fact, if you look it up, you'll find that it still is.

About a year after Great Uncle Percy's mission began, President Eisenhower declared that while he was still a canary, he was a canary who, through mental illness, believed himself to be the leader of the free world, and he was allowed to resume his duties, albeit with a light workload.

Before he died, I asked my Great Uncle Percy if Eisenhower's wife, Mannie, knew that he had been impersonating her husband. His monocle shone as he told me: "I am sure she suspected something, my boy, but she preferred to remain in ignorant bliss." Adding, "Damn fine woman."

One Hand Clapping

2008-08-15T15:20:00.001-07:00

I was asked recently what the sound of one hand clapping is and was reminded of my Great Uncle Percival Augustus Seymour, KBE, MBE, BBC, IBM, AT&T.

A brief stint in the British Foreign Office saw him spend some time in India where he met Mohandas Gandhi, or, as Great Uncle Percy knew him, 'Monty'. One night, toward the end of a particularly heavy session of drinking, Monty asked my Great Uncle Percy what he thought the sound of one hand clapping was. Great Uncle Percy swept a single hand across the table, purely in the spirit of scientific endeavour, and knocked a bottle of gin over his inquisitor.

Now, the way Great Uncle Percy told it, Monty, while the world knows him as a peaceful soul, was a complete sod when drunk. He threw himself across the table at Great Uncle Percy and the two of them started to brawl, until the bar owner took them both by the neck and threw them out into the street.

The following morning, both men woke with terrible hangovers to find that they were both naked. Moreover, they were lying beneath a stall at a very busy market. The animosity of the previous evening evaporated as it became clear to them that they would have to work together.

Monty, by all accounts, panicked terribly. He was a lawyer at the time. What would his clients think? But we Seymours are made of sterner stuff. There has been a Seymour at every major British battle since Hastings and none have ever found that, even under the most intense of pressure, their ability to think quickly was impaired.

The stall they were beneath was covered by a couple of white sheets. Never a man to let I dare not wait upon I would, Great Uncle Percy snatched the sheets, which the two men wrapped around themselves, and ran as fast as their legs could carry them.

Monty was by far the superior man over the first few yards but Great Uncle Percy, like all Seymours, always came into his own in the gallops and soon took the lead.

Once clear of the outraged stall holder, the two men slowed to a walk and edged their way down a series of sidestreets in an effort to gain their bearings and find their way home. It was then that they came across a policeman, who looked them up and down and ordered them to stop and state their business.

Poor old Monty thought the game was up, but, as I have already said, Great Uncle Percy was a Seymour. He informed the policeman that Monty was a great spiritual leader and he was his first disciple.

In those days, the Indians loved a good spiritual leader. Even some of the bad ones were quite successful. The policeman asked Monty to impart a pearl of wisdom for him to think about.

As unlikely as it may seem now, Great Uncle Percy swore to the day he died that the words that came out of Monty's mouth were: 'It's only the hairs on a gooseberry that stops it being a grape.' Adding, 'Think about it,' before wandering away with his chin in his hand, apparently deep in mystical thought.

The two men made it home and had a little sleep for they were still groggy of mind. When they woke up and Monty threw open the shutters of a window, he was greeted by the site of at least a thousand people, all holding gooseberries above their heads (some cheating with grapes) waiting for Monty to make an appearance.

He wanted to tell them to go away, but he saw the policeman at the front, still looking suspicious, so he had to keep up the pretence. Great Uncle Percy hid just out of view and whispered to the dumb-struck Monty what to say:

Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting tomatoes in a fruit punch.

Very hot surfaces do not necessarily look hot.

When door says 'push', there really is no point in pulling.

And so on.

A year later, Great Uncle Percy was recalled to London, from where he followed the career of his old drinking pal with both interest and some amusement. But it wasn't until later life that he confided to the family his role in the eventual overthrow of British rule in India, for obvious reasons, and we kept it secret till he passed away.

I was still young when I went to visit him on his deathbed. He called me over and asked me if I knew what the sound of one hand clapping was. I admitted I didn't. With his very last breath he answered for me: 'A billion Indians laughing.'

Then he died.

Great Uncle Percy

2008-08-12T09:36:00.000-07:00

Isn't it wonderful news that Osama Bin Laden's driver has been put behind bars at last? I know the process has been drawn-out and has attracted much criticism, but when Guantanamo Bay produces results like these I for one sleep more soundly in my bed. All the CIA have to do now is set up cab companies along the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan then wait for the phone to ring.

It reminds me of my Great Uncle Percival Augustus Seymour, KBE, MBE, BBC, IBM, AT&T. He worked for British Intelligence in the 1930s and went to live in Berlin where he kidnapped Hitler's barber and, when the position was advertised a few weeks later, he applied and got the job. Hitler took his grooming very seriously, not only keeping his hair and moustache neat, but also having his pubic hair shaved into a swastika.

It was Great Uncle Percy who first discovered Hitler had only one testicle: information which he sent back to London where they set about making good use of it by composing mocking songs to maintain morale and later dropping leaflets all over occupied Europe with the following joke printed on them:

A man with three balls walks into a bar and bets Hitler they have five balls between them. Hitler gratefully accepts the bet, before pulling his trousers down and declaring: 'There's my one, where's your four?'

Great Uncle Percy continued in his role till Hitler's death by suicide in 1945. During that time, he subtly undermined Hitler's authority with a succession of haircuts designed to render the Fuhrer less captivating to the German people. No photos remain, as the Nazi propaganda machine had them all destroyed, but it is well known within our family that the haircuts Great Uncle Percy gave Hitler included a delicate bob that reached to just above his shoulders, the straight fringe later made popular by Audrey Hepburn and a complete shaven appearance, which would become the 'Skinhead' look adopted by neo-Nazis decades on.

Over time, as his apparent obsession with his hair appeared to take control of him, Hitler's position of leader became eroded as the inner-circle of the Nazi Party and the German people themselves began to question his fitness to lead. This led eventually to him walking into that Berlin bunker with dreadlocks woven in and his most senior officers unable to hide their mirth. No longer able to command the respect of his men, he shot himself.

After the war, Great Uncle Percy went on to cut the hair for Chairman Mao, Stalin, Castro, Pol Pot and the Beatles, among many others, feeding London with a stream of invaluable information about each during the early years of the Cold War.

He is also credited with creating what would one day become known as the 'Jennifer Aniston'.

Undo

2008-06-24T05:13:00.000-07:00

I downloaded Google Earth and, of course, was immediately hooked. The first thing I noticed is that there are surprisingly few people around and this has led me to wonder if there are not really over six billion people in the world today. (I extrapolated from an area of Stevenage -- the town I reluctantly call home -- and calculated the global population at between 800 and 1200.)

Anyway, I was viewing a friend's house in Wolverhampton but found the graphic which displayed the text of what was being shown was in the way; so I right-clicked on it and selected 'delete'. A little window popped up asking me if I was sure I wanted to delete the said location. I confirmed that I did.

I then picked up the phone to my friend in Wolverhampton. I was going to joke that she ought to tidy her garden or something, but all I got was a steady tone. I thought nothing of it as I knew she had had trouble with her line recently.

I went back to Google Earth and spent a happy couple of hours searching the planet, deleting the obtrusive graphic each time until I became bored, at which point I switched on the TV. The news was on. Apparently, the earth was being ravaged by catastrophic seismic disasters. I was glued to the set and the images and eye-witness reports of isolated incidents of buildings simply vanishing, leaving only a gaping wound in the ground.

Then the reporter said something that, frankly, made me feel sick. The first of these unexplained phenomena took place in England. The West Midlands to be precise. In fact, to be even more precise, Wolverhampton. I watched as the wobbly camera-shot passed down a road I am very familiar with until it came to a rest at where my friend's house once was but was now just a hole in the ground between two houses.

For the next half an hour I made notes of the affected areas with a growing sense of dread. I ran up to my computer to confirm what I already knew: I had deleted about thirty locations around the world.

