Goodness gracious … great balls of fire!
This week’s limerick is inspired by our neighbouring town’s famous Hogmanay fireball ceremony…
When the Old Year senescently crawls
To a close, that’s when it befalls
The Stonehaven folk
To go swinging, and stoke
The flames of their smouldering balls.
“A Chancellor who will be judged harshly by history”[1]
It’s a serious one this week, I’m afraid, and it was Osborne wot made me do it…
Anyone that read ALAW #116 will have been left with the advice that “sometimes the first thing you have to do is to suspend belief and the second thing you do is to suspend disbelief”.
I had to do that just a couple of days before Christmas when listening to George Osborne on the radio. He had the brass-neck to deny that his blueprint for austerity after the Tories’ election victory in 2010 had any rôle to play in the UK’s current homelessness crisis. Instead, he blamed ‘bad policy’.
Er, that would be policy related to housing, benefits and council services then? Policies that he and his chums in the Conservative Party have imposed on the UK over the last eight years!
And what was Osborne’s great contribution to housing policy? Well, from the Independent newspaper’s analysis it was this: In the end, aggressive monetary loosening from the Bank of England came to the economy’s rescue, along with one the Chancellor’s very worst policies, a “Help To Buy” scheme that stimulated consumer confidence in 2013 but only at the terrible price of perpetuating the country’s housing disaster. (See this, from the Guardian, to understand why.)
Homelessness not enough? Then how about the prison crisis, a crisis led by “budget cuts, poor political decisions and frequent changes of political direction” according to a former Director-General of HM Prison Service. Or the crisis in special educational needs provision that is directly attributable to cuts in local government funding? Or the crisis in social care for vulnerable adults? Or the crisis in support for young people presenting with mental health issues? Or the wider NHS crisis with the lowest per capita number of doctors, nurses or beds in the western world?
Osborne’s political manoeuvre was to masquerade his ideological cuts to public services as austerity. “Money doesn’t grow on trees” was the ideologues’ battle cry! Except it did if you were a banker, with £435 billion ‘spent’ up to August 2016 on ‘aggressive monetary loosening’, so-called ‘quantitative easing’ (‘printing money’ in old parlance), to bail out the banks after their affair with the sort of casino capitalism engendered by Thatcher’s deregulation of the 1980s.
And it is Thatcher’s ideological experiment in neo-liberalism that has since been fostered by the likes of Osborne and his Bullingdon Club cronies.
“Trickle-down”, they said when “flood up” was what they meant and the great British public swallowed it hook, line and sinker; its 30 pieces of silver transformed during the 1980s into a few measly shares in British Gas or a short-lived and quickly spent windfall from building society de-mutualisations to be followed by a global financial collapse sponsored by sub-prime free-market think-tanks.
An austere political trope
Left the homeless with nary a hope,
So let no-one deny
That censure must lie
On the shoulders of Osborne the Dope!
[1] https://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/analysis-and-features/george-osborne-a-chancellor-who-will-be-judged-harshly-by-history-a7135571.html
Strictly Anapestic
I wonder just how many of its devotees know that the name of the BBC TV show Strictly Come Dancing arises from a blend of Strictly Ballroom and Come Dancing?
For those that don’t, I assume you know of the long-running BBC ballroom dance series, Come Dancing, that ran for almost 50 years before it ended in 1998, whereas Strictly Ballroom is a Baz Luhrman film from the early 1990s about an ugly duckling’s transition to a ballroom swan. Luhrman’s film is one of those slightly offbeat Australian films of which ma famille is deeply fond (see also: Muriel’s Wedding, The Dish, The Castle, The Man Who Sued God and, of course, The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert).
Even though my only attempt at waltzing in front of an audience (on my wedding day!) left me rhythmically traumatised, I never actively avoided the early series of Strictly Come Dancing. Those were the shows where the amateurs were people of whom you’d actually heard and who’d received no prior dance training. In fact, sometimes I quite enjoyed those early shows, but I stopped watching when they introduced ‘clowns’ like John Sergeant for a bit of a laugh on the side, and the ‘celebrities’ were ‘nobodies’ as far as I was concerned.
So, I was not expecting to watch this year’s finale on my visit south to see the Matriarch, but she wanted to see it so I did the dutiful and watched the live transmission with her. I thought the dancers were really impressive. I could have done without some of the ‘behind the scenes’ stuff or the ‘insights’ into the competitors, or, frankly, the judges’ theatrics, but most of all, I could have done without Michael. Effing. Bublé.
