July, You Didn't Let Us Down. Grumpy's Alternative News.

What a month, where do we begin! Money, what to do with it. One of Elvis's pianos is up for sale, they think it might fetch £1,000,000. Plus Roy Roger's horse, Trigger (stuffed of course) is to be auctioned, they think it might fetch up to £133, 000 ($200,000). You're too late for the ashes of the cat featured in the Coronation Street titles, they fetched £800 at a Gloucestershire auctioneers. Talking of ashes, did you notice they're creating a reef in the English Channel made from concrete and reef balls filled with cremated remains. (Ringstead Bay, Dorset.) But I digress, they've not had the Chatsworth House contents auction yet (this autumn. 20,000 items, 1,400 lots.) There's something for everyone: marble chimneypiece £300,000, down to teacups and saucers, £20-£600 plus the Duchess's 'record changer and wireless', circa 1935, £30-50. (All prices are estimates.)

Alternatively you might fancy the new flying car, the Terrafugia Transition, priced £128,000. Money can't buy Paul the octopus who correctly predicted World Cup results but if you're really loaded you could go for that most exclusive of internet domain names, Sex.com. (It fetched $12million when last sold in 2006.) The only person I can think of who could afford that sort of money is Wayne Rooney. He won a court case recently that will make him richer than ever. But it didn't stop him being named as the ugliest footballer on earth by Beautifulpeople.com. Money can't buy everything, Wayne!

Enough of money. What made me laugh, or cry for that matter. The ice-cream van for dogs in Regent's Park is brilliant. 'Canine cookie crunch' indeed. I hope the van, which is called K99 and plays the Scooby Doo theme does well. The burglar from Blackburn who left behind his false teeth when he had a sandwich at the scene of crime was not the sharpest. Nominally brighter than the seventy six year old retired Army major who hurt his back 'tombstoning' at Durdle Door. Couldn't he find something safer with which to occupy himself. Any suggestions? He'd have been better off 'tweeting' like Ivy Bean who died recently, aged 104 and acknowledged as the oldest person on Twitter. Mind you, her 'tweets' weren't exactly ground-breaking. 'Had a visit from our sandra yesterday she bought some parkin which we had with our cuppa.' Rest in peace, Ivy.

There were things in the month that made me wonder. The property tycoon who attacked a helicopter, hitting it and trying to open the pilot's door because it blew dust over his Land Rover lacked self control. Even more serious was the maniac who knifed two people because they hit his car with a discarded lollipop. He was deservedly locked up. Frightening that such people exist. Likewise the idiots in Russia who hoisted a donkey into the air by parachute as a publicity stunt ought to have had a dose of their own medicine. Fortunately such individuals are in the minority.

Just a couple or so items in poor taste. I know some of you love them! Can you remember Keith Chegwin presenting a game show whilst naked. I thought of him when I read someone has been putting up photographs of his private parts (with a pink bow tied round!) around Lewes. No, I am NOT suggesting it is Keith Chegwin! The pictures are being examined for fingerprints. Honestly! There is so, so much more I could say but I mustn't! And evidently 'a big budget' p0rn movie was shot in a London hospital. They won't say which one but evidently the hospital made a 'substantial income'. Having recently spent a week in hospital I'm totally jealous. I bet it made the time go a lot quicker!

I will leave you with a snippet from Derby, my home town. We have a university, just like Oxford and Cambridge. But no studies of comparable depth or importance. Derby University is offering a one year diploma course in artisan food, showing amongst other things how to bake bread and make cheese and pickle. One module even shows how to brew ale. Shakespearean studies, who needs 'em!

Goodbye Mad March. Grumpy's Alternative News.

So what did March bring? Lets start with something to test the taste buds. I hope you enjoyed your Easter Eggs. Did you have one of Waitrose's Ostrich eggs? They are the equivalent of twenty four hen's eggs. Mind you, they cost £18.99 each and take up to an hour and a half to boil. Expensive but no worse than the carrot plugs sold by Gardening Direct . 'Which' reported that each carrot grown would cost £1.00.
I see that Yorkshire rhubarb was awarded Protected Designation of Origin status. (Joining Cornish sardines, Melton Mowbray pork pies and Swaledale cheese.) Now the move is on to get Yorkshire Pudding on the list. Still I suppose they are all healthy foods unlike the popcorn sold in cinemas. According to the Food Standards Agency (FSA) there are 1,800 calories in a 375g bucket of sweetcorn. A stick of rhubarb in the cinema might be a better alternative.
Plus fish and chips were in the news in March. Evidently the sales of cod are down. We are increasingly eating pollock or catfish (Pangasius) instead of cod. Which is OK, but what I want to know is, do we KNOW when we are served the alternatives?
Common sense still seems to be in short supply. The driver in Scotland who faced a fixed penalty fine for blowing his nose in traffic whilst stationery had his case dismissed. And the lady in Sandwell whose two gnomes, pot tortoise and 'welcome' plaque were removed due to 'fire safety rules' had them returned by the embarrassed council. But the bingo callers in Sudbury, as decreed by the council, still can't call out 'two fat ladies, 88' in case anyone is offended.
About on a par with Northampton Borough Council, who have decided, on 'health and safety' grounds police officers must have ten hours training before they are allowed to ride a bicycle on duty. You feel like laughing at such crass stupidity. Except that there can be serious consequences. An inquest in Scotland heard that a potholer died because a public volunteer was not allowed to use lifting equipment available at the scene of an accident. It took four hours for those allowed to use the equipment to arrive. How sad and pathetic is that. Will we ever learn.
The unluckiest man of the month. The bank robber in Tennessee shot dead by the police on St Patrick's Day. Dressed as, guess what, a leprechaun, and I thought leprechauns were lucky. Mind you, he had done a bank hold up successfully three days before Christmas dressed as Santa Claus.
The most philosophical man of the month. The banker in Wellington, New Zealand who stole $18 million from the ASB Bank. He spent $6.8 on prostitutes and wasted the rest! On wine and property. (Only joking, ladies!)
And the bravest man of the month. Sanal Edamaruku, who challenged a tantric guru to kill him live on Indian television. After several frustrating hours the holy man gave up. But gripping television, beats Coronation Street into the proverbial 'cocked hat.'

