Oh, Originality,where art thou?

The clocks went back last night, and every time it's mentioned on TV or radio, there's always some comment about having an extra hour in bed. If I hear one again I'll scream.

Excuse me a moment. I need to scream.

And, of course, as usual, we have the demands from 'concerned parents' for BST to become standard, because they're worried about their children coming home from school in the dark. Apparently they are not bothered about their children going to school in the dark.

Wayne Rooney scored a hat-trick yesterday. Everyone commentator says it was a belated birthday present. Today Teddy Sheringham scored a goal for West Ham and everyone said, 'Life begins at 40.'

Some vicar is on about the Satanic influence of Hallowe'en, as he does every year, and a pagan 'spokesman' has been talking about discrimination. The health and safety police have been trying to get bonfire night banned, animal protection groups are trying to get bonfire night banned, the firemen's union is trying to get bonfire night banned, the Roman Catholic church is trying to get bonfire night banned.

Virgin Galctic are planning holiday trips into space and the TV is talking about 'the final frontier' and people boldly going there.

The weather forecasters are alternately apologising for rain and patting themselves on the back for providing hot weather in October, the last thing we want.

I've heard enough cliches, platitudes and logical fallacies to keep a whole weblog going for a year.

And I haven't even bothered listening to Radio Lincolnshire.

Malapropism of the day, courtesy of Mr Pardew, manager of West Ham: 'Losing eight matches on the trot was a milestone round my neck.'

Care of pets: code of conduct

An open letter to the Prime Minister

Dear Sir,

I attach below the thoughts of my friend Mr Cat on your government's proposed Animal Welfare Act, as dictated to me. I must emphasize that these views are his alone. I have, however, taken the liberty of replacing some his vocabulary with words more suitable for publication. Mr Cat lacks a formal education and is unused to polite society.

Old Bolingbroke.

My name is Michael Cat, and I am a cold-blooded killer. Have I got your attention? Now then. My old mate OB has told about this 'pet owners code of conduct' balderdash and I think it's a diabolical liberty. Oh yes.

A little bit about me. My old Mum, God bless her, had about 46 kittens. Good to me, she was, my old Mum. Till she threw me out, that is. Talk about shocked. There I am, snuggling up for a snack from the old mammary gland, when - Bang! - she gives me a clip round the ear so sharp I'm laid flat out with my paws in the air. Take yourself off,' she says, snarling like, 'and don't come back. It's time you stood on your own four feet, you idle little kitten. Tough old cat, my Ma. Made me what I am today.

Now, as rule, I'm a pretty cool geezer. Until I'm crossed, that is. And I'm fairly cheesed off by that Margaret Beckett who dreamed this baloney up. I'm not surprised you told her to push off to the Foreign Office where she can't do no harm. OB callled her and interfering old curmudgeon. He banged on something chronic when he read about it and threw the paper down on the kitchen floor. At least I'll have something to sit on if I don't feel like going out tonight. Mind you OB does go on a bit. Poor old beggar. I bet I'm the only one who'll listen to the boring old fellow.

Anyway, it appears that so-called pet owners are told to follow a load of rules about looking after the animals that live with them. If not, the old Bill will be round. If you're not feeding the parrot the right seed you'll be doing bird before you can say 'Pretty Polly'. It's all a lot of blessed mollycoddling - 0r should I say moggycoddling? Get it? Good that.

Now then, let's get a few things clear. I ain't no furry pet and I ain't got no beloved owner neither. I spend time with OB, I grant you, and he usually has a bit of food for me, but that's just friendship. Know what I mean? I ask you, if I kill a rat, he's welcome to a chunk of it, ain't he?

Anyway, I'm often round at an old girl's called Queenie. Big bird, very cuddly. What you might call 'tactile'. Always squeezing me against her upper torso. Gets a bit boring like, but I put up with it because she stocks a better class of cat food than OB. He just gets that cheap stuff in bent tins from Tesco's.