Bublé’s rendition of the Drifter’s 1950s classic Such a Night was a travesty. I know some Strictly fans watching on TV complained that they couldn’t hear him properly, but they were the lucky ones; Such a Night is not the sort of song that you croon. This is the real thing, listen and learn, Bublé, listen and learn…
Phew, now the rant’s out of the way, here’s the limerick!
I watched the grand final of Strictly,
And found that it didn’t afflict me
With the sense of disdain
That I thought might pertain
As they chaséed and stepped quite briskly!
Alert readers will note that the metrical foot of the limerick is … you’ve guessed it … Strictly Anapestic.
Thea-trics at the Brewery
Despite the madness that is the UK’s franchised rail chaos, I travelled successfully from Aberdeen to Kendal for a pre-Christmas visit to see the Matriarch; a trip that coincided with Thea Gilmore’s concert at the town’s Brewery Arts Centre.
Gilmore has been described by the Guardian as popular music’s “best-kept-secret” and by Mojo as “the most coherent, literate and charged British singer-songwriter of her generation“. I’d go along with that…
I first came across her on BBC 4’s The Christmas Session in 2009 when she performed That’ll be Christmas, now one of my favourite seasonal songs. You can find it here.
Her show at the Brewery started with a cheery “Hello Kendal”, a greeting that was met with a low-murmured reply and an exchange that made me laugh…
Thea: Hello Kendal!
Audience: Murmur, murmur.
Thea: Oh dear! You sound grumpy!
Voice from the back: You’re in Kendal, luv!
Kendal – plus ça change! The concert was terrific with a small string section filling-out the sound beautifully. The evening’s only disappoint was the lack of a slide guitar accompaniment to That’ll be Christmas and its replacement by a whistling violinist. How to spoil a classic, but the only hiccup in an otherwise memorable gig.
Here’s this week’s limerick…
As a long-standing fan, my idea
Was to travel to Kendal to see a
Songstress in action
(The headline attraction).
So I did, and was spellbound by Thea!
Postscript: Firstborn, look away now!
If you listen to That’ll be Christmas on the link above and let it play through to the song that follows it, you’ll find another seasonal favourite of mine, Bellowhead’s rendition of the gothic tragedy surrounding ‘Lovell’s bride’, The Mistletoe Bough.
For those unfamiliar with the story of Lovell’s bride, Genevra, you can read all about it here – or just re-visit it if you know the tale. Please do, it’s a Christmas classic and is followed by one of my favourite self-penned limericks!
On retiring after 34 years at the Marine Laboratory, Aberdeen…
I want to thank my colleagues at the Marine Laboratory for their good wishes and benevolence on my departure. Their generosity allowed me to buy an original art work that had taken my fancy at the Tolquhon Gallery’s Christmas exhibition; a work by Jim Wylie – something to bring a bit of summer into a winter’s gloom.
…and here’s the limerick (a day earlier than usual):
A Cumbrian scientist called Phil
Counted fish with a consummate skill
But now, it’s transpired,
T’arl bugger’s retired
“Oh my Cod!”, he said, “Isn’t that Brill!”
Postscript: Really Making Waves
The question was, “Will you write an article about your time in the Lab for Making Waves? It can be as short or as long as you like?” Hmmm, I thought, why not? Making Waves is the Marine Scotland staff newsletter and it might be an amusing way to say ‘cheerio’ to the organisation.
Sadly, they could not use the piece that I wrote due to some slightly off-message words in the last couple of paragraphs.
I fully understand my Comms colleague’s reservations about it. After all Comms has to be on-message, even with internal communications. Nevertheless, it’s a shame that an organisation that claims to foster diversity feels it has to censor-by-omission those who are not good little functionaries within a mini-me clone-army of identikit on-message drones! (Confession: I’ve used parts of that phrase before; I rather like it.)