Buckingham Palace -- with the queen in residence -- gone; the Taj Mahal, gone; the pyramids at Giza, gone; the house I was born in, gone. All told, twenty-eight places of world-wide interest had been deleted . . . by me. (I include the house I was born in to be a landmark of world-wide interest.)

Well, you can imagine how I felt. Embarrassed mostly. They'd be bound to trace it back to me and then what? I'd never be able to live it down.

I had a cup of tea. Well, I am British after all. I trawled the help section of Google Earth but there was nothing. The troubleshooting section was even less help. Then it occurred to me: the Undo button!

I clicked Undo as many times as I could until it greyed out. When it did, I phoned my friend. She picked up sounding sleepy. I asked her if she was all right but she didn't know what I was talking about as she had just woken from a nap; so I told her to look out her window.

She did so and was utterly baffled to see news crews gathered outside, with reporters excitedly talking into cameras and the emergency services shaking their heads in wonder.

The same scenes were replicated around the world. I watched the news as the queen of England was led shakily from the Palace into the back of a waiting ambulance; I changed channels and, thank goodness, the pyramids were back among cheering scenes, and theTaj Mahal was back where it belonged, too.

(I also deleted Poland to see if anyone would notice; so far no one has.)

An Itch In Time

2008-05-19T05:42:00.001-07:00

Since my last blog, I have been . . . 'away'. Well, that doesn't really do what I have been up to any justice at all. The thing is, I have been time travelling. No, really, I have. Allow me to explain:

A few weeks ago I was walking my sister's dog through a local wood, when a panicked man holding a bag to his chest came bursting out from a bush. He looked in a bad way and kept looking over his shoulder. Then an odd thing happened: he looked me up and down and, appearing to recognise me, grabbed me by both shoulders and dragged me behind a tree. He crouched and took what can only really be described as a contraption out of the bag. There were lots of wires and what I decided to call 'nodes' and other bits and pieces but in the middle of it all was a black sphere, about the size of a mango. He placed my hands on the sphere and pressed his hands on top. He closed his eyes and muttered something to himself. How do I describe what happened then? Reality appeared to shimmer. When it stopped shimmering, the woods had vanished. In its place was the living room of a house. I say it was a living room as it was on the ground floor and at the front, but there was no furniture: just bare floorboards. My sister's dog barked once and then began sniffing his new environment with a critical nose.

"What the f-" was as far as I got. The man I was with went for the front door and was halfway down the path when I pulled him back by his collar. I wanted to know what had just happened. I mean, wouldn't you? He glanced around him, nervously, and reluctantly pushed me back inside the house where, I got the impression, he was about to tell me something but only once.

It seemed the sphere with all the wires and other clever-looking stuff was a machine for travelling in time and space. Apparently, all humans are capable but that part of our brains which can do it is so out of use it's effectively useless. What the sphere did, according to the man, was amplify our normal abilities. All you have to do is lay your hands on it and concentrate on where or 'when' you want to go.

Had I not just been transported from the woods to . . . wherever I was, I might have struggled to believe him.

"But if I were you I'd forget all about that bloody contraption," he warned, "and get the bus home. We're not far from where I found you. Where exactly I cannot say. I am sure you can manage."

He turned to leave again but I slammed the door shut in front of him. He bowed his head and sighed.

"Who or what were you running from, and why did you bring me here at all?" I asked.

"There are people who want that machine and they'll do anything to get it. They were close behind me but I bought a little time. If they had caught me and seen you anywhere nearby we'd have been been in for it."

With that, he opened the door and was gone.

I paced the room for twenty minutes while the dog slept. At least I think he slept. He was snoring but he had his eyes open.

But I digress. I put the machine back in the bag and got the bus back home. I dropped the dog off with my sister and spent the rest of the day wondering what to do next. But, what would you have done? You'd have tried it out. I was always going to; I don't know why it took me so long. I rested my hands on the sphere, closed my eyes, and thought -- hard.

My eyes were still closed when I felt the atmosphere change. I was obviously outside, somewhere hot and busy. I opened my eyes and had to blink in the bright light. I was in a market. The ground was dusty and everyone was dressed in robes and sandals. I ducked into the shade of an alley beside me and fought to slow my racing heart.

It had worked!

Opposite me was an opening and I felt an urge to step into it. I did so. The interior of the building was dark compared to the oppressive glare of the sun and much cooler. There was straw on the ground, a wooden table scattered with wood chippings and tools. I had only been there for no more than thirty seconds when a voice asked me if it could help me.

I say that is what it said, but the thing is -- and I cannot fully explain this -- it spoke in a foreign language I didn't even recognise yet I understood it perfectly. Even odder, I replied in English and my companion understood that too.

"Can I help you?"

The man who had walked in from a back room had dark skin, like an Arab, long, black hair and a tight beard growing from his face.

"Um . . ." I said.

"Well?"

"Are you . . ."

"Am I who?"

"You're . . ."

"I'm . . ."

"Jesus?"

"Who wants to know?"

I wasn't expecting that. I stuttered a little. How would I even begin? As it turned out, I didn't have to.

"Time traveller?"

I was incredulous.

"Look, I'll tell you what I told the others, I'm not interested."

"Not interested in what?" I asked, when I had recovered the power of speech.

"Your warnings about the future. I've heard them all."

"Do you mean to say you've been visited by time travellers before?"

Jesus laughed.

"You're joking, right? You don't really think you're the only one who's had this idea?"

"Well, I . . ."

"The angel Gabrielle who visited my mum: time traveller. The three wise men: time travellers. Now I am approaching my thirties I get about half a dozen a week through here."

"And what do they say?"

"Don't do it, mostly. Stick with the carpentry."

"You don't think that might be a good idea?"

"Why?"

"Well," I said, not knowing exactly where to begin, "all those religious wars. All those people tortured and murdered for you. Doesn't that bother you?"

Jesus rounded the work table that had been between us and pointed a finger at my face.

"Look, mate. I'm not taking the blame for any of that. Whatever people do in the future is their responsibility, not mine."

"But, surely," I tried to reason, but he had heard all possible arguments before.

"What do you think will happen if I keep my head down and don't get involved? That you'll return to your year and find love and light everywhere? No wars, no terrorism? Do me a favour! People are people. They'll find other causes to kill each other over." Then he paused and looked at me, quizzically. "What year you from?"

"2008."

"Right," he nodded, grinning. "Give it another thirty years and the biggest war humans ever have will kick off and I won't have anything to do with it."

"What's the war about then if it isn't religion?"

Jesus picked up a chisel and a hammer and stood over a lump of wood.

"The environment. That's right," he added, seeing the look on my face. "Global warming."

"There is going to be a war about global warming?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing, ironically. "It'll be the new religion. Even in the year you're from it's already bubbling away. Some poor bastard dares to question the science and he loses his job, gets hate mail, death threats . . . and the best bit is it's got absolutely nothing to do with me. It's just another cause people can attach themselves to. Another outlet for their fear, hate and conceit. Save the word? They can't even save themselves. Pathetic."

"And people die in this war?"

"It's a war, ain't it?" he sneered, chiseling away now. "About a hundred million people in the end."

I sat down, assimilating the shock.

"Now, instead of you coming to me and asking me what I am going to do about the future, what are you going to do about it?"

"Eh?"

"I said, what are you going to do about it?" He stopped chiseling and stood over me. "You come here with all your righteousness and think you can tell me what I ought to do; that it's all my fault. But what are you going to do about what's coming next? Anything? Nothing?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you think about it before you start judging me, all right?"

I felt very foolish. A hypocrite.

"I'm sorry," I said, weakly.

"That's all right," he said, "turn the other cheek, right? That's what I end up saying, isn't it?"

"I shouldn't have come here."

This seemed to change Jesus' attitude toward me.

"You mean well, I don't deny it. And it isn't your fault you come from a time when everyone is still looking to blame someone else instead of taking responsibility. That will change, apparently, or so I have been told." He crouched to my level. "You know, some people come to see me and tell me not to do anything differently. They are from far into even your future and from their perspective, it was good the human race got a good hard look at itself."