Now, I've noticed something funny about you human males. You're idea of mating is to find some female who don't like you and then live in the same house fighting like - well, like cat and dog - until the female kicks you out. That's where old Queenie is different. She's got lots of mates. And they don't mind that squeezing caper neither.

So, what am I going on about? I'll tell you. It's this. OB ain't got no pets. He did have a goldfish, but he poured that down the kasi when he was trying to clean it out, the daft clown. And he let the budgie fly out the window. He had a hamster as well, but I ate that.

Now, sex. No, hang about. I'll talk about that later. Keep you in suspenders, won't it? So what's this diet thing you go on about in your fatuous rules. Grub, right. Now, I don't mind the food old Bolly gives me, but as a rule I like to start the day with a light breakfast, like a shrew. Later on, maybe a mouse. But what tickles my taste buds is a plump young fledgeling. Handsome. and those feathers keep me nice and regular. I'll you something else. In season, butterflies make a very tasty nibble. Not a lot of people know that.

Ah, but them bleeding hearts in Hampstead don't like that, do they? They want to protect the little birdies from big bad me. So I'm supposed to wear a collar with a blinking bell on. and my address. What's that then? No formal fixed abode? I'll tell you, if they think I'm walking around an ID card, playing blooming 'Jingle Bells', they've got another blasted think coming. Stroll on!

And another thing, I'm supposed to be locked up at night. For my protection. For my protection! Do me a favour. Don't surprise me a bit, not with this foolish government. I mean, any bloke with a suntan and a towel round his head can be whisked off to Belmarsh just for saying 'Umshallah' and banged up for months while the bogies think up a charge.

Protection, my eye. Let me tell you, I can handle myself. kids don't bother me, not twice anyway. And dogs? Don't make me laugh. I could eat a Pekingese for breakfast. And those bully-boy Rottweillers don't sound so tough when I get on their back and start digging my claws in. They're big dogs, but they're out of condition. With me it's a full-time job. I hate soppy dogs, slobbering, servile things. So eager to please and be loved. It's pathetic.

The trouble with your dog is that it's overbred. All this pedigree cobblers. It's happening to us cats too. Do you know, I saw a couple of Siamese cats the other day. They were being taken for a walk. On a lead! Stone me, what a life! Have you seen those Yank ragdoll things. Should be drowned at birth. Genocide, I call it. They want to kill off all the decent cats in the country. And any that do get born are supposed to have their favourite organs cut off. Take it from me, any vet gets near me with a knife is going to lose a lot more than his eyeballs.

What is it about sex with you humans. I mean, you're all at it like rabbits, aren't you? Well, not OB, of course, poor old soul. So why do you want to stop me? I've got a right to raise a family. I know I don't actually raise them personally. That's female work. Delegation, like. But that's my culture, and you have to respect other cultures, don't you?

So, Tony, me old chuna, don't fret your little napper about 'enshrining my rights.' I'll look after them. You see, I've got freedom. I'm fancy free. I'm a feline cat, for God's sake. And you silly human beings should be worried about your freedom. I've heard all about your ID cards, your DNA registers, security cameras, on the spot fines and trials without juries, imprisonment without charge. Not to mention your jobs and wives and kids and bosses and mortgages. Breaks my bleeding heart, it does, you poor fools.

Anyway, OB tells me I've got to stop because he's fed up with being insulted and he's off down the pub. On the pull, more like. Some hope. As a mater of fact, I think I'll go out for a stroll myself. See if I can't find some nice pussy. Oh, come on, OB, I can say that, can't I? I'm a cat.

Michael Cat (signed on his behalf by Old Bolingbroke)

PS Humphrey was a friend of mine. Take care.

Beer Festival

The 'Hobgoblin' has run out.

While I was being poured an alternative I read the description in the tasting notes:

Full-bodied and well-balanced, with a chocolate-toffee flavour. Moderately hoppy, with a fruity character and a ruby-red glow.

That reminds me of someone I used to know. But she's run out too.



Brevity is the soul of lingerie

Dorothy Parker

Bloody kids

I heard an interesting story yesterday.

