There Goes January, Grumpy's Alternative News

I am very pleased that I have readers from abroad as well as our own fair isles so for starters here's a little for them.
Australia.
How many noticed the plight of the Australian hurdler, gold medalist Jana Rawlinson who achieved her wish of having a larger bust, £7,500 implants, only to find it affected her performances. (On the track, naughty naughty!) So the operation was reversed, result, a flat chest once again and hopefully more medals.
The good old US of A.
Or the couple who have had a snowball in their fridge at Lakeland, Florida since the 1977 snowfall. Taken out proudly on special occasions, the owner, a Mrs Prena Thomas suggested 'It's like a little pet.' There's snow answer to that!
Canada, old sedate Canada.
But nothing ever stays the same. The Beaver, one of Canada's oldest magazines has had to change its name to Canada's History. Evidently if you trawl the internet for anything to do with beavers, you are likely to come up with a porn site. Or two or three or four. (And its true, honest! I tried it in the name of research!)
Germany

Mind you, they can be naughty in Germany too. A German policeman was suspended for having sex with a woman during a Roman Catholic early morning service in Rennertshofen. It couldn't