"I never really thought of it that way," I admitted.

"You wouldn't. The year you're from, everyone thinks the human race is doomed; that it's coming to an end -- and soon. There's this feeling that you spent your whole time hating and killing. But it wasn't your whole time. There's a lot of time left. Growing pains; that's all your lot are going through. Now," he said, standing, "unless you want a set of table and chairs, you ought to be getting back."

Feeling like a child who has a lot to learn, I took one last look at Jesus as he worked and went back out into the alley. I placed my hands on the sphere and concentrated. When I opened them again, I was back in my house, with much to think about.

Anyway, that's where I have been. I may use the time machine again, but if I do it won't be for a while.

The Seven Mortal Sins

2008-03-11T06:09:00.000-07:00

Well it's about time the Vatican updated the seven deadly sins with seven mortal ones for us to avoid. I have been lobbying them for years to do this and they finally sat up and listened. I am, however, disappointed that they didn't go far enough. (The list of mortal sins I drew up for them ran to 356, but more of that later.)

For those of you who are so terribly remiss as to not know what the seven deadly sins are, here is a little reminder: Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Anger, Greed and Sloth. (Note that I didn't write out a list of the seven dwarfs as a 'joke'. What do you think I am: a hack?)

Obviously, they were always going to be woefully inadequate; so the Vatican (bless them all) have added, as mortal sins: environmental pollution, genetic manipulation, accumulating excessive wealth, inflicting poverty, drug trafficking and consumption, morally debatable experiments and violation of fundamental rights of human nature.

Now for the cynics amongst you: shame! Clearly, the Vatican's finger of accusation points back at themselves when it points at us. The very fact they put the accumulation of excessive wealth in there, despite the terrible inconvenience this will cause them when they sell off all their gold and art and give every penny raised to the poor, shows just how committed they are.

What's that? You don't feel that an organisation that has such a sinful history of torture, politically motivated murder, corruption and misogyny has the right to tell you how to behave? Well, who else would you rather tell you? Someone who wouldn't know a sin if it turned into a snake and spoke to them or someone who has genuine, first-hand experience of sin and knows very well what it is?

Come on . . .

And don't try to tell me that an experiment that is morally debatable is not necessarily a sin: if it is so morally ambiguous that people are debating it, it's a sin. Got it? In fact, no more moral debates! At all. What is there to discuss? It's all written down now as clear as an angel's tear drop.

And here are my proposals for some more mortal sins:

The use of clichés.

If 'at the end of the day', you wish to 'take the the positives' and 'move forward' to a 'brighter future', get yourself to the confessional for a good cleansing; and, if you can possibly manage it, do so in a straight-forward and unambiguous manner. (This especially applies to the England cricket team.)

Speaking your truth.

This is not to be confused with being truthful, which is generally a Good Thing. Speaking your truth is something you do when you give a harsh and unasked for assessment of a person's deficient character with the subtlety of the German advance on Leningrad.

Upward inflection.

If you end every statement with an upward inflection, thus making it into a question, you're going to hell if you don't ask for forgiveness. But to help you avoid being damned, I will begin answering your statements as if they really are questions:

You: So I went to the shops?

Me (interrupting): Wait, wait, I should know this one. Don' tell me . . . yes! You went to the shops. Go on, ask me another.

(Trust me, you will tire of this long before I do.)

Asking a redundant question.

Under this category can also go 'stating the bleedin' obvious'. If I tell you the story of how I was once held hostage by the Taliban in Afghanistan for six months with a sack over my head, while being beaten with sticks, don't then ask, 'But you managed to get out?' Not when I am standing there in front of you at least. Have some self respect. If you do ask, it's ten Hail Marys and fifteen Our Fathers for you.

The rate of technological development.

I for one am tired of buying the latest mobile phone only to be embarrassed by a man in the pub whose newer version of the same phone glides across the bar by means of an anti-gravity device to him when he whistles; or having a computer that last week was perfectly capable of completing the most basic tasks but this week is to the better and cheaper machine at my local PC World what sundials are to the atomic clock at the Greenwich observatory. No one is saying you should stop; just slow down. Failure to do so will result in a few thousand years in purgatory to think about it unless you repent.

Anti-depressants.

Not anti-depressants in general. Just those that, as a side effect, may cause depression. It's just too stupid; and if I have my way, it will soon be a sin to be that stupid.

Giving names to taxes.

Environmental taxes, road taxes, congestion charges, income taxes, taxes on income (they are different to each other, according to Tony Blair), windfall taxes, airport taxes, inheritance taxes, fuel duties, community charges, road tolls, value added tax, taxes on pensions (worthy of a sin all of its own), tax taxes and taxes on taxes (back to that tax on pensions thing again!) . . . all have something in common: they are taxes. Stop trying to kid us. Especially stop trying to kid us that environmental taxes will go to help the environment, that road taxes are spent on maintaining the roads and that income taxes go on anything other than paying the interest on the money you borrowed from your central bank, which you could have so easily lent to yourself for free as has happened many times in history, thus rendering income taxes completely unnecessary. Stop the pretense. A tax is a tax is a tax. Anything else will be a sin.

Okay, I think my point is made. Well done to the Vatican for taking a stand.

The Humanity!

2008-02-27T03:38:00.001-08:00

I wrote an article recently about how bloggers in the Middle East provide a vital record of life inside war zones such as Iraq and Lebanon, where they manage to tell the stories mainstream news organisations are either censored from -- or two squeamish -- to report fully. I was filled with admiration for these brave bloggers who defy the authorities at great risk to themselves. But I am now proud to add my name to the list of pioneering bloggers by bringing you first-hand news from within an earthquake zone!

That's right, at one o' clock this morning I was trying to get back to sleep having been woken by a dream when I felt a jolt and heard a low rumble. The house then shook for a few seconds and then everything settled. Well, externally it did anyway: internally I was all of a flutter I don't mind telling you! I told myself it was the wind, but my window was open and I didn't hear a gust, only the house shaking. Then it occurred to me the house itself was falling down. Maybe the foundations had shifted or the roof was sliding down. Then I did what any self respecting Englishman would have done: I went back to sleep. After all, the British Empire wasn't built on faint hearts; it was built on courage and cups of tea.

(Incidentally, until recently, I really thought that when it was said the empire was built on cups of tea, what was meant was that when we arrived in distant countries all ready to conquer, we were sustained by drinking tea. I was already well into my thirties when it dawned upon me that it was more to do with the trade in tea from China and sugar from the West Indies.)

Then I woke this morning and switched on the radio to harrowing accounts of a great earthquake, measuring 5.2 on the Richter scale. I bounded down stairs to check for damage and words cannot begin to describe what I saw. A spatula was lying on the counter top and not where it ought to have been, which is in a sort of jar. Okay, so it isn't quite waking up to finding a chimney stack at the foot of your bed but still, it unnerved me as I am sure it would you.

Half an hour later, I stepped out from within the door frame (they tell you to stand within door frames) and started smelling for gas. Fire from ruptured gas pipes killed more people in the San Francisco quake than did the shaking of the earth and I wasn't going to take any chances.

I turned on the TV and was grateful that I still had electricity and there appeared to be a news blackout as they were talking about other stuff. Clearly, the situation was worse than I thought. I picked up the phone -- thank God, a dial tone -- and rang around my family. They were all fine.

I went to the local supermarket and stocked up on bottles of water and tinned food (and also some Cadbury's Cream Eggs) and also bought a shot gun for when the looting begins.

I went back to the TV for the Prime Minister or the Home Secretary to tell us all to stay calm (I was in need of that at the time) but the coverage extended only to an image of a pile of bricks in front of a house and a chimney standing at a slight angle. A single glove was spotted on a wall. The search for the owner has begun but so far nothing has turned up -- not even the other glove. But people can survive for days in air pockets so we're hopeful.

But where is Bono when you need him? He'd know what to do. An emergency helpline needs to be set up; and someone needs to write a song to raise money for the victims.

I'll keep you up-to-date for so long as we still have power. Until then, I am going to walk the streets listening for tapping.

