Daft, Strange or Downright Remarkable.

I decided when I started blogging I would avoid being topical. But how can you avoid being so when we see examples of Grumpy's alternative world are all around us.

Take ageism for instance. Henry Allington has officially become the world's oldest man. (Taking over from Tomoji Tanabe who died in his sleep in Japan, aged 113.) He, Henry, not Tomoji has retained his sense of humour, attributing his longevity to 'cigarettes, whisky and wild, wild women.' Seemingly neither humour, compassion or common sense for that matter are evident in Rogerstone Community Council, South Wales. They wanted to evict an eighty nine year old lady for growing only flowers on the allotment she had tended for thirty years. Though they did eventually back down; I wonder why. (Eddy Shah, former newspaper owner has offered to let people grow vegetables on his land in return for 60 per cent of the produce. My reaction, 'Steady Eddie') I've far more admiration for Phyllis Self, aged one hundred and one and still running a garden centre in Wiltshire, putting in a thirty six hour week. Plus Florence Lane who recently died aged ninety four, the licencee of the Sun Inn at Leinwardine, reputed to be one of the best public houses in Britain. (A lifelong teetotaler, when asked her age, she always replied 'plenty.') Finally concerning ageism, Olivia de Haviland, the last survivor of the principal cast of Gone With the Wind was ninety three this month.

Its not as if its geriatrics that are the only daft ones around. A Boeing 757 nearly collided in fog with a workman driving a ride on lawnmower at Dublin Airport. Evidently he was unaware of the plane until it flew over him. Good heavens, someone should have told him what airports are for! Get Ryanair to sort it. Evidently they are in talks with Boeing concerning planes with standing areas instead of seats. I kid you not. What next, outside toilets?

I'm all for enterprise but there are limits. The policeman in a village near Port Talbot who sold bootleg recordings of his hero, Bruce Springstein had his £22,000 profit confiscated. Earl Walker had the amazing job of separating counterfeit or damaged notes from good ones for the Bank of England. Only the idea was not supposed to be keeping the good notes for himself. No wonder he had a £34,000 Mercedes. But what a way to earn your living! (Not the pocketing bit.) Nearly as good as Thomas Parkin of New York who dressed as his deceased mother (died in 2003) to collect her pension for the next six years. You have to laugh, as did Dr Jonathan Chahal who giggled his way round the children's A &E ward at Ormskirk District General Hospital, trying out gas canisters of the anaesthetic Entonox as he went. He told the nurses it was 'fun'. I'll bet it was!

I see the European Commission has abolished the rule banning bent cucumbers and forked carrots. (Though misshapen apples and pears must be labelled as for cooking rather than for eating fresh.) Its taken twenty years to see sense. Mind you, governments and councils still like to interfere. Hilaire Purbrick has lived in a cave on his allotment for sixteen years. (Seems quite a month for allotment stories.) Now Brighton and Hove Council has evicted him because it has no fire exit. Sixteen years to come up with that, I ask you! And Sir Cliff Richard has got to pull down his £30,000 conservatory for building it without permission. Both are appealing. (No, not attractive, appealing. Oh, please yourself) I'll view both Hilary and Cliff's cases with close interest in the coming months.

Governments are certainly busy little bees. As indicated in the proposed study of 'The White Van Man' phenomenon on the road. 'There is a real lack of knowledge about this sector, which is often unloved by motorists, pedestrians and regulators.' The government's words, not mine. There's definitely a quango there, methinks. There is a world record for running the longest distance whilst on fire. (Honest!) Recently won by Keith Malcolm in a charity event at Waterlooville, new record 259 feet. Lets nominate all our useless male MP's for this record. Anyone wish to help? Notice how I'm not cruel to our lady leaders. Instead I'd nominate them for the vacancy at Wookey Hole Somerset for a resident witch, salary £50,000 pro rata. (Mind you, it is in fact open to men, women and transsexuals to comply with sexual discrimination laws.) Any nominations, anyone?

The more I see in the world, the more I think everyone is on something except me. They must be, the Duchess of Cornwall recently got caught short and used a pub toilet in East Sussex. (Even Royalty has the same problems as you and me. I've often heard people talk of the Royal 'Wee.')