Anyway, you can read my article-that-never-was below…
Ave Atque Vale
As I am soon to leave the Marine Laboratory and meaningful employment, I was asked to contribute some thoughts to Making Waves about my years in the place: “It can be as short or long as you wish”, I was told. Well, they said it, not me, so, in the immortal words of the late Stanley Unwin: Are you sitting comfibold, two-square on your botty? Then I’ll begin. Once a polly tito…
…a young Cumbrian lad headed north. It seems a long time ago now, but I joined the Laboratory in early 1984. I used to tell folk that it was my ‘Orwellian’ year until Jo, my other half, pointed out that it was also the year that we were married and she’d rather I didn’t conflate that occasion with transcending into a police state. (Off topic: I also remember once (and only once!) referring to her as the wife – such was the opprobrium brought down on me by that comment that it marks the precise moment that I began to transition from a standard-issue Kendalian into the socially liberal, bit-of-a-lefty, woke pussycat that I am today. Nevertheless, it’s still a work in progress as earlier this year she was compelled to exhort “do you always have to be a typical, unreconstructed 1970s northern male?” Le mâle le plus au nord? C’est moi!)
Anyway, back on topic… due to the likelihood of some impending sea-going duties soon after I joined the Laboratory, I was obliged to tell the doctor at my Civil Service medical that I wasn’t allowed to swim due to an ear problem, and that I was also mildly red-green colour blind. He examined the offending ear and I remember his comment well: “Where are all the bits that should be in there?” So, that was diving duties off the list.
He also tested my colour vision using the Ishihara colour plates. “What number do you see?” he asked. “21”, I replied.
Him: You’re kidding!
Me: Why, what do you see?
Him: 74!
At this point, the doctor ignored the rest of the medical and we spent about 30 minutes going through several of the colour plates, tracing-out whatever we could see and then trying to visualise the other’s perception of them. (A word of advice, never ask me to guide a vessel into harbour – those red and green leading lights look very alike to me!) Nevertheless, as medicals go it was a hoot and much more fun, I imagine, than the nitrile-clad digital insertion that seems to be the de rigueur medical of choice for blokes coming to the end of their working life.
So, with the medical out of the way I thought I should call the Laboratory and ask about its dress code. “Smart casual”, I was told, “sports jacket and tie, that sort of thing” and that’s how I ended up at Reception resplendent in some new and, for me, unusual attire. Auld Jimmy Grey was behind the desk and I told him I was a new start and asked to whom I should report. “Which Section?” asked Jimmy. “Pelagic” I replied. A few seconds passed then he looked on forlornly and said “Ah, tragic pelagic!”
Clearly, that was not an auspicious start, but colleagues who remember some of the Laboratory’s characters and their feuds in those days will understand Jimmy’s response. [Memo to managers: If colleagues have serious issues with each other it is not always a good idea to send them to sea together for three weeks in a confined space with cheap booze to hand.]
Anyway, after a week of being the only person in the Laboratory that wasn’t wearing jeans I resorted to my usual clobber of a pair of Levis and a fleece. A couple of years later, as Jo and I were standing at a bus stop ready to head off to our respective workplaces, she started chatting to my colleague, Isobel, who worked in the Laboratory’s office at that time. “Look at him” Jo said (herself resplendent in ‘proper’ attire) “and holes in his jeans too!” Isobel saved the day: “Oh, he’s one of the smarter ones, you should see Tony Hawkins, and he’s the Director[1]!”
In fact, Tony had just taken over as Director from Alasdair McIntyre whose retiral speech was memorable. Alasdair had talked about the different eras over which he had been associated with the Marine Laboratory
In other words, the start of my career, my ‘good old days’, coincided with peak-Thatcher and all that implied for folk daft enough to work in the public sector in general and in science in particular. So never tell me that I view the past through rose-tinted spectacles! Just don’t!
Our science generated contract income back then just as now, but with a difference. In those days, there was contract income in accounts all over the place and there was real potential for the misuse of funds. Pretty soon, the Laboratory was told to get its act together and that all of its contract income had to be brought in-house into legal ‘suspense’ accounts.
So you can imagine my surprise when, a few months later, a cheque drawn on a Danish bank was handed to me by a senior scientist from the Danish Fisheries Institute in Charlottenlund to cover my T&S costs for attendance at an expert group at ICES HQ. Such had been the cutbacks during the 1980s that contract income was by then being used to pay for our core business activities. That payment had been authorised by my boss and when I later mentioned to him that I’d thought all contract funds were supposed to be in-house and not ‘in Denmark’, his reply was concise: “Who’s to know?”. That made it particularly amusing many years later when he was appointed to a senior post and insisted that all staff had to follow the corporate line to the letter. (He also asked my colleague, Nick, and me to do an anonymous 360° appraisal of him in which I jokingly commented that he was a ‘poacher-turned-gamekeeper’. To my delight, he blamed Nick for that!)