Richard

The Law According to Me

2008-02-07T17:39:00.000-08:00

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has said he thinks Muslims ought to be able to opt out of state law and, instead, have their disputes settled by sharia law. I think this is a splendid idea; not least of all because I assume, in the name of equality, this opt-out option is open to us all and I also would like to take it up. The following are the laws I shall be enforcing without compromise should such a thing come to pass. You'd do well to familiarise yourselves with them now to save any unnecessary unpleasantness later on.

First of all, ATMs. No user of an ATM will be permitted to spend longer than thirty seconds at one of those things if I am standing behind them. I mean, honestly, there is no reason for it taking any longer than that. It is no place to do your monthly banking. Either go into the branch during working hours or do it online. If both those options are closed to you then might I suggest that this level of personal finance is, perhaps, something you're not ready for? Maybe stuff your savings inside your mattress. Also, and this especially goes if I am next in line, if you remove your card from the machine and for some reason feel the need to slide it back in I am legally entitled to drive your head into the wall. Okay?

Petrol stations (gas stations for my American friends). If you get your petrol from a station that has attached to it a mini-market and you wish to do a little shopping after filling up, park out of the way of the pumps, go inside, pay, then by all means, buy your bread and milk and whatever else. However -- and I cannot stress this enough -- if you leave your car at the pump and make me wait while you shop you will come out with your heavy bags to the sight of me, having doused your car with petrol, tossing a lighted match at it. You will have no recourse in law. In fact I shall have the right to sue you for the price of the petrol.

Staying on the motoring theme, in areas where it is difficult to find a place to park a car, if you are careless enough to take up two spaces your car will be impounded. Notice I make no mention of a fine that needs to be paid: it will just be impounded. That's it. You will never see it again. If you sit in middle lane of the motorway and you're not overtaking anybody and I come up behind you I shall phone through your licence plate and you'll receive 12 points on your license. That means an instant ban, of course, and you'll have to pull over and stick out a thumb. Oh and, yes, one of those sticks on your steering column is an indicator (for signalling, again for my American friends). Before setting out on your journey why not have a little play around until you find it and then use it for the benefit of all those drivers out there who are NOT FUCKING PSYCHIC! Failure to comply will result in death by firing squad.

Moving on, as we have a lot to get through, if we are at the same party and you see I am not dancing, do not for a single moment assume I am not enjoying myself. I don't mind you asking -- once -- but if I have to work hard to convince you I am actually having a good time, despite my lack of presence on the dance floor, I will have you arrested for harassment. Moreover -- and let me make this absolutely clear -- just because I may not at that time feel like dancing, it does not mean there is a cancer in my soul. I am still a good person. If you suggest otherwise you shall be rendered incapable of having children.

When travelling by plane, do not unbuckle your belt and stand up before it has finished taxiing. I don't care that it is dangerous. In fact, I hope the plane hits something and you're thrown forward, breaking your neck against the cockpit door. It's just that it's stupid. You're not getting off until they're good and ready to let you; and why is it so important you get your bag down from the locker before anyone else anyway? You don't honestly think you'll somehow manage to be the first person in the history of airports to avoid the sort of crowd that makes you wish you had a water canon? Seriously, stay in your seats. If you don't, we'll confiscate your passport for ten years.

Take a book onto trains with you. When you get the urge to take your mobile phone from your pocket and start aimlessly sending asinine text messages, or playing games or -- if you're truly hoping to have your eyes gouged out with a spoon -- sampling your ring tones, read a book instead. You might actually enjoy it. Possibly you'll learn something. You'll at least look remotely intelligent instead of like a mouth-breathing moron. Failure to comply will lead to your thumbs being snapped off. No more texting for you.

Learn to speak properly. No grunting is allowed. I don't want to have to decipher your non-sequitous ramble of barely coherent drivel. And no, I DON'T know what you mean, so please stop asking at the end of every 'sentence'. If you don't have the courtesy to at least try to make yourself understood then leave me alone. Bother me and I don't care how old you are, you're going back to school. All of it. This time, pay attention.

If you are a private delivery driver and you've been contracted by, say, DHL to deliver a package to me, I really do not mind if you cannot find my house. Ring me and I will guide you in. But lie and tell your bosses you tried delivering it and I wasn't at home, when I have been sitting there waiting for you between the hours of 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. and I will recommend to the judge a custodial sentence. Get to me at five minutes to six and I will not push for anything more harsh than community service.

There will also be spot checks at busy shopping areas. If you cannot demonstrate that you are there with the intention of actually buying something you'll be rounded up, de-loused and forced to spend one night in the cells to regain your senses.

If you work in tele-sales and use one of those automatic diallers, be warned. I don't want to ever pick up my phone and have to say 'Hello' three times before you get to me. If you don't have the courtesy to be there when you ring I have nothing to say to you. But I am not an unreasonable man. I know you're just an employee. On the other hand, 'I was just following orders' was not considered an adequate defence at Nuremberg and it shan't be by me either. You will be taken from your cubicle and hanged by the neck until you are dead.

I shall be adding more laws as they occur to me, but I don't want to appear too dictatorial. After all, the world would be a far, far better place if everyone were to follow the above simple and perfectly reasonable rules.

Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T04:15:00.000-08:00

Today is Super Tuesday in the USA. But you know, isn't every Tuesday super in its way? I decided to find out. I did a Wikipedia search for 'Tuesday' and the very first line revealed that it is between Monday and Wednesday. For that alone, Tuesday deserves recognition. You see, what most people don't know is that if you go way back before the One True God came along and killed all the other namby-pamby, left-wing, lily-livered, girlie liberal gods, the days of the week were actually deities.

There were nine of them back then. The other two were Yesterday and Today and they came between Thursday and Friday. Back then, the Days did very little except lounge around, watching the sun set and then rise again without it ever occurring to them to do something to mark its efforts.

The few hundred humans who lived back then didn't mind at all. But it has to be said they were pretty stupid at the time. They were happy, though.

But nothing that good can last. The Days started forming cliques. Friday, Saturday and Sunday started to spend a lot of time together. Monday, Wednesday and Thursday went off on their own. That left Tuesday, Today and Yesterday to form an uneasy triumvirate. They didn't really like each other but none of them wanted to be left out completely.

But then a terrible row started between Monday and Wednesday. Wednesday claimed no one liked Monday and Monday came back with the dig that at least no one was indifferent to her as they were to Wednesday. After a few drinks the argument escalated and they started brawling. Only Tuesday and Sunday were around to stop it and Sunday refused to get up and do anything on principle. So that left Tuesday to break them up and he's been in between them ever since, keeping them at a safe distance from each other. It isn't much fun for him, but then that's Tuesday all over, isn't it? Never complaining. Always there, doing his job.

Saturday and Sunday hooked up soon after that as they were both as lazy as each other. Friday was Saturday's best friend and always hung around him and Thursday and Friday got on well as both quite liked to let their hair down every now and again. Yesterday and Today kept vanishing off together. No one ever knew what they were up to and after a while no one cared.

Then the sun came along on his way home from work and sat there sighing heavily until someone asked him what the matter was. It turned out he felt unappreciated. He worked bloody hard but no one seemed to notice. The humans on the earth couldn't care less whether it was sunny or dark.

The Days quite liked the sun and so they got together and decided to help him out. Sunday was the first to pay the humans a visit but she sat around most of the day just drinking with them. Then came Monday and she soon cracked the whip: do this; do that! she started shouting. The humans very quickly took a firm disliking to her but she didn't care about that.

Tuesday followed and everyone relaxed a little bit but deep down started to look forward to the next time Sunday would come by.

Wednesday was next and by then people had got over the shock of Monday and had settled into a steady rhythm.

After Wednesday, Thursday came down and people felt quite relaxed around him. A few of them even went out after work with him for a few beers; but only a few as no one knew what to expect from Friday.

Friday was a blast! First of all he told them that they still had to work but when the other Days were not looking he whispered that if they wanted to start winding down they could: he wouldn't say anything. That night they went nuts and got really very drunk.