The aforesaid pub toilet seat was auctioned for £87. You can have mine for £11. 25p. What a bargain if I ever become famous. Until then, please excuse me, I'm just going for a lie down in a darkened room.

Don't We All Do Daft Things?

In 1968 I drove over the Hardknott and Wrynose Passes in my pride and joy, a Mini Cooper S, registration number GDT 703C. For those who don't know the Lake District, these two passes are probably the most testing in England, hairpin bends and one in three gradients, a single track road with passing areas, a test for any vehicle and certainly not for the nervously inclined. I was twenty nine years old and remember it well, the feelings of achievement and elation have stayed with me all this time.

Last week, aged sixty nine I drove my two ton plus Trigano Tribute 650, long wheelbase, registration number OOO8 PAU motorhome over the same passes. It was a hairy, scary, mind bending, irresponsible, stupidly ridiculous thing to do. Definitely the daftest thing I have done for many years. And do you know what, I loved every minute of it! My passenger wife was far from sure but for once had no say in the matter. I had the same feelings of elation I had all those years ago and almost feel like doing it on a daily basis. Except that I know I will never risk it again, never, ever. Which set me thinking.

The majority of us lead conforming, happy though somewhat boring lives. I wonder how many of us were more carefree, less inhibited in our youth. I swam, in rivers and canals as a youngster, oblivious to the dangers and did in fact have one very near miss, so to speak. I rode motorcycles, again with little respect for danger and again very nearly went to an early grave. I placed coins on railway lines, climbed trees, crawled under culverts, sledged on roads. I survived, though I had friends and acquaintances who didn't.

I know there are risk takers out there who lead exciting lives, whether they be Formula One drivers, parachutists, canoeists, explorers or mercenaries but for many of us tea and tele is the most important thing in our day.

Is it true that men never grow up or have our lady friends equal ambitions they wish to achieve before they die? What was the daftest thing you ever did in your life? And is there something you would still like to do before your spell on earth comes to its inevitable end?

Blast from The Past No Six

I have chosen this particular 'blast' because of a conversation I had with a female cousin this week. We talk frequently concerning the autobiographical work I have been engaged with for some considerable time.

If we have known people, relatives or acquaintances for many years, we presume to know them well. But is this really the case?

My grandmother died, aged ninety-nine years, over thirty years ago. Tiny, religious, inoffensive, I presumed she was an unworldly lady of the highest order. My cousin has taught me otherwise.

The past is often referred to as mild compared with today's more violent times. A picture ingrained in today's psyche, true or otherwise. Janet explained to me, granny, little old innocuous granny had shown her, when Janet was a teenager, how to defend one's honour against random attack on the streets. (Often aimed at the terrors of the town rather than sleepy old Ockbrook.) Janet was shown how to thread a hatpin into the lapel of a coat so as to be invisible but available. An awesome, deadly weapon immediately to hand in an emergency. And go for the eyes was the advice given, bruises fade but hatpin inflicted injuries are forever. An amazing lesson, fortunately never needed. Do we really know people, in spite of our closeness, or is there behind, inside everyone, another person in fact. Perhaps we are all multiple personalities; what an awesome thought.

Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Aren't People Strange and aren't Families even Stranger.

The gradual clearout of the loft is ongoing and still turns up trumps.
Amongst the many photos of times long since gone one in particular stands out. Not grandad in his grandeur as Sunday School Superintendant. Not grandma with her brood of eight around or not too far from her tiny feet. Not the weddings of the brood, safely despatched over the years. that is, not of each wedding, faithfully recorded, but only, God forbid, one in particular.
A wedding photo is retrieved, one wedding in many. The bridegroom, smiling, as bridegrooms should. The bridesmaid, shy and demure, as bridesmaids were expected to be.
The bride, I know who, but I'm not telling. Carefully cut, and I mean carefully from the wedding scene. Cut undoubtedly by a sister in law, my aunt who obviously disapproved of the marriage to a favourite brother.
I make no comment as to the rights and wrongs; for all I learn in life is that despite increasing age I know nothing. But look at the careful cuts involved and wonder. Aren't families strange, and isn't life in general even stranger.