March, the month in which the poet laureate wrote a poem about David Beckham's Achilles tendon. Rome announced that Leonardo da Vinci predicted the world would end on November 1st, 4006 (Evidently you only have to look at the Last Supper mural.) And it was finally confirmed what every man already knew. 'Man flu' is real, an evolutionary 'happening', a trade off between high testosterone levels and a robust immune response. So lay off ladies, when he says he doesn't feel well, he doesn't feel well!

So there you have it. I leave you one more fact to ponder. Thomas Beatie and his wife Nancy live in Bend, Oregon. Thomas, a transgender male is seventeen weeks pregnant with his third child. Thomas, formally known as Tracey was a beauty queen before sex reassignment therapy. His wife Nancy is unable to conceive. It is indeed a strange world but good luck to them.

Murder Most Foul

Yet another week with murder featuring in the tabloids. Knife crime in Britain, though disturbing has become so common it hardly makes the headlines. Bodies found in a burnt out mansion in Shropshire is more unusual and is more avidly read. One cannot but notice the response of locals interviewed by the press.

"It's not the sort of thing we expect round here" and "he didn't seem the kind to get involved in that sort of thing" are the sort of comments bandied around. Which begs the question, "Are murderers different to anyone else, particularly ourselves, and why do we think it's only other areas that are susceptible to murder?" Could you, yes you, dear reader, recognise a prospective murderer. For they don't have 'murderer' stamped on their foreheads. Stand up the person I hear muttering "More's the pity."

The following is an extract from a piece I wrote in a book of short stories a year or two ago. (There's Nowt So Strange as Folk)

"Truth is stranger than fiction." 19th century proverb

You might think that you need to lead a highly unusual life, or live in exotic places in order to meet exceptional or unusual people. You would be wrong. Look around, listen, watch; they are all around you.
But remember, as George Du Maurier once said, ‘Life ain’t all beer and skittles.’
I used to think murderers are only to be found in the tabloids, or on Coronation Street, but I was wrong, hopelessly, wrong.

I met Bill because of a shared interest in English Bull Terriers. He was a hard, worldly northerner, particularly conversant with the machinery needed to illegally extract gas from a gas metre at no cost to the householder. We would exchange pleasantries at the local flea market on a Tuesday evening. That is, until Bill went home one evening, found his brother in law fast asleep on the settee, took his chance and cut his throat from ear to ear. There was a complicated history behind this horrific act, Bill in fact received only a short prison sentence and eventually returned to his native Newcastle. Thus our little chats ended.
I used to see Harry at a local residential hospital for people with mental as well as physical problems. I taught English in a large comprehensive school and also ran a scheme that involved school pupils working within the community. Harry, a Welshman thirty-two years of age, was a voluntary worker at the hospital one day a week. Harry was good at the work, compassionate, caring, popular. We shared tea, crisps and cakes on our regular, if short meetings on a weekly basis. Until Harry eventually returned to Wales, his sentence served. For Harry was on licence from a local prison for a murder he had committed thirteen years previously, when, at the age of nineteen, he had killed a man in a street brawl.
Grant was a pupil in one of my English classes. Average academically, he would probably have been quite successful had he shown more interest in the work set, instead of doing the bare minimum on a good day and nothing at all when he felt so inclined. Tending to be cheeky, with the distinct ability to disrupt a lesson at will, he was no model pupil. Nevertheless I quite liked Grant, as he was normally a cheerful individual, even his disruptions were accompanied by a humour that made his behaviour almost forgivable.
Several years later Grant was involved in an incident with another customer in a public house. Exactly what happened I know not. What I do know is that Grant left the public house, returned with a knife and killed the person who had upset him. An infamous action not exactly designed to put his name in lights on the wallboards in the school’s hall of fame.
Cyril used to walk past the school where I worked. I admired his fortitude in the face of adversity. Probably only in his late twenties, fate had been somewhat cruel. Severely injured in a road accident, he was left with only one arm and a leg that required a brace to enable him to walk at all, albeit with difficulty. Unable to find employment, the highlight of his day was accompanying his daughter to the infants and junior school down the road from his home. A task he accomplished with distinction for many a year. That is, until the house next door to Cyril’s was discovered ablaze, the old lady who lived there dead in a downstairs room. The murder, for the old lady was indeed murdered, remained a mystery for only a short time. Cyril was duly arrested, charged and convicted of the murder on irrefutable evidence, resulting in a life sentence, and an existence inevitably devoid of the trials and tribulations of walking to school on dark winter mornings however inclement the weather.

My children, and indeed some friends reckon I'm somewhat bizarre having 'known' at least four people who have committed murders. I tell them I'm just an ordinary individual passing quietly through life. What do you think?