Saturday saw the state everyone was in and unable to get them up said 'screw it' let's all play football or something and everyone agreed.

And that's pretty much how it stayed. Saturday has since turned into a bit of a jerk. For some reason he expects people to work when he's around no matter how hungover they are and even Sunday has decided she wants people to do their fair share for her, too. But essentially not much has changed. Monday and Wednesday still hate each other and Tuesday is still doing his quiet job keeping the peace between them. And it's nice he gets such days to himself as Super Tuesday and Shrove Tuesday.

The last the Days heard of Yesterday and Today they had got married and had a kid, which they named Tomorrow.

Lost & Found

2008-01-30T05:22:00.001-08:00

Last week I was walking back from the pub when I saw a plastic shopping bag under a bush. I would have not normally paid much attention to it but lying beside it, trapped under a stone and its free end flapping in the wind, was a piece of paper with some writing on it. Curiosity took me and I picked it up. It appeared to be some kind of glorified I.O.U. I opened the bag and it was full of them. I picked it up and took it home. I added up all the I.O.U.s and they came to several million American dollars.

Over the next couple of days I found many more bags. Some were stuffed into public rubbish bins; others were stuck in the branches of trees; while others still were just lying beside the road. I had absolutely no idea where they all came from but my house was soon full of them. I stuffed them all into a single room and tidied up. Once done, I ate and decided to watch some T.V.

The news was on and they were talking about the Global Credit Crunch. I was about to change the channel when an expert they had in the studio said something that grabbed my attention. It seems the current crisis in the banking system has been caused by 'bad' loans that should not have been approved in the first place. Eager to get them off their hands, the banks that had previously fallen over themselves to hand them out had sold them to other financial institutions, who had then sold them on themselves. Anyway, it turns out that these loans had gone missing somewhere along the line. No one knew where they were. And since no one knew where they were they couldn't be sure how much they were worth. It is that doubt that has seen the markets collapse.

The fact that our global economic system is evidently able to be fatally undermined by an unsubstantiated concern would normally have sent me scurrying to my Blog to write about it. But it was then I realised what the bags I had been finding were: the mislaid loans!

I telephoned the local branch of the bank I have my overdraft with and within an hour the streets were swarming with police and volunteers. They were looking everywhere. They even had police divers investigating the bottom of lakes and people in waders walking the length of the local river.

So far, we've recovered most of it. There are still a few million dollars unaccounted for, but that won't tip the world into recession; plus we're still looking. But don't worry about the immediate future. Buy that new car, flat-screen HD TV, cruise or whatever else the downturn had been making you hesitate over.

It's going to be all right.

The Turning of the Earth

2008-01-22T07:15:00.000-08:00

I am sorry for my absence but I have had a very difficult time of it lately. 'Time' . . . aye, there's the rub. I am afraid I spiralled into one of my obsessions and this one very nearly killed me. About a year ago I bought a pocket watch from Camden market. It was not expensive or a collector's item by any means, but it was lovely to me. It wasn't working when I picked it out, but the lady who owned the stall said that was because it was cold. She warmed it in her hands and, to be fair, it did tick.

Still, I wasn't completely confident that it would keep going so when I got it home I checked it periodically, comparing it to the clocks I have around the place, just to see if it was keeping time. It was. That night I went to bed and, before turning the light off, wound the watch and placed it beside on the table beside me. There was a time when I would have found the ticking of a watch next to me as I tried to sleep irritating. But on this occasion it comforted me. I didn't have to keep checking it to see if it was working, you see: I could hear it. And that's how I drifted off to sleep, with my watch ticking perfectly in my ear.

I woke the next morning and the first thing I listened for was the ticking. It was there and I can't tell you how that satisfied me. I bought a chain for the watch (more expensive than the watch itself) and kept it on my person. But during the day, with the noise clutter we all have to suffer, I couldn't hear it ticking. That bothered me. I tried mentally tuning out the hum of the heating system, next door's TV, car doors slamming outside and so on, and although it was exhausting I was able to do it. It did mean I couldn't really go out much, but what's to go out for, except work?

After a few weeks of this my oven failed and I had to buy a new one. I went to a shop that sells them and was disturbed to see that almost all the ones on sale had digital clocks. The few that had the classic dials with hands for the minutes and hours were run from electric motors. I don't know for how long I was standing there staring but it must have been a while. Anyway, an assistant appeared at my shoulder and asked if I needed any help. I asked him how I could know the clock was working if I couldn't hear it. He wasn't sure of how to answer and just went on and on about the oven's other features which he clearly thought were more important but then he would, wouldn't he? I just walked out. I should have realised there was something wrong with me at that point but is it not always the way that when you are gripped with madness you think you're perfectly sane and everyone else is nuts?

Over the following months I bought more watches and clocks. And I became very distrustful of anything that didn't have a mechanism I could hear. And my God I had an acute ear! I took my car to be mended before the problem manifested itself. I could hear it was about to go wrong and I knew which part needed replacing. The mechanic thought I was mad but what did he care? He was getting paid an extortionate amount. But when he removed the part he found that it probably had only a few hundred miles left in it. He asked me how I knew. I told him but he didn't believe me. At work, if someone had a problem with their computer, assuming it was a hardware problem, I could tell them what it was. I saved my boss thousands by warning him the air conditioning system was about to pack up because the drone it made had changed pitch in a way I didn't like.

But then it got unhealthy. I could always be found pressing my ear to walls, light switches, water coolers . . . anything. And my hearing got to the point that I could only hear the various mechanisms around me. I tuned everything else out. I never heard if someone spoke to me even and this became a problem. In the end I stopped going to work. After a couple of weeks of not turning up or answering my phone one of my colleagues came round to see if I was all right. I let him in and you should have seen the look on his face. Looking back now I can see why he would have thought it strange. My house was jam packed with clocks and watches of all kinds. Hundreds of them! The noise must have been incredible but to me it was a beautiful symphony. It didn't matter how many I had, I could hear every single one of them individually. When my colleague spoke I shushed him. I stood there motionless for a few moments then zoned in on one particular clock. I picked it up, shook it, wound it and replaced it. By the time I was done he had gone. I suppose he felt uncomfortable.

But then I got this idea into my head. Essentially, I thought that if the world turned then it ought to tick, too. I wound all my clocks and watches up and set off in my car to look for a quiet place where I could hear the earth ticking. I must have placed my ear to dozens of fields up and down the country but in Britain you're never far from a road, a flight path or even the low hum of power lines. I became very frustrated. But I wasn't to be thwarted. I was on a mission. I did some research and decided to fly to Namibia in southern Africa. I hired a car when I got there and drove and drove and drove. It's a beautiful country, by the way. I mean, really beautiful. And it's almost empty. I went for three days eventually without seeing another car let alone a human. I found a dry river bed next to a giant, red sand dune and got out. I dug a hole about six feet deep and buried my watch. I could still hear it after that but it was feint enough to not be too distracting. And then I sat.The dune behind me sang. Did you know they do that? The wind passing over them creates the most haunting noise and the dune itself was advancing. I could hear that, too, but I was able to tune out to that also. But I couldn't hear the turning of the earth and that's what I was there for.

Days I was there. I ran out of food and, more vitally, water. The wind had blown the sand up against me I was there that long. My lips split, my head felt as if it were about to burst and I think I might have even started hallucinating. But then it happened. I heard it! I heard the earth turning. It wasn't a tick, of course, but . . . how do I describe it? Have you ever wet a fingertip and run it around the rim of a crystal wine glass? It was that sort of noise but the fingertip would have had to belonged to an angel. It wasn't a steady sound, either. Everything we do on the planet affects the sound the earth makes when it turns. Every explosion and crash . . . every slammed door, it all makes a difference. And for a few glorious moments I could hear it all. I had my finger on the pulse of the planet and, well, I don't mind telling you that if I were not dehydrated I'd have wept tears. I don't know for how long I was there after that. I remember vaguely being lifted into the back of a car and someone pouring water into my mouth. I chocked on it. The next thing I am aware of is waking in a hospital with a drip in my arm. There was the beeping of a heart monitor beside me, the general hustle and bustle you'd expect in a hospital but you know what? I could STILL hear the turning of the earth and I still can even now as I type this. And I can hear every clapped hand, every stamped foot and every bounced ball every beating heart. I can hear you coming from a mile off, literally. Even think something and I know it. I know it because the earth knows it and I can hear it now. You'd think it would drive me insane but not at all. So long as I don't fight it or search among it I am fine. All I have to do is let it flow through me unfettered.