Grumpy's Alternative News June

It's been a right old time for bodies. Not long ago a couple were distributing body parts all over the country in a bid to avoid detection of a murder. Recently a body was discovered in a green wheelie bin. It had apparently been there for three weeks with a foot sticking out of the top. The dustbin men (sorry refuse collectors) said they don't empty bins unless the bin is on the pavement. This one apparently was still on the driveway That's all right then!

And blow me, another leg has turned up on farmland in Hertfordshire. (No, not connected to the other two cases, silly. Unless the first case was Jake the Peg.) The police reported this last leg was thought to be 'from a white or Asian male'. Only one or the other, how strange. As a matter of interest, I wonder how difficult it is to identify a single leg as male or female. It would certainly not have been easy had it belonged to some of my female acquaintances in my younger days!

Our police are on the whole pretty good but even they have their moments. The new Met Police Commissioner joined his men in a pre-dawn, high publicity raid to arrest a gang of burglars. The press were there, eighty police including riot squad officers, taser stun guns, helicopter, the lot. Only when they broke into a house, it was empty. Their suspect was already in custody and no one had informed the Commissioner. Oh well, you can't win them all!

Mind you, our police are often superior to their New York counterparts. A man lay dead inside a van for weeks as parking tickets piled up on the windscreen. So much for tinted windows. Of any case the New York police have a policy of not searching parked vehicles.

A little sideline. The suspect in the 'bin body' was arrested in Malta. Evidently Portsmouth has been dubbed 'the new Malta' in a Southern Rail poster campaign. A bit tongue in cheek, Boris Johnson described Portsmouth as 'one of the most depressing towns in southern England.' Perhaps why our suspect went to the real place instead of Portsmouth.

Luckiest couple of the month were the pair who won £25 million on the EuroMillion lottery. He, the husband says he's going to use part of the money to get professional advice as to how to grow better carrots on his allotment.

Unluckiest was the Israeli women whose children threw away her old mattress and replaced it with a new one. The old mattress contained her life savings, nearly one million US dollars. They are still searching local landfill sites.

Even more unlucky was the tourist killed by a shark in the Red Sea. Bad publicity for the tourist industry. I suspect the environment official had this in mind when he tried to minimise the seriousness of the situation. 'This very rarely happens. It seems the victim aggravated the shark or presented it with food.' Well done, sir, that certainly helps!

Saddest individual of the month was perhaps the arts therapist who swore at patients, smoked cannabis, fell asleep during sessions and suggested that patients take advantage of 'unlimited sex'. Not surprisingly he was struck off as these were only some of his misdemeanours.

Equally foolish was the vicar who sent salacious text messages to a teenage girl. Evidently he was under strain. I wonder if being sacked makes it worse. But the saddest for me was the Mafia boss who burst into tears in front of the parole board saying 'I'm really depressed and I can't take prison any more.' All together now, all say 'aaah'. A Mafia boss, I ask you. He has now been transferred to house arrest.

So there you have it. A mite bit depressing but nothing political. I leave you with two more snippets. A new NHS unit in Ilkeston, Derbyshire is playing Beatles music to help dementia patients. What would be your choice? Finally, it has been revealed one in three organ recipients believe he or she takes on some aspect of the personality of the donor. Some report strong psychological connections. With this in mind whose bits would you like. And please keep it clean!

Fame is But a Fleeting Thing

I suspect deep in us all is the desire for fame of a kind. Perhaps even some of us would relish the fame Judith O'Reilly has achieved, quite rightly with her excellent blog 'Wife in the North.' Is this not part of the reason we blog, to gain attention, to be liked and admired, however tiny our audience when compared to the seasoned professionals. John Dewey, the American philosopher wrote of 'the desire to be important', Sigmund Freud talked of 'the desire to be great'. If I remember right Legs Diamond, the American gangster once said all he wanted from life was to be liked. And surely we wouldn't be blogging, in public if we weren't attention seeking. (I appreciate for some it is therapy, a type of release, which is slightly different.)