A neighbour of a friend heard a group of boys playing football outside in the street on Saturday afternoon. Occasionally the ball would bang against the wall of his terraced house. He got up to look out of the window.

He saw one boy deliberately kick the ball at the side of his car. He opened the window and told him to cut it out.

The boy responded with with two fingers and an obscenity.

The man went out of his back door, along the path behind the terrace and approached the boys unawares. He took hold of the offender and gave him a smart slap around the back of the head. The boys ran off.

You've guessed it. That evening. Tap, tap, tap on the bloody door. 'Good evening, Sir,' said one of the two policemen. The man told his story precisely and truthfully. The policemen were sympathetic but informed him that he might be prosecuted. So be it, thought the man.

Sunday morning, another knock on the door. It was the boy himself, accompanied by what could only be his father. Our 'vigilante' had his first moment of concern, expecting an argument, maybe even violence born out of clan loyalty.

'Are you the bloke who clobbered my son?' said the father.

'That's right.'

'Right.' The father nudged the boy, who muttered an apology, which our hero accepted.

'Don't worry about the police,' said the father. 'It wasn't my idea.'

The conversation continued over a cup of tea.

This little anecdote has done much to restore my faith in human nature.

When is Hallowe'en? The end of October, I think, and I doubt if the pub's decorations will still be in evidence then. The cobwebs on the bannisters are now trailing on the floor and half of the black balloons have burst. The joke where you say 'Wicked Witch' to the barmaid and then 'a pint of beer, please' has been used so often that it's died of exhaustion.

I tried a pint of 'Titanic' yesterday. The barmaid said, 'Before you say anything, you can't have ice with it and I know it's doesn't travel well and when you've drunk it, don't tell me it went down well.'

'Right.' I said. 'Actually I'm surprised you're selling it at Hallowe'en. Mayday would be more appropriate.'

Well, it was a good try.

In any case, most of the beers are off. So we've got half a beer festival. Apparently only one person is 'qualified' to change barrels and he was off.

The manager wasn't here either. Mind you, he's useless. He thinks management is rushing around changing ashtrays. I've heard of leading from the front, but leading from the bottom. . .?

In my situation, days are like women. Each one is so damn precious, but they all end up leaving you.

Napoleon Wilson

Things aren't going well today - so far.

I wanted to listen to England's cricket match with Australia as I wrote this, but apparently the BBC doesn't have the rights to stream the broadcast. And I can't get 'Blogger for Word' to work.

I shall probably go to the pub at lunchtime, but that's another moan. There's a beer festival on at the moment, which means not only can I not get my ususual brew, but I have to pay more. Of course, as a seasoned bitter drinker, I should appreciate the opportunity to sample different beers. But they're tieing it in with Hallowe'en. The whole pub is arrayed with skeletons and witches. Even the bannisters are adorned with cobwebs. And there are bloody footprints on the toilet floor. Mind you, that's been known before.

The beers have got names like 'Hobgoblin', 'Wicked Witch', 'Broomstick'.

Anyway, in lieu of cricket, I'm listening to a play about the attempted Russian coup against Gorbachev. The plotters told him that his new constitution, giving more independence to the republics would lead to the break-up of the Soviet Union. Gorbachev replied that it would take the steam out of the nationalist sentiments, but he was wrong, wasn't he?

You can't argue with a confident man

Napoleon Wilson

The World's Biggest Blog

I missed it and with it my oppportunity to go inside the time capsule and impress future generations, if there are any.

Here's what would have gone in.

Rose late, for me (8 o'clock), because I'd been up for a couple of hours in the night. Occasionally I find I wake up and can't get back to sleep. So, rather than toss and turn, I get up and read, watch TV, listen to Radio 5. Last night I watched the latest Sopranos, the one where Lauren Baccall and Ben Kingsley make guest appearances. Notable for hearing Baccall yell 'Fuck off' to a couple of muggers. Ooh, Betty! I was going to say that Bogie would never have approved, but then he was the man who have always a store of 'FU' cash, money he had in case he ever needed to tell a movie producer to fuck off.