Can't you hear it too?

Beware the Cows!

2007-11-19T16:28:00.001-08:00

Okay people, I am in waaaaay over my head here. I've got involved in something that's bigger than I imagined but it's one of those things: once you're through the looking glass, there is no turning back.

It began when I was seated upon the toilet. Don't worry. I wasn't actually doing anything. I just like to sit there sometimes. Anyway, I started fiddling with the roll of toilet paper when I noticed something inside: a set of numbers, printed on the card.

Before you ask, I am not going to reveal those numbers as I suspect them to have tremendous occult power. I happened to mention this in an email to a friend and less than half an hour later there was a knock at the door. When I opened it I saw two men dressed in black suits -- their eyes shielded by dark glasses. I thought they were Jehovah's Witnesses, but the one on the left (the television left) lunged forward and Tazered me under my left arm.

I woke up in a dark room and soon discovered I was tied to the chair I had been put on. Moreover, my head was tied back so that I was being forced to stare into a bright light. But it was worse than even that. I couldn't see where it was coming from, because of the light, but water was dripping at regular intervals onto my forehead.

I have no idea how long I sat there with that water dripping. It seemed like hours but if you told me it was only twenty minutes I could believe you: the dripping of the water is truly torturous.

Then someone spoke. It was a man. I didn't hear him come in so I think he had actually been there the whole time. The worst thing is that you think any voice might be a friend to you, so when it turns out not to be you're shattered.

This voice was not a friend to anyone. It seemed I had stumbled across something I ought not to have: the numbers printed inside toilet rolls. I asked him what they were for, what they meant, but he told me I would never know and that trying to find out would only land me in even more trouble. I then felt a scratch on my arm, which I assume was from a syringe, and I lost consciousness within seconds.

The next thing I remember is staggering through the streets of a strange city, bouncing along the walls like a crane fly and suffering from the most unimaginable thirst. I tumbled through crowds, knocking people out of the way, trying to recognise where I was. I later found out I was in Prague.

I headed for the British Embassy where they were very helpful, until I told them about the toilet rolls. Upon their mention, the staff at the embassy, previously warm and concerned, became frosty, even hostile. I got the impression they didn't want to have anything to do with me, so they bundled me into a taxi and I had to wait at the airport several hours for the flight back to London they had booked for me.

This happened a year ago. Despite their threats, I have not let this go. I want to know what the numbers mean, who put them there and why. A group of us meet every two weeks at a different location each time to pool our information. From what we have been able to piece together, it seems the numbers are being circulated as a way to control us. No one has to read them out; their very presence is enough. It has something to do with the flow of energy that numbers, in particular, can influence. They keep us in a dream-like state where we see what is right before our eyes but somehow it does not register.

But what?

The group have assuaged the use of toilet rolls for several months now and have, instead, been using newspaper, which is a fitting use for those things if you ask me. As a result, the influence of the numbers is wearing off for us and we are beginning to be able to see what They do not want us to.

'They' are the cows, and what they want to keep from us is the diabolical bovine conspiracy to enslave the human race. Trust me, it is either us or them. That's their ultimate goal: to fatten us up on the less desirable members of their own species so that, when the time has come, we find ourselves on the menu.

Have you ever walked across a field that has cows in it? They stare at you, don't they; and it puts you off your ease. Such is their malevolence toward us, the power of the numbers inside toilet rolls cannot mask this when we are close to them.

A few of us, following a lead, got jobs as servants at Buckingham Palace. One night, when everyone else was asleep, we had a snoop around. We heard a noise coming from a part of the Palace we had been told never to enter under any circumstance. There was a sliver of light beneath a large set of double doors and we headed straight for it.

We could hear peculiar noises from the other side, so we opened the doors a crack and looked in to see the senior members of the royal family, sitting around a table. We crept in and hid behind statues and curtains.

What we saw . . . I don't know how to describe it.

Once the food had been brought in and the servants dismissed, their forms seemed to shimmer then run like hot wax till they took on the shape of cows!

One of us panicked and screamed. The rest of us ran but the the one who screamed was caught by, I think, Prince Charles. That was two days ago and he hasn't been heard of since. The rest of us managed to get back to our rooms and pretended to be asleep when a guard came to check on us. The next morning we all quit, but as we had used fake identities, the suspicion this must have aroused doesn't matter.

I am writing this because I want the world to know. If anything happens to me, you'll know why and who to blame. The horse has bolted and there is nothing they . . .

BRB, there is someone at the door . . .

Double Trouble

2007-11-19T05:59:00.001-08:00

I have been neglecting this blog, but I do have a good excuse, if you care to hear it. It all started when I was stood-up. I sat for over an hour in a bar in London and she didn't show. Typical. But that's not what has been occupying me lately.

I left through a set of revolving doors and stood outside for a moment to get my bearings. It was then I noticed what at first I thought was my reflection in the window to the bar; but when it moved when I didn't I assumed there was a guy in there who looked exactly like me. And I mean exactly.

I was so stunned that I went back inside. God knows what I was intending to do.

I went up to my double only to find him looking, with great distress, not at me, but over my shoulder to the street outside, where there stood, and I swear I am not making this up, another guy who looked just like us.

He appeared extremely disorientated, spinning around and scratching the top of his head, upon which the hair was thinner that I would have hoped.

My double and I exchanged glances. By that I mean I looked at him and he, in turn, looked at me. Motivated it appeared by one will, we squeezed out the revolving door into the street only for two more of us to enter the bar on the other side.

There were now five of us.

The two inside panicked and ran outside, making seven. I slowly walked all the way around the revolving door, which made eight.

At this point, one of us started screaming and this spread throughout the group, during which some must have made for the door again because when the screaming stopped and I conducted a head count, there were thirteen of us, both inside, and outside the bar.

"Okay," I shouted, holding my hands up, "will everybody please stop walking through the door!"

Actually, I used an expletive between 'the' and 'door' but the story loses nothing by its omission.

I stood before the window and instructed those inside to go out round the back, into the beer garden, where the rest of us would meet them.

That they did and there we were: thirteen absolutely identical in every way human beings. We attracted some looks, I can tell you!

After a brief conference, we walked back to the front of the bar and watched others walk in and out through the revolving doors without incident. One of us took a closer look and saw a brass plaque riveted to the side. On it was engraved the name and address of the manufacturer, which we knew was only a few minutes walk away. So off we went, huddled together like emperor penguins.

The office was open and we let ourselves in. In the waiting room were groups of doubles -- if you can get doubles in groups. Perhaps someone else can tell me. The point is, we weren't the only ones. There were groups of three and five, but, admittedly, none of thirteen. Upon seeing us, the secretary buzzed through to her boss, who came out from his little room and stopped dead when he saw us.

"Why didn't you stop when there were a few of you; didn't you realise something was up; I mean," he asked, really quite exasperated, "what were you thinking?"

(Again, I have chosen to omit expletives from the text, but you miss nothing vital.)

Embarrassed, we were ushered into his office ahead of the ones in the waiting room.

"Where did this happen to you?"

We told him.

"We sent out a faulty batch of doors by mistake," he explained. "We're trying to track them down for a recall."

"That's fine," said one of my doubles (it was impossible to tell which), "but what are you going to do about us?"

"No need to worry. The effects will wear off in a week or two."

Despite the man's insouciance, we did worry. Two weeks suddenly seemed like a very long time. I mean, where would we all sleep, for a start.

"If you don't want to wait that long," he added, anticipating our objection, "we installed an escalator at Holborn tube station that reverses the effect. We don't know how or why but it does. Just take the down escalator and before you have all reached the bottom everything will be back to normal."