Returning to Tony’s tenure as Deputy Director and then as our Director, although he was not the easiest person to warm to, I owe him a great deal as it was the tasks that he set me that got me noticed. Not for him the formal bureaucracy of going through your line management to ask for something to be done. No, he just dragged you into his office and explained what he wanted. (You then did as he asked and reported on it to him, at which time you found out what he really wanted and so began over again.)
If, like me, you were only just starting out as a Scientific Officer (B1 in new money) it didn’t matter. Tony wanted to know if you would sink or swim. That is how I ended up supporting the late Roger Bailey, and later front-lining, when arguing with the RSPB over its interpretation of the Shetland sandeel fishery as a likely cause of the islands’ dramatic seabird-breeding failures of the 1980s. Roger and I had the temerity to argue that the fishery was not the cause of the seabirds’ problems, but that it was itself impacted by the same broader environmental drivers that were affecting the production of young sandeels. It got pretty brutal in the media and, in my opinion, the RSPB with its million-plus membership tried unfairly to destroy Roger’s professional reputation. Fortunately, a young Peter Wright was then contracted under consortium funding and his research backed our version of events.
At the same time as this was going on, a skipper from the Clyde was launching harpoons at basking sharks, much to the disdain of the public and conservationists alike. Tony put me on the case and it resulted in the publication that I am probably best known for, a Scottish Fisheries Information Pamphlet on the basking shark. It was damned by some at the time because it did not fully support their perception – or prejudices – about the threat the fishery posed to the basking shark population, but it was sound and has stood the test of time. It got me on Channel Four’s Fragile Earth series and the BBC2 Nature programme fronted by Michael Buerk, famous for his ‘Ethiopian famine’ reports of the 1980s, as well as on national radio.
The media interviews I faced were always hostile because I refused to countenance the views of the Marine Conservation Society. Nevertheless, I was shown to be right by David Sims’ subsequent basking shark research at the MBA’s Plymouth Laboratory. That’s all a while ago now, but recently I wrote an article about my basking shark ‘era’ for Making Waves. Unfortunately, it was spiked due to some dodgy humour at the end of the piece. I had no problem with that decision as I’d anticipated it, but, if you’re interested, you can read it here instead.
After the media-frenzy of the 1980s I then progressed into demersal fish stock assessment and fisheries advisory work where a part of this was concerned with the Laboratory’s ‘Ecuador Project’ – an institutional link with the Instituto Nacional de Pesca, Guayaquil (INP); a contract that was funded by the UK’s Overseas Development Administration. The aim of the project was to help develop the INP’s capacity as a fisheries research organisation. Consequently, our participation included experts in organisation & management, information technology and librarianship as well as fisheries scientists.
I visited the country half a dozen times and have mixed memories of it. One image that has stayed with me was of a young shoe-shine boy. He was probably eight or nine years old, and I’d seen him work his heart out over a few hours until, eventually, he had a chance to sit and quietly enjoy an ice-cream that he’d just bought. Finally, and for ten minutes, he was allowed to be a child again. It was all a bit of an eye-opener. My eyes were opened further by the sight of teenagers employed as shop-front security guards armed with shotguns. It was no coincidence that South American guidebooks considered Guayaquil to be low down the list of places for a tourist to see, although in all honesty I don’t think we ever felt threatened and we were treated most hospitably.
The INP always seemed to have a new Director when we visited and the formalities of arriving and being greeted by him (it was always a ‘him’) took an age, with us receiving a host of unctuous compliments and having to return them with interest. I once apologised to my colleague Stuart, with whom I travelled on a number of my visits to the INP, for all the bulls**t I’d had to spout. “Don’t worry”, he said, “You’re good at it”. I’m still not sure, but I think it was a compliment.
Stuart and I had always hoped to piggyback a trip to the Galapagos Islands on the back of one of our Ecuadorian forays, but by the end of a two-week trip to the INP we just wanted to get home. As foreigners, it was also just as expensive to travel to the Islands from Guayaquil as it was to visit them from the UK. We did get to visit the Isla de la Plata (the poor man’s Galapagos) just offshore from the Ecuadorian mainland where I first saw a pair of boobies and some nesting albatrosses. Not quite the Galapagos, but at least a non-birder like me had a couple of ‘ticks’ that would be the envy of many a ‘twitcher’.