The radio was banging on about Muslims and their soddding veils.

Up at 8 and considered washing my hair. Decided not to. Decided to have breakfast (home-made yoghurt and apple), but forgot after I was distracted by 24 hour news banging on about Muslims and their sodding veils.

Started a blog about the re-make of the Dam Busters. Will finish it later. Worked a little on a short story I'm hoping to sell to a woman's magazine. Read a story from My Weekly to keep in the mood and realised I'm going to have to tone down the sex and cynicism a little.

11 am, went to the pub in Lincoln. No-one there I wanted to talk to, so kept my head down and started to read Berne's Games people play. It seems to use a lot of technical terms and spurious analysis merely to state the bleeding obvious. Read the local paper and read a letter praising General Dannatt. Roughed out a reply calling on the PM to sack him instantly.

The pub was full of pensioners, invalidity benefit claimants and unemployed taking a break from work. Plus a variety of other scrotes. I noticed one in particular. Young bloke, tattoos and earring, putting down his girlfriend, calling her foul names. Loud-mouthed thug and sanctimonious with it. Why do these characters always say, 'Excuse me', before launching into some ignorant tirade. Of course, she just laughed it all off. Pathetic. So desperate to believe somebody loves her, so terrified of being alone. I truly wished I was young enough, strong enough and aggresssive enough to flatten him.

The pub TV was showing the news about you know what.

Home again and watched Oh, Brother, Where art thou? again. Love it. Remembered to eat my breakfast as an hors d'oeuvre for my dinner of home-made cottage pie (with amendments). E-mailed my letter about the general.

Had to go back to the pub in the evening to do more research for whatever reason I might dream up in the future. Also needed to help my friend finish The Times crossword. Also they were showing Manchester United play Copenhagen and Copenhagen needed some support. We Vikings must stick together.

In bed to listen to The World Tonight. A mention of Muslims and their bloody veils. The latest is Muslims and their sodding faith schools. Should they be obliged to admit 25% 'non-believers'? Who the hell would want to go? At least a little light relief when the Church of England said it was happy to let 25% of non-believers to its schools. Since when did the C of E actually have any beliefs at all?

A man is only complete when he marries. Then he's finished.

from The Sopranos

Cicero's Imperium

I've just finished Imperium by Robert Harris. It's the story of Roman statesman Cicero's struggle to rise from his comparatively humble roots to become Consul of Rome. You wonder why he bothered because the office only lasted for a year and was shared in any case. No doubt there was money to made. I get the feeling that Harris has had to make a real effort to turn Cicero into some kind of hero, rather than a man on the make which I've no doubt he was.

Inevitably, the book reminded me of I, Claudius, at least the TV version. The dialogue is modern, not lapsing into cod-Latin but avoiding 21st century slang as well. I do have a problem, however, with the modern sensibility of the book. After all, it purports to be the memoir of Cicero's slave and secretary, Tiro, who apparently invented shorthand, a skill which is of great importance in the plot. It also enables Harris to get in a joke of hindsight when Tiro, boasting how easy his system is to learn, claims that one day even women might become secretaries.

Another interesting fact. Why are people seeking political office called 'candidates'? Because a Roman desiring election would wear a toga bleached particularly white - they were normally the natural colour of the wool from which they were made - so that they stood out from the crowd. 'Candida' means white or bright. Ironically, I suppose 'candid' has something to do with it.

Harris is a politico himself and seems keen to draw a few contemporary parallels, as when Tiro sniffs at those politicians who do not write their own speeches but employ slaves to do it. That reminds me of story of the time Churchill flew across the Atlantic to confer with Roosevelt. They came to an important agreement and parted, agreeing to announce it to their respective nations as soon as possible. Roosevelt got his speechwriters onto the job immediately, hoping to beat Churchill to the punch, and was amazed to turn on his radio next morning to hear Churchill make a brilliant address, which he had written on the plane home.

Harris also borrows from Nye Bevan, putting into Cicero's mouth words similar to those aimed at Eden during the Suez affair. 'I am not saying he isn't sincere, but if he is sincere, then he is too stupid to be a Prime Minister.'