We thanked him and went straight for Holborn station. But to get to the escalators we had to buy tickets, which cost a small fortune, but once through we went straight for the escalator.

Or rather, I went straight for the escalator. The others were hanging back, looking far less certain. I encouraged them on in word and deed but to no avail. Then one of them spoke up. I won't attempt to reproduce the speech word for word but the upshot was that they didn't want to go down the escalator as it meant committing suicide. They may only have two weeks to live, at most, but they wanted to make the most of it.

This seemed absurd to me, since, after all, they were me and wouldn't be missing out on anything. It was then I noticed something strange: we weren't all absolutely identical after all. Physically we were, but we differed in other ways. It was difficult to tell at first but as I looked from face to face I began to see changes in personality.

One looked very lugubrious, for instance; another looked nervous; while yet another looked impossibly arrogant.

"Come on, don't be ridiculous," I said, and I made a grab for the timid-looking one.

"Leave him alone," said a voice from the back.

The group parted and through stepped a version of me that was hideous. It's difficult to explain but he just looked like pure malevolence. It was in his eyes. He also seemed to dominate the others because when he told them to grab me they did as he said.

They walked me from the station and all the way home where they tied me to a chair, all under the instruction of malevolent me.

As I watched them interacting I could see what had happened and why it was such a bad thing. Each double represented a different side to my personality. Together, they balanced each other out, but individually there were no checks. Arrogance, to give one example, once detached from humility was out of control; and malevolence, without the counter balance of benevolence, was just dangerous.

They emerged from a group meeting and announced they were going to have some fun, but that I'd have to stay tied to the chair, while they were out.

This went on for over a week. each morning they would tie me up and go out and each evening they would come back and untie me. But upon each return, the feeling and dynamic within the group was altered.

Malevolence and arrogance and one or two of the others whose characters I could not place grew more and more contented, while the others -- the better sides to me -- became increasingly troubled.

God knows what it was they did when they went out.

Thankfully, a few days ago they started to vanish as the effect wore off. Malevolence was the last to go and he wasn't happy about it.

I am just worried that they might have done something that will come back at me. I keep waiting for the police to knock at my door or for friends to hang up the phone as soon as they hear my voice.

If any of you got any weird emails that didn't seem like me over the last ten days then I apologise, but they really were not me. Other than that, I just have to keep my fingers crossed.

A Close Encounter

2007-11-19T05:51:00.000-08:00

I was kidnapped by aliens yesterday. Well, I say that. It was more a case of me imposing on their hospitality than anything else. Allow me to explain. I was walking back from the pub when I heard a low humming. The hair on my head stood on end, as if I had rubbed a balloon against it, and I was suddenly bathed in a bright light. Then, right in front of me, a saucer-shaped craft landed on three extendible legs.

I was indignant. Stevenage New Town has an extensive network of pedestrian and cycle lanes that run along side the road. You can get from point A to any other without ever having to see a car. I have read that this system is the envy of towns and cities around the world. Apparently, while Barcelona has its Gaudi cathedral, Rome the Forum and Paris its glorified communications mast that attract millions of Euros in tourist money each year, what they really want is a network of tiny roads where they can bury gas, water and electricity, thus avoiding disruption to traffic when they have to be dug up.

(On this subject, the town I used to live in, Waltham Cross, relaid the main road a few years ago. They added a pedestrian island in the middle to help people get from one side of it to the other and they also built a bus stop. The thing is, they put the island adjacent to the stop, so that whenever a bus pulled up to take on passengers, the cars behind could not go around it and a long line of traffic built up. This was later fixed at a high cost to taxpayers. My point is, the guy who drew up those plans (he had to have been a man) was almost definitely educated at university, had been given the job ahead of dozens of other candidates and was, you’d think, not completely stupid; yet he goes and does something like that. Each time I am turned down for a job I think of that cretin and wonder how we, as a race, ever got to the moon.)

But I digress. The point is, the alien spacecraft had no business being there. And if there is something you cannot make a true-bred Englishman do it is turn back when he has every right to walk on. I pulled myself upright, employed my ‘enraged customer’ walk that I usually reserve for marching into shops to return something that doesn’t work, and tapped on the side of the craft with a knuckle.
With a hiss of escaping air, a door appeared in a previously seamless expanse of metal and slid back. A head popped out.

‘What?’

I am not sure what surprised me more: the bulbous, grey head with giant, almond-shaped, charcoal-coloured eyes, or the fact that not only did the alien speak English, his accent revealed him to be local.

‘You’re blocking my right of way,’ I said.

‘Look, mate,’ he said, ‘Walk around. You could get a bus through there.’

‘Not the point,’ I replied.

At that moment a second head emerged.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘This geezer reckons we’re obstructing his right of way or something.’

The second alien was apparently far more reasonable than the first.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re lost and we pulled over to read the map.’

‘Don’t you have a SatNav?’ I asked.

‘It’s useless. The earth’s not even on it.’

Here is something else the foreign reader might want to know about the average Englishman: if you want to ingratiate yourself with him, find a mutual bugbear and you’ll be friends forever.

‘Oh, don’t get me started,’ I said, starting anyway. ‘At least with a map you remember for next time.’

The alien remarked that that is what he always says and, after a brief moment staring into each other’s eyes, a sort of kinship was struck up between us.

‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked, after a few minutes spent chatting.

I climbed in, rather awkwardly, and found the interior to be rather sparse but comfortably snug.

‘Do you want to go for a spin?’

I slid down into a seat and watched as my new friend pulled back on a stick. A few seconds later he pointed to a window. I leant over and looked out. We were already in orbit around the earth.

‘That was quick!’

‘Well,’ said the alien, ‘there’s no point hanging about.’ Then he added, ‘Do you want a go?’

My friend’s companion, who had until then only barely contained his irritation behind silence objected on the grounds they were already running late, but he was given short shrift.

I took the control and, after a few false starts – like when I went backwards instead of forwards and stalled the engine – I found it really quite easy. Guided by my friend, I did a few quick laps of the solar system, found a great big empty spot where I could loop-de-loop without being in any danger of hitting anything and then cruised at a leisurely pace back home.

‘Here, give me the stick,’ said my friend after apparently spotting something ahead.

It turned out to be the space shuttle. As we pulled up along side it, the astronauts on board pulled their overalls down and pressed their arses up to the windows. Well, if you let Americans lead us into space then that is exactly what you’re going to get.

After some horseplay with the shuttle, we dropped down through the upper atmosphere and, by golly, the planet looks beautiful from there. There is a quality of light that is so difficult to describe. And it isn’t until you see it from that perspective that you realise just how thin the veil between us and outer space really is.

‘Where’s your house?’ asked my friend, ‘I’ll drop you off at the door.’

I pressed my face against the window, looked for the park, and followed Fairlands Avenue up from there to where I live.

‘There,’ I pointed.

We set down in the garage area behind my house and said our goodbyes. Even the moody one was polite enough to shake hands with me. I assume he was conscious of causing a diplomatic incident and sparking an inter-stellar war or something.

I stood and waved as the saucer rose to a high altitude then darted off leaving a white streak behind it only to stop, hover for a few moments, then fly back the way it came, in search of a party they were now more than fashionably late for.

I’d tell the world of my experience, but who’d believe me?

Loose Change

2007-11-17T04:35:00.000-08:00

I went to my first rehearsal this morning and it did not go well. It seems I am unable to urinate under pressure. They kept me supplied with cups of tea but when I received my cue I couldn’t force a drop. It’s a pity, but I shall never forget my days treading the boards.

It’s probably for the best as I have pressing issues at home to take care of before I start a new life as a wandering player. One issue in particular is vexing me. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it yet, but I need to talk to someone.

It all started last summer. I was in a pub with a friend on a sunny, Saturday afternoon when it was my turn to get the drinks in. I reached into my pocket when I got to the bar and found that I had a twenty-pound note and a handful of change. I really wanted to get rid of the coins as they were weighing my pocket down, so I paid with them. I didn’t have the exact amount so I waited for my change. When it came I found I had more coins than before. Their collective value was less, of course, but still the plan had backfired somewhat.

