đ
Former scientist, now graduated to a life of leisure;
Family man (which may surprise the family - it certainly surprises him);
Likes cycling and old-fashioned B&W film photography;
Dislikes greasy-pole-climbing 'yes men';
Thinks Afterlife (previously known as Thea Gilmore) should be much better known than she is;
Values decency over achievement.
When I was a kid my dad used to take me to watch Kendal United play football. That was because a doctor had told my folks that, as an ill child, I needed lots of fresh air.
I was probably about six when I came home after one game and asked mum “How old do you have to be before you can swear?”. Her reply was “You’re never old enough!” and that was when I ratted on him: “But daddy swore today!”. (I think he’d said ‘bloody’ – serious stuff, eh?)
Karma came back and bit me on the a**e many years later when I momentarily forgot The Tall Child was in the car when, in complete exasperation at the antics of a lorry driver, I less-than-silently mouthed “Oh, for f**k’s sake!”. It didn’t take long before I was ratted-out in turn when we returned home: “Mum! Dad said the F word!”.
And that is why I laughed out loud when I read the BTL comments that followed the online Graun’s review of Harlequins’ poor showing in rugby’s Aviva Premiership this year. It’s the last line that made me chuckle …
The Matriarch was 90 at Christmas, but we couldn’t all make her ‘do’ in Baden Baden, so we arranged a get-together at Whinfell Center Parcs to celebrate her 33,000 days-old anniversary on 29 April.
And thus the Aberdeen branch of the family got together with her over the weekend along with her Geordie relatives. The lodge we stayed in came with a chalk board and chalks. Here’s the results…
Actually, the party was swell!
Her birthday meal was booked for 8.30, but she mis-remembered and thought it was for 6.30. Fortunately we all got there at the right time, but not before it inspired this rhyme (based on an original idea of The Tall Child). The rubbing-out and inserted text demonstrate something of the limerick writer’s thought processes…
And here is the group photo (sadly missing the cousin who took the pic) with the family surrounding its Matriarch in the centre…
The small town of Dunbar on Scotland’s east coast is probably best known to outdoorsy folk as the birthplace of John Muir, one of the founding-fathers of America’s National Parks and a co-founder of its Sierra Club. I wonder if he’d be impressed by his hometown’s latest claim to fame?
It arises from an outdoors activity sure enough. Indeed it’s one that’s said to be a contemplative and meditative experience and I’m sure that’s the sort of feeling that Muir would have sought in the peace and tranquility of 19th century Yosemite. But not, I think, by stacking stones on Dunbar’s foreshore (although the results can be rather impressive).
Nice pic, but perhaps the stack lacks ambition, no?
Yes, folks, Dunbar hosts the European stone-stacking championship and this year’s event has just finished.
It was inaugurated in 2016 as The John Muir Stone Stacking Challenge (he’ll be turning in his grave that something so facile has been named after him) and according to the Beeb, Dunbar’s coastline has been declared “rock stacker paradise”.
It’s a rock!
The Championship’s competitive categories include ‘most stones balanced’, ‘most artistic’ and ‘balance against the clock’ and there are separate classes for both adults and children
The rules are strict. No adhesive substances are allowed and there must be no interference with other competitors’ piles. Neither the throwing nor tossing of stones is permitted, nor is foul language, lewd behaviour or poor sportsmanship. The whole thing rocks!
Better!
It also inspires limericks …
In a littoral balancing act Her pillar of rocks stayed intact. So she added some more ‘Till you couldn’t ignore That her structure was truly well-stacked!
Postscript: A few years ago, I came across someone’s stone-stacking effort at Aberdeen harbour and I was really impressed. I took a pic using my phone and thought to return the next day with my proper camera.
Unfortunately, by the next day, it had been kicked over, so here’s my original picture …
… and the Wordsworthian verse that it spawned:
I wandered quietly down the road That meanders by the River Dee When all at once I spied a load Of boulders stacked-up. One! Two! Three … Astride the bank, above the flow, I knocked them o’er with one fell blow.
I can’t be the only person to view recent outpourings from the UK’s Home Secretary to amount to more than the mere sophistry and weasel words that we’ve come to expect from politicians. Perhaps the strategy adopted across the pond of openly telling lies to a receptive audience of rednecks has an appeal for her.