When a tribune exercises his right to veto a bill, he is voted out of office before the end of his term, an action rather similar to the 'recall' of California's governor not so long ago. Many Romans see this as a dangerous surrender to demagoguery, and I'm sure many Americans would agree.

Most significant of all, the book records how Pompey fomented and exploited the people's fears of invasion by pirates to set up autocratic government and reduce civil liberties. There are no prizes for guessing the contemporary allusions there.

Every day is a gift. But does it have to be a pair of socks?

Tony Soprano

Gracie Fields, The Bismarck and other thoughts

I watch most of the political shows on TV - The Daily Politics, Andrew Marr, the late night one with Portillo and Abbott. I've been wondering over the last week or two why Jane Horrocks kept turning up as a guest, especially when her only contributions seemed to 'we should all be nice to each other' and 'politicians should be more in touch with people.' Apparently the reason is some daft new TV series about an 'ordinary' woman who becomes a political sensation. One to miss I think.

On Friday she was the guest on Desert Island Discs. She managed to alienate me pretty quickly by saying she didn't understand Shakespeare. I think she's taking this 'woman of the people' thing a bit too far. She also chose a record by Gracie Fields . (They're both good working-class Lancastrians, you see). Now Gracie Fields is one of those incredibly over-rated British 'stars' of the thirties. Did anyone actually like that screeching voice and that relentless bossiness and cheerfulness?

By coincidence the song chosen was Fred Fanackerpan and it is mentioned in John Harris' Covenant with Death, my current reading matter. A soldier is singing it just before the Somme. I believe that if I heard someone singing that song I'd happily go over the top myself.

With war in mind I visited IMDb to check on Clint Eastwood's latest movie, Flags of our Fathers, and to see what the message boards had to say. One contributor said, 'Not another WW2 film! When is someone going to make a movie about the Somme?' Perhaps I should send Mr Harris' book to Spielberg.

The cyberspace conversation continued with a discussion on CGI. I cannot say that I disapprove of CGI, because I'm sure that it has enhanced many a film I've enjoyed. But that was when I didn't realise it was being used, at least not until afterwards. I remember how obvious it was in Titanic, and as it happens was telling a friend this yesterday. It came up because he had just watched Sink the Bismarck, where the whole thing was done in a huge studio tank with big model ships. It fools me.

Before leaving IMDb I noticed yet another discussion on the political slant of films and the leanings of directors. Now a lot of these messages are American and their take on things is quite interesting. Clint Eastwood, for example, is considered to be a 'leftie', as is Spielberg. I thought they were both very successful capitalists, but then Clint is very libertarian, at least where personal morality is concerned. And Steve - well, he's Jewish, isn't he?

I wonder if Jane Horrocks ever goes on that site. The level of political debate is about right for her.

We all dream of being a child again, even the worst of us. Perhaps the worst most of all.

Don Jose

I'll bet you a level Bradbury

We have made a covenant with death,
And with hell are we in agreement.


These are words from Isaiah (28:15).

The quotation is a good example of the typical form of Hebrew poetry. I'm sure there is a technical term for the practice of saying the same thing twice, using different words. Other examples are:

Thy word is a light unto my path

And a light unto my way. (Psalms 119:105)

There are six things which the Lord hates,

Seven which are an abomination to him. (Proverbs 6:16)

Interesting variation there, with a hint of Monty Python.

Here's a passage I particularly like:

. . .to preserve you from the evil woman,

From the smooth tongue of the adventuress.

Do not desire her beauty in your heart,

And do not let her capture you with her eyelashes;

For a harlot may be hired for a loaf of bread,

But an adulteress stalks an man's very life . . . (Prov 6:24-26).

What are the books that helped the English language to 'set'? The Bible (KJV), Shakespeare's Folio, The Book of Common Prayer, Milton's Paradise Lost, and Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. Maybe Malory as well. I heard Robert Fiske choose it as his book on Desert Island Discs, saying it was the only book that had ever made him cry. Must be a very hard man. Must read it, or try.