It's a funny thing, fame. Andy Warhol is perhaps best known for his statement 'In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.' My fifteen minutes seems to be a long time coming.

Surely there must be things in my longish life that are exceptions to the rather mundane (I hasten to add I enjoy my life) happenings that are the norm in a working class existence.

I've got Len Shackleton's autograph, plus Nat Lofthouse's and Wilf Mannion's. Super heroes of the past. I once saw Wee Georgie Wood on the street in London, albeit fleetingly. Plus Princess Margaret in Lincoln, back view only. William Roach comes from Derbyshire, plus Arthur Lowe and Alan Bates, only I never met any of them. Mike Brearley, ex England cricket captain is a distant cousin, or so I'm told. I've never met him either! We don't shout the odds in Derbyshire, we consider it somewhat vulgar. Our football team Derby County scored the lowest points ever in a season in the Premier League and our county cricket team is probably the worst of them all. (High hopes for both in the future.) So no need for bellicose belligerence there. (The Derbyshire motto is said to be 'Derbyshire born, Derbyshire bred, strong in the arm and weak in the head'.)

I have difficulty in naming three three famous people with Derbyshire connections. Florence Nightingale was a Derbyshire lady. Joseph Wright the painter was Derby born and the first Astronomer Royal, John Flamsteed came from near Derby, my home town. Then I'd start to struggle.

As a schoolteacher of some considerable years fame eluded me in the main. True I was known for my ability to mirror write. (Almost certainly connected with the fact that I am left handed.) Plus I was the only teacher who boomeranged and flew kites with pupils in dinner hours. No mean feat on a playing fields containing awesome electricity pylons. Kites, boomerangs and pylons are poor bed fellows.

The oldest pupils I taught will now be around fifty years of age; a mind boggling thought. But the thing that thrills me most is when ex-pupils still come up to me in the street and say 'Hello sir, how are you?' Absolutely brilliant, a tiny example of 'fame' that fills me with pride even after all these years.

If I am to become really famous it has yet to come. I suspect everyone has had moments or longer when 'fame' has landed on their shoulder. Dare we suggest that some may be 'infamous', perish the thought!

So besides writing the best blog since fried bread have you had your moment of fame. What are you famous for?

Memories are Made of This. (Dean Martin)

Some of my readers will remember that I have been involved in an autobiographical work for some considerable time. Sixty thousand words later a torrent of words have become a dribble.

Now I honestly believe everything we have ever experienced is stored in our minds, for the human brain is cleverer than any computer. The problem is how to recall a lifetime's 'happenings'.

I have lived for well over twenty five thousand days, perish the thought. But how many of those days can I honestly recall. For someone who can rarely remember what he had for breakfast, quite a thought! In life's journey what do we actually remember.

We usually remember births (our children, not our own), weddings, funerals, serious illnesses, some holidays, and very occasional special days in a lifetime in employment. Schooldays, some at least stay in the mind though actual dates are often gone forever. We often remember 'firsts'. Our first television, new furniture (when poor and first married), and as we prospered, first and subsequent cars, houses and so on.

We remember days from decades; in my case the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. (Strangely I remember less of the nineties.) We can often recall a day or days at the age of ten, twenty, thirty, forty and so on. (I often suggest to elderly groups who 'hire' me as a speaker that they all write a day in their life and publish it as a fundraiser, the end products often dwarfs my efforts.)

We sometimes remember great moments in history and exactly what we were doing at the time. The assassinations for instance of J F Kennedy and John Lennon. (I remember a school teacher coming into the class room and announcing that a man called Gandhi, of whom I had never heard had been assassinated in a country that I knew not of, called India. I suspect many of our most entrenched memories are the result of trauma.

Both my wife and I are ardent fans of Derby County and seldom miss a home game. (Please, no rude comments though messages of sympathy are acceptable.) Over the years I have probably watched nearly a thousand football matches. That would account for over 90,000 minutes of my life if my maths are right. (I was an English teacher, not maths!) Yet I remember one match in detail, at Wembley Stadium and bits and pieces of a few others. The details of whole seasons I cannot recall.