I don’t normally quote at length from newspapers, but the following paragraphs from two recent Graun articles certainly point the finger.
First we read that:
“The hostile immigration environment Theresa May set out to create when she was at the Home Office was regarded by some ministers as âalmost reminiscent of Nazi Germanyâ in the way it is working, the former head of the civil service, Lord Kerslake, has said.”
And then that:
“Amber Rudd privately boasted to the prime minister that she would give immigration officials greater âteethâ to hunt down and deport thousands more illegal migrants and accelerate the UKâs deportation programme, a leaked private letter has revealed.”
… and then:
“Rudd set out her âambitiousâ plan to increase removals and focus officials on âarresting, detaining and forcibly removing illegal migrantsâ while âruthlesslyâ prioritising Home Office resources to that programme.
The aggressive language and tone of Ruddâs approach to immigration enforcement emerged after the home secretary attempted to blame officials in her own department for the Windrush scandal in which it emerged up to 50,000 mostly Commonwealth migrants were facing possible deportation despite having lived in Britain for decades.”
Illegally deporting legal migrants and then blaming civil servants for carrying out the policies that you have aggressively engineered?
That’s not telling the truth … ‘pants on fire’, methinks!
There was a young man from Jamaica Left his home in order to make a Difference to the Brits But the ungrateful gits Years later said : “Leave! Or we’ll make ya!”.
As a student many years ago, I once lost a bet (and a fiver!) because I felt sure that whomsoever it was that played the male lead in Play Misty For Me, it certainly wasn’t Clint Eastwood. Doh!
âMisty,â huh? We have that right on a play rack. Thanks for calling”.
The film itself is about a woman obsessed with a radio DJ who she thinks ‘does her wrong’; thereafter her obsession with him becomes increasingly psychotic. The same theme is repeated in Fatal Attraction whereas the protagonist in another obsession movie, Misery, is more concerned with an author’s decision to kill off her favourite literary character.
Although I have serious reservations about the portrayal of mentally ill women in movies as merely ‘deranged obsessives’, all three films came to mind earlier this week when I saw an astonishing dating request in The Scotsman (I wasn’t trawling through its Lonely Hearts column, the entry just jumped off the page – honest!). You can read it yourself, look:
Maybe ambitious, maybe wishful, maybe sad – probably innocent – but just a bit spooky!
Does it preface a leap into a brave new world for Maria and her unfulfilled ambition? Does its roots lie in a sorrow of sorts? Or is it just a bit weird?
I’m sure it’s heartfelt and innocent, but I need a limerick so, with the help of the aforementioned movie genre, I shall capriciously interpret it as creepy! Here goes:
An Austrian Frau called Maria Seeks a Scotsman that she can revere, But I’ve seen Misery And Play Misty for Me, So she’s Fatally Attractive, I fear!
Even that was a temporary blip; a minor departure from the infant’s contemplative looks that opined “What is that? Can I trust it? Hmm, I’d better steer clear of it!“. The consensus view was that the little one was a wee bit uncertain about a bloke-with-a-beard (okay, very uncertain!).
My own dear mother once looked at me and said that she saw a wolf’s head, so perhaps my beard and the little one’s upbringing in the shadow of Germany’s Black Forest psychically brought to mind the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, and with it a fear of all things lupine. Who knows? But it was kind of cute, if a little demoralising, to a clearly not-so-great-uncle.
Meantime, Management suggested the experience could inspire the next ALAW, so here goes:
There once was a baby that sneered When her bristly great-uncle appeared. Which led him to infer That she seemed to prefer Her playmates to have less of a beard.
Postscript:Â According to the Massive Phobia website it’s a real thing:
“Pogonophobia (po-go-no-fo-be-ah) is the irrational and persistent fear of beards. Its opposite is Pogonophilia, a love of beards or bearded persons.
While beards are often viewed as a sign of ruggedness or manliness, they are also sometimes associated with illness, misfortune, homelessness, etc., leading fearful individuals to think of bearded men that way.
The root word ‘pogono’ is Greek meaning ‘beard’ and the word ‘phobia’ comes from the Greek word âphĂłbosâ meaning ‘fear.'”