I started to think about these things when I picked up John Harris' novel, called Covenant with Death. It is the story of the build-up to the Battle of the Somme, told by one of the volunteers for a 'pal's batallion' raised in a Yorkshire City. Maybe not a great work of literature, but if only I could write as well. He draws a nice contrast between the boyish enthusiasm of the recruits and their growing cynicism. And between the shallow patriotism of those back home who think it's a stroll in the park to 'smash the Hun' and the men at the front, to whom it is a private war against 'Fritz'.

It seems disrespectful really that the only thing from the book that has sent me researching on the internet is the term 'Bradbury'. I should have guessed it meant money, but it didn't hit me until half way through the book. From then it was a short search to discover that the term 'Bradbury' was current from 1914 to1933 and referred to £1 and 10/- notes that bore the signature of Sir John Bradbury.

It's strange how good it felt to write 'ten shillings' like that - 10/-. I haven't done that for over thirty years.

The going up was worth the coming down

Kris Kristofferson

Sonnet number 1

A shared assault on crosswords brings us here,

Sitting, watching, arguing, just conversing,

Of course, there's each day's quota of cheap beer -

Well, ling'ring at the bar, waiting, cursing.

Surrounded by a swarm of drunks and smoke,

Thinking, 'My God, there must be more to life.

Just who is that crude loudmouth who just spoke?

And why does that oaf eat peas with his knife?'

But then, one Thursday, squinting through the haze,

Tobacco-choked and fingering our glass,

A light breaks through, and we enraptured gaze:

A blaze of blonde, of beauty, grace and class.

So, lovely ladies, please accept this wine.

A little late, but be our Valentine.

I'd trade all of my tomorrows for a single yesterday

Kris Kristofferson

Madeleine

I once tried to read Marcel Proust. A la recherche du temps perdu. Yes, in French. It wasn't long before I decided that life is too short. But I did get as far as the 'madeleine' that starts of the process of remembrance. I believe its some sort of French cake that is dunked in tea and has a strange effect on the brain, producing symptoms such as intellectual pretension and literary diarrhoea.

It is surprising what inconsequential things can trigger quite vivid memories. Just mentioning Proust himself, for example, never fails to remind me of Monty Python's 'summarising Prowst' competition, or of Bogart and Bacall bantering in The Big Sleep.

I often remember the day I bought my computer and brought all the kit back in a taxi. I remember how my trolley rolling against the cab's boot and the driver's concern that there might be damage. I remember his moaning and simmering road rage on the helter-skelter ride home. For some reason, which I cannot fathom, I remember all this whenever I wash my hair.

Rice Krispies make me think of Davy Crockett. A tin of salmon reminds me of my first wedding day. A waste-paper basket reminds me of an old friend from university and a politically incorrect joke we once shared. And brushing my teeth never fails to bring to mind a woman called Gail, who favoured me for a few weeks after I'd induced her to meet me with a note scribbled on a Laurel and Hardy postcard.

These are trivialities that trigger memories of important events. But sometimes its the event itself which haunts the detail of everyday life. So it is with Mavis.

I see her in movies. I met her on the day Burt Lancaster died. She used to say 'Hey ho', the way Addie Ross did at the end of A Letter to Three Wives. She used to imitate Audrey Hepburn saying 'I washed my hands and face before I come, I did.' She would come out with that sudden smile that Julia Roberts did in Sleeping with the Enemy. Notting Hill is a film that I must be alone to watch.

Every day I see the car she drove, the clothes she wore, the colour of her hair. And I hear songs all the time that were written for her - the nostalgia of Brown-eyed Girl; the angry frustration of Ain't no pleasin' you; the hollow defiance of That'll be the Day; the self-pity of I can't help it if I'm still in love with you.

As Noel Coward said, more or less, 'Never underestimate the potency of cheap music.' So I shall close and listen to the Everly Brothers, because whenever I wan't her, all I have to is dream.

Life just seems to pass us by.

Napoleon Wilson