I have just had a wonderful relaxed, pleasant overnight stay in our motorhome in Castleton, Derbyshire. Weather, perfect, company, perfect, experience, perfect. As I said earlier I am absolutely sure such memories are stored in the mind forever more, but more important, will I be able to recall such a tiny part of my life in five years time. (For the religious amongst you, where do our memories go after we are dead?) Mine hopefully will in part be written down, but, realistically, from a cynical point of view, who else cares.

I kept a diary of sorts for one year as a child. (See blog dated Diary of an Adolescent, 1953 dated 11th April 2009.) I also kept a diary in far more detail for the year 1985. I'm no Samuel Pepys but it is of value to me in that it records unimportant details of my life that year. (It seems to be around 70,000 words long.) It also details for only the second time in my life what I did on given days. (It does not record every single day, even I recognise the sheer mundanity of my life at times.) But it is useful in showing the minuscule nature of daily life.

June 16th 1985

Woken at 5.00 am by children in an adjoining tent! On Saturday evening a family arrived complete with shining Mercedes.The camping field contained only four tents. Our new neighbours promptly pitched tent within feet of our tent! How strange is it that we are conditioned to live in close proximity to our neighbours. Are we therefore almost frightened of the wide open spaces offered! ( In actual fact, when the minor irritation of the close proximity wore off the family proved to be pleasant, outgoing neighbours.)

Skegness is again visited, fish and chips, that most staple of diets again sampled. We return home mid afternoon happy and relaxed. Who needs the Costa-Bravo!

Now, dear readers, what do you remember from your journey through life.

One, a memory from childhood.

Two, a memory that highlights for you a certain decade.

Three, something of world shattering importance.

Four, something of importance to you only.

Finally, a happy event you will remember forever.

Tweet tweet, Little birdies, Tweet tweet.

Like most people I have an interest in birds (the feathered variety, silly) though, unlike a good friend, I'm no 'twitcher'. My friend is fanatical in the extreme. Rumour has it his wife sits on the end of his bed in a penguin suit when she wishes to arouse him. But my limited interest in our feathered friends was heightened recently by two separate occurrences.
My wife and I (shades of royalty again!) spent a delightful three days in our motorhome recently not far, in a straight line from the Minsmere RSPB Nature Reserve in Suffolk. The surroundings were magical, around half a mile from the road, the only noise the constant sound of birds singing. (Where I live in Derby the birds don't sing, they just make coughing noises!) I recorded some of the birdsong, partly to amuse my friend, partly to test his undoubted identification skills.
In the pub at home a week later I tested his knowledge. Imagine my surprise when the first song I had recorded turned out to be a nightingale. Now in my ignorance I thought nightingales only sang at night. A strange noise, someone described it as akin to a person using a hubble bubble pipe but definitely a first for me. Twitchers eat your heart out! (I reckon I've now seen or heard at least fifty different birds in my longish life. My twitcher friend has seen almost five hundred!)
We visited mother in law this week. She lives in the picturesque village of Ashover twenty or so miles north of Derby. Gardens there attract a better class of bird life than dour old Derby.
We watched the various birds using the feeders thoughtfully provided by mother in law Francoise.The usual type of feeder containing nuts loved by bluetits and the like. We marvelled at their ingenuity as they extracted food from the containers via the wire mesh. Until on closer examination my wife realised one bird was upside down INSIDE the container,well and truly stuck. Evidently the bluetits have mastered the art of entering the container from the top, head downwards, seizing a whole nut, turning one hundred and eighty degrees and exiting the container again from the top, complete with prize. Easy peasy for a tiny agile bluetit, definitely not easy for a growing young starling. With some difficulty we dismantled the feeder and extracted the starling and off he (surely it must have been a male) flew squawking as he went (was that thanks or showing indignation?) The only thing hurt seemed to be his pride.
Now you amateur bird experts 'cum' psychologists out there. How did the starling learn his 'trick'. Did he copy the bluetit. Is it natural behaviour to enter a feeder upside down. Are some birds brighter than others and are starlings particularly stupid. Are they stupid enough to try it again. Finally, is all this the reason that sometimes we say people are 'bird brained'?