Returning to my day job, I tried hard to be a science-led-but-pragmatic adviser and, from the response of the policy leads of the day and my national and international science colleagues, I succeeded and did so without compromising the Laboratory’s reputation. That period also included my tenure on the ICES Advisory Committee on Fisheries Management on which I argued strongly to close the fisheries for cod in the North Sea and to the west of Scotland. That advice certainly unleashed Hell, but it saved the stocks from commercial extirpation.
It was controversial advice and bitter medicine as far as the fishing industry was concerned (and not exactly welcomed by Ministers either), but a deluge of ‘independent’ reports later backed the science, including one from the Prime Minister’s Strategy Unit (PMSU). In all, five such reports vindicated the science and the PMSU approach was a shining example of how such reviews should be carried out – as well as being truly independent, its authors established a ‘challenge group’ to question their approach, their methods and their conclusions; it remains the most authoritative report of its kind that I’ve ever seen.
If only the Royal Society of Edinburgh had done likewise in its subsequent review! Theirs was the sixth with which we’d had to contend after the cod closures and its commentary on our science was hugely irritating. Being good little civil servants, we weren’t allowed publicly to challenge the more egregious elements of its report and, on that occasion, such a restriction rested uneasily with me. Moreover, our then Minister was in hospital when the RSE’s report was published and, to my dismay, his deputy publicly welcomed a ‘well-researched’ report, while writing privately to the RSE to condemn its inaccuracies.
The inability to argue our case publicly coupled to that kind of disingenuous ministerial behaviour led me to throw all of my toys out of the pram and move on from fish stock assessment and advisory work. Which is how I ended up wrestling with DG MARE’s Data Collection Regulation (DCF). I’ll say nothing more about that other than if Marine Scotland wants increasingly to source contract income and to manage such contracts efficiently, then it really does need to develop a proper contract support office rather than the ad-hockery that currently exists.
Shortly after taking on responsibility for the DCF, my Group and I were ejected from the Laboratory’s Fish Team and placed in the Science Operations Programme (SciOps). SciOps was managed by Carey and populated at Group Leader level solely by blokes. We got the work done, but also had a few laughs along the way, including at Group Leader meetings that, at times, resembled an homage to the consumer and current affairs TV show, That’s Life, with Carey as Esther Rantzen surrounded by a coterie of deferential male acolytes.
After a couple of years and with the support of Carey and several others within the Programme, we initiated the SciOps Coffee Club that ran every six weeks or so, for about 12 editions. At each meeting, a couple of volunteers showed two or three short YouTube videos that illustrated something about themselves and their interests, but without them having to speak at length to the audience (we called it MeTube). It worked well and it was fun. We also included a ‘Traybake of the Month’ competition in which anyone that fancied it could try their hand at whatever comestible had been nominated for that occasion.
The winners from each event were later celebrated in The Compleat Baker, a publication of which I am proud and one that is fully illustrated by the posters that accompanied the events. I love the fact that some of the posters bear witness to my colleagues’ willingness to dress-up, or undress in the case of one, and then be photographed (in the days of Photoshop and Facebook) without any knowledge of the use to which their pictures were to be put. How trusting was that!
That leads me more generally to the work of my colleagues and the support and help that they have provided across the years. I don’t just mean my science colleagues, but also the other professionals and support staff that sustain our science. Almost without fail (but only ‘almost’!) everyone that has helped me has gone the extra mile when necessary, right through from my days as ‘the next big thing’ to my spell as an ‘assessment-jockey’ and then to me being ‘DCF supremo’ before finally ending up as a ‘jaded has-been’. MSS has many unheralded staff that carry out a lot of unheralded work. More light needs to be shone on that.
So, has it all been worth it or should I have stuck to my pre-university job as a forestry labourer in the English Lake District or my student vacation job as a snuff grinder in Kendal?
Well, “Yes” it has been worth it – mostly. I despair at times that we are more greatly valued by colleagues outside of the Scottish Government (or even outside Scotland and the rest of the UK) rather than by those within it. It wasn’t always like that and it needs more than a simple lip-service remedy to re-set it. I am also concerned by the erosion of our scientific independence. The report of the Independent Panel that was commissioned by Richard Lochhead when he was our Minister had a lot of wise words to say about that as an issue and the steps that could and should (but haven’t) been taken to address it. It needs to be revisited. Urgently.