Well, the RGU Gray’s School of Art short-course exhibition is over for another year. I’ve added my exhibits to ‘the wall’ chez moi. Here it is (the location is not well-suited to being photographed)…
All from earlier years
Second row down are a couple of this year’s ‘Oslo’ pics
The two lowest pics are from the Oslo trip, with a studio shot, centre, above the door
Dunnottar castle, from this year’s show – badly positioned on the wall as reflections interfere with it
Ten or so years ago, a BBC ‘quote of the week’ came from Brent Cockbain, then a Welsh international rugby player, who had said: “You cheat and cheat until you get caught out and then you cheat some more“.
Of course with the advent of in-game ‘big screen’ video replays, sometimes those that cheat are made to look extremely foolish, as when an open-handed slap from an opponent causes one of rugby’s tough guys to hit the ground as if he’d been pole-axed by Muhammad Ali in his prime (yes, that’s you I’m talking about, Donncha OâCallaghan!).
All of which calls into question the wisdom and judgement of the senior leaders of Australia’s national cricket team, some of whom have just been sent home from their current tour of South Africa for a rather too obvious attempt to cheat.
Scuffing one half of a cricket ball whilst ‘polishing’ the other half is a well-known ploy to make a cricket ball ‘swing’ in flight; a means to make life more difficult for the batsman.
Brett Lee looks on at Jason Gillespie’s ball-polishing masterclass.
And, as with many things, there are ways and means to achieve this, but I’m not sure that taking sandpaper from your pocket to illegally roughen the scuffed side of the ball is the wisest thing to do, particularly in an international match when the TV cameras cover your every move!
I thought Australian ‘grade’ cricket referred to the senior club tournaments down-under not the coarseness of sandpaper they’re allowed to use!
That sort of stupidity pales into insignificance when the umpires later ask you to turn out your pockets due to their suspicions of cheating and you pull out a hanky and lie to them, only for the TV footage of you previously stuffing sandpaper down the front of your trousers to be shown on the stadium’s big screens.
… only in Australia! (Early reports of the Australian cheating referred to grit from the pitch being stuck onto sticky tape, before it was later identified as sandpaper – hence the rather contrived rhyming headline.)
So, this is my take on the affair:
Time will show that history recalls The discredit that surely befalls Australian cricket Whose search for a wicket Made the bowler sandpaper his balls!
Postscript: The proud Welsh rugby ‘cheat’ quoted at the top of this post only qualified as Welsh through his residency status, having moved to Wales as a 25-year-old before serving the requisite three-year residency period. Where did he hail from? Er, that would be Australia. Strewth, mate!
So, Sir Ken Dodd has died at the age of 90. There’s been enough media tributes paid to him since he ‘passed on’, so I shall add only a soupçon.
I don’t think there is anyone else that could have succeeded with his outrageous defence against criminal tax evasion charges yet retain such widespread popular affection, let alone be knighted subsequently. What a guy! And what a funny man.
In a way, it was the constant stream of jokes that got you laughing. On its own, this is amusing, but no more: “By jove, missus! What a wonderful day to run to the Kremlin and knock on its door and ask ‘Is Lenin?’“, but in the midst of an avalanche of one-liners, it made me laugh out loud.
Anyway, I tried to encapsulate his humour (and tax affairs) in this week’s ALAW. I couldn’t manage it with just one limerick so I resorted to two.
The first is a bit contrived to fit in to Dodd’s “By jove, Missus!” routines that usually expressed “What a wonderful day it is to…” before being rounded off with “How’s that for a…”. (Dodd’s humour was in filling-in the gaps in a surreal way).
Here it is:
By jove, Missus! What a wonderful day To look in a coffin and say: “It’s short of a body, So let’s stuff it with Doddy!” How’s that for a new hideaway?
and here’s t’other:
By jove, Missus! What a wonderful day To knock on a coffin and say: Is this the one Ken’s in? ‘Cos I think I’m sensing It’s not cash that he’s now stashed away!
Sir Ken. Not just a clown-come-tax-evader, but also a reflective scholar of humour. He made me laugh (a lot).
You must be logged in to post a comment.