When it was my round again I went to the bar and attempted once more to rid myself of my loose change, but exactly the same thing happened: I went back to the table with more change than I had when I left.

A few hours later, it was time to leave. I had to heave my jangling pockets to the car as if I were dragging a ball on a chain. It was exhausting. I got home and found the easiest thing to do was to take a knife to my pockets and allow the coins to pour out from my trouser legs. It took me over an hour to count it all. It seemed I now had sixty-two pounds whereas I had left the house earlier with just a little less than twenty-five. How could that possibly be? I called for a recount and, sure enough, I had somehow more than doubled my money in the course of the day.

The next morning I woke early and decided to walk to the bottom of the road to buy a newspaper. I picked a few coins up from the pile and off I went only to return a few minutes later with more money than I had left with. This was getting ridiculous, but it was not without its advantages, of course.

Over the following week I paid for everything in small change. I had to take cloth sacks of money with me, with some empty ones to carry the extra change back.

A few months later and my problem was what to do with it all. I didn’t want to put it all into a bank where my account would be credited with data, which would not have the same eccentricity. I had filled every spare area of my cupboards and drawers by then with loose change and half of the spare bedroom was given over to the storage of yet more.

Christmas came and went. I got all my relatives and friends expensive gifts, all paid for with loose change. The more I spent on them the more I had at the end of the spree. I decided not to go back to work in the new year. I quit and spent all my time spending my change in an effort to make money. But the stakes were higher now. I had all manner of bills to pay, suddenly, so every waking hour had to be given over to trying to rid myself of my small change so that I might be able to keep up with my outgoings.

I started hiring local kids to go out with wheel-barrows of coins with shopping lists. I let them keep whatever they bought so long as they brought the change back. In no time at all I had run out of room. I had to wade through coins to get anywhere in the house. There was nothing else for it: I had to move to a bigger house.

I found a sprawling farmhouse with half a dozen out-buildings that was perfect. The owner was reluctant to accept payment in change, of course, but I persuaded him by offering him double the asking price. But spending that much change saw me receive tonnes of it in return and even with the extra storage space I had nowhere to put it all.

I started hiring warehouses to put it all, accountants to keep track, office staff, security guards . . . I am now presiding over an empire: a multi-million pound industry. But it’s all getting out of hand. I am sure you have heard of the recent world-wide stock market crash. Analysts have put it down to money leaving the system and central banks have had to pump more of it in.

Of course money is leaving the system: it’s all in my warehouses! They say it’s all down to banks handing out loans that will never be paid back but that’s just guesswork. The truth is, they don’t know what’s causing it. Even I don’t really know. I don’t want to be responsible for global economic meltdown. And I am sure it is only a matter of time before they find out where all the money is going. Every time there is a knock at my door I jump out of my skin. The only reason that can be said to be silly is that when they do come for me, they won’t be knocking: they’ll crash through my windows at the end of ropes, screaming at me that I should get down on the floor.

I can’t even give it away. That would be far too irresponsible. I am only one man yet I have brought the world to the brink of bankruptcy; can you imagine what would happen if there were thousands of people trying to rid themselves of all that change? We’d be back in the middle ages within six months.

I could deposit it all into my account but what effect will flooding the economy with so much, so suddenly have? Your savings would be rendered worthless overnight.

So that’s where I am right now. I just don’t know what to do.

The Need to Go

2007-11-17T04:32:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been caught short? Of course you have. It happened to me today when I was out shopping in town. The trouble is, I still think I am eighteen years old. At that age, a man’s bladder is as tough as a saddle bag, but from that age on it begins to weaken. It is possible to mark the decline by counting how many beers necessitate a trip to the toilet. I used to be able to drink five or six beers before having to leave my stool. Then it was three or four. Now I am lucky if I can finish my second pint without at some point during the drinking of it having to make use of the facilities.

I didn’t drink any beer today. I drank tea in the morning. That was all. I felt a twinge while in Superdrug but I ignored it insouciantly. The twinge became a stab in Marks & Spencer, but still I cared not a jot. However, halfway between Barclay’s Bank and the Vodafone store, carrying heavy bags of food, I realised I had overstated my retentive abilities somewhat.

Never mind. There are public toilets in Stevenage town centre, right next to the fountain. They were closed. It was at this point I first registered concern. There must be other toilets in the town centre, surely?

Bags in tow, I dashed into a cafe. They were bound to have a W.C. there. They did, but it was for customers only and what with me being terribly English I turned on my heel and surveyed the pedestrianised area (opened by the queen in 1953) like a man in a life raft looking for his crew mates after their ship had sunk.

I toyed with the idea of making for my car and driving home, but I knew how that would turn out. The moment I slid my key into my front door a countdown would begin. I’d have eight seconds to drop my bags, burst into the house and scramble to the bathroom while enduring unimaginable pain and I just didn’t fancy it. By the way, while I am here, if the human brain is so evolved — so sophisticated — why can’t it tell the difference between your placing a key in the lock of your front door and lifting the seat of the toilet? Why can’t it wait that little bit longer?

Anyway, I knew McDonald’s had a toilet and that there was no sign forbidding non-customers from entering. The restaurant (how sweet that they call it that) was crowded but I cut through them like an acerbic remark only to find that there was a sign on the door after all: Out of Order.

I really should have gone for the car. I could have been halfway home by now. But now I had no choice but to continue on my quest. I was hampered by the fact I could not run, for every jolt wiped entire seconds from how much time I had left.

Then I did something I am ashamed of. It was not my finest hour, but it was among my most desperate. I found an alley, nestled in between two giant dustbins and unzipped. It was then I heard the clearing of a throat behind me. It was a police officer who wore an expression that said: you’re not about to do what I think you’re going to do?

I considered just going right there and then and hanging the consequences, but I didn’t. I did myself back up, picked up my bags, and waddled painfully on.

Just when the seconds began ticking in flashing red digits, accompanied each time by a beep denoting complete system failure, I saw a door in the side of an otherwise featureless wall. I looked around for some clue as to what might lie behind it but there was none. I peered in. Whatever the building was it was pitch black and empty. I looked furtively over my shoulder then entered.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust but no amount of groping against the wall yielded a light switch. Undeterred, I explored deeper into the building, along a corridor and into, by the sound of my footsteps, a large room. I was beginning to be able to see better. I could at least make out shapes. One of the shapes looked very much like a toilet bowl.

It was a toilet bowl!

I dropped my bags, sending tins of food and fruit rolling across the floor. I stood before the porcelain as if it were a statue to some ancient and now forgotten deity of relief and, in that spirit, worshipped with every drop I had.

I had yet to finish when the lights came on. They came on with that noise that only very large and powerful lights come on with. Startled, I looked behind me. I estimate that there were about five hundred people, sitting before a stage which I was on still urinating with glee, waiting for the performance to start. I was not alone on the stage. There were three actors – two men and one woman – staring at me in a cross between slack-jawed bafflement and pale-faced horror. Bafflement because, of course, nothing like this had happened in rehearsals and horror because it was not a real toilet. It was not plumbed in. I’ll leave you, my dear reader, to join the dots on that one.

So there we were. No one knew what to do or say; so nothing was done nor was it said. It was the audience I felt sorry for. They really did not know how to react. Was it part of the performance? It had to be, but what was the context?

Since no one else was prepared to ad lib I decided to say the first thing that came into my mind:

‘I can’t stop once I have started.’

There is nothing quite so thrilling as being on stage and making five hundred people roar with laughter. I think it was a release of tension more than anything else. Essentially, someone had told them it was okay to laugh; and so they did. I don’t mind telling you that I have never felt so alive.

This sparked the actors into action. The female actor took my line and ran with it, quite brilliantly I thought, and her two male colleagues improvised smoothly.

The show went well after that. The producer told me that they had never had so many standing ovations. The upshot is that we go on a tour of the British Isles starting next week, me included, so I might not be able to get online as often as I’d like.