Finally, have I any advice to give to anyone just starting out? Of course I do, I’ve become avuncular with age! I’ve often reflected on some sagely advice that I was given by Peter Winterbottom, an official with MAFF (now DEFRA), during my first-ever EU-Norway negotiation. I’d turned to him at some point and said, “Peter, I don’t believe this”. His reply was succinct and it’s helped me greatly over the past two decades, especially the last one, so I hope it helps you too: “Phil”, he said, “sometimes the first thing you have to do is to suspend belief and the second thing you do is to suspend disbelief”.
[1] From the days of DAFS to SEERAD, the head of the Marine and Freshwater Labs was their Director; that would be the Head of Science in current parlance. (FRS had a Chief Executive).
Theresa May be an idiot
I’m not on Facebook anymore, so I cannot ‘like’ or ‘share’ something that needs greater exposure. But I can highlight it to my readers (both of them) .
Mike Harding, comedian and folk singer, aka the Rochdale cowboy (remember him?), has just explained why Theresa May’s appeal to the country to unite behind her and her Brexit ‘deal’ is just so bloody offensive.
You can read his ‘letter’ here, but I’m taking the liberty of printing it in full as well, with due acknowledgement to him as its author. (The ALAW follows at the end.)
Dear Mrs May
I am in France having a break having come here on the train all the way from Settle. I just read your letter to me and the rest of Britain wanting us all to unite behind the damp squib you call a deal. Unite? I laughed so much the mouthful of frogs legs I was eating ended up dancing all over the bald head of the bloke on the opposite table.
Your party’s little civil war has divided this country irreparably. The last time this happened Cromwell discontinued the custom of kings wearing their heads on their shoulders.
I had a mother who was of Irish descent, an English father who lies in a Dutch graveyard in the village where his Lancaster bomber fell in flames. I had a Polish stepfather who drove a tank for us in WW2 and I have two half Polish sisters and a half Polish brother who is married to a girl from Donegal.
My two uncles of Irish descent fought for Britain in N Africa and in Burma.
So far you have called us Citizens Of Nowhere and Queue Jumpers. You have now taken away our children and grandchildren’s freedom to travel, settle, live and work in mainland Europe.
You have made this country a vicious and much diminished place. You as Home Sec sent a van round telling foreigners to go home. You said “ illegal” but that was bollocks as the legally here people of the Windrush generation soon discovered.
Your party has sold off our railways, water, electricity, gas, telecoms, Royal Mail etc until all we have left is the NHS and that is lined up for the US to have as soon as Hannon and Hunt can arrange it
You have lied to the people of this country. You voted Remain yet changed your tune when the chance to grab the job of PM came. You should have sacked those lying bastards Gove and Bojo but daren’t because you haven’t the actual power.
You have no answer to the British border on the island of Ireland nor do you know how the Gib border with Spain will work once we are out.
Mrs May you have helped to divide this country to such an extent that families and friends are now no longer talking to each other, you have managed to negotiate a deal far worse than the one we had and all to keep together a party of millionaires, Eton Bullingdon boys, spivs and WI harridans. Your party conserves nothing. It has sold everything off in the name of the free market.
You could have kept our industries going with investment and development – Germany managed it. But no – The Free Market won so Sunderland, Barnsley, Hamilton etc could all go to the devil
So Mrs May my answer to your plea for unity is firstly that it is ridiculous. 48% of us will never forgive you for Brexit and secondly, of the 52% that voted for it many will not forgive you for not giving them what your lying comrades like Rees Mogg and Fox promised them.
There are no unicorns, there is no £350 million extra for the NHS. The economy will tank and there will be less taxes to help out the poor. We have 350,000 homeless (not rough sleepers – homeless) in one of the richest countries on Earth and you are about to increase that number with your damn fool Brexit.
The bald man has wiped the frogs legs of his head, I’ve bought him a glass of wine to say sorry; I’m typing this with one finger on my phone in France and I’m tired now and want to stop before my finger gets too tired to join the other one in a sailors salute to you and your squalid Brexit, your shabby xenophobia and Little Englander mentality.
Two fingers to you and your unity from this proud citizen of nowhere. I and roughly half the country will never forgive you or your party.
Well said that man!
A northern comedian called Mike
Told the world what is just not to like
About Theresa’s appeal
To support her and her deal,
So, please Mrs May, ‘On yer bike’!
‘Balls’ to that!
‘Hats off’ to those members of the UK Parliamentary women’s football team who decided to have a kick-about in the Chamber of the House of Commons after their scheduled match was cancelled due to a possible late sitting and vote.
Apparently, the Parliamentarians told the Chamber’s doorkeepers that they had permission for their antics; something the Speaker of the House later insisted was not given by him!
Of course it just cries out for a limerick…
Within Parliament’s sanctified halls
There’s nothing, it seems, that forestalls
The sense of unease
When our female MPs
Start playing around with their balls!
I started so I’ll Finnish…
This week’s ALAW draws on the anatomy of certain fish species, notably salmonids and many catfishes, and concerns what was once considered to be a vestigial feature, the adipose fin.
Adipose means fat, but ironically the root of the adipose fin is no longer considered to be a site of fat storage. The name stuck anyway, and recent research suggests that it is not, in fact, vestigial, but may act as a flow sensor ahead of the tail fin to improve manoeuverability in turbulent waters.
However, ‘manoeuverability’ is not a word that I would associate with this week’s theme; a Finnish fisheries scientist (who I shall not identify) that a former colleague nicknamed with reference to his gargantuan size; the pun is obvious, but it still makes me laugh:
A scientist whose girth was akin
To a humongously large garbage bin
Studied fish in the sea
With Finnish esprit
So we called him ‘The Adipose Finn’
Das ist mir Wurst
It’s late afternoon in November in the German town of Ettlingen and I’m sitting outside at an Eiscafé eating ice-cream, as one does, whilst trying to compose this week’s ALAW.
Germany? Sausages? Bad puns? Here it is:
I’m sat here all starving and glum
With an empty and aching old tum.
In a café so German
The waiter’s called Hermann,
And I’m hungry, but the wurst’s yet to come!
A lunartic limerick
It’s well-known in my family that I have strong opinions on what comprises a ‘proper’ rocket and I can say without fear of contradiction that, as rockets go, the Saturn V is peerless! Which is why I’ve just seen the film First Man, a biopic of Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the moon and an event that I remember watching as a kid. In fact, the Saturn V launch sequence was the highlight of the movie for me and I suspect it is no coincidence that Lego produced its version of the rocket in the same year that the film was released; a commercial tie-in, perhaps?
Which brings me to the events of a couple of years ago when shortly after watching SpaceX launch a re-supply mission to the International Space Station, one that succeeded in ‘landing’ the launch vehicle’s first-stage propulsion unit (upright!) on an ocean barge for re-use, ‘Firstborn’ messaged me about its awesomeness and significance (having watched it in the presence of an astrophysicist who had explained the various goings-on).
Awesome indeed, and a terrific technological breakthrough; however, my subsequent suggestion that there was only ever one ‘proper’ rocket, the Saturn V, was met with some disdain by the astrophysicist concerned: “Saturn V was a glorious rocket, but SLS will be even better. Also F*** YOU!”. Charming, eh?
(Actually, although our young wordsmith had been telling Firstborn about SpaceX’s Falcon 9 launch vehicle, his comment about ‘SLS‘ refers to NASA’s Space Launch System, a bigger re-usable launch vehicle that can chuck a whole lot more metal into the sky than the Falcon 9, but one that is still delayed in production, over-budget and yet-to-perform)
The thing is, my reasoning about the Saturn V had nothing to do with technology. It’s all about ‘soul’. To anyone that stayed up all night as a youngster in the UK in 1969 to watch the TV relay of the first-ever moon landing (on a 405-line black and white vacuum-tube TV), the image of the Saturn V still resonates. So despite the subsequent technological advances, for a youngster whose first-ever Airfix-kit model was that of a Saturn V rocket bought as a result of watching those fuzzy pictures of ‘Eagle’ landing on the moon followed by Neil Armstrong’s timeless declaration, there can only ever be one rocket with soul, only one ‘proper’ rocket; the Saturn V!
(Apollo 8, shown above, was the mission that first entered lunar orbit, paving the way for Apollo 11’s successful moon landing.)
Anyway, here’s what I replied to the errant astrophysicist…
An astrophysicist once thought that he knew
Of a rocket that could easily out-do
The outer space jive
Of an old Saturn V
But it can’t, so go F*** yourself too!
Postscript #1: N.B. Apollo 13 is by far a better movie than First Man and, if you are interested, a charming recreation of events surrounding the TV relay of the Apollo 11 mission can be seen in the Australian movie The Dish.
Postscript #2: Did you know that you can become your own man or woman in the moon by taking a selfie through the cardboard tube from the innards of a roll of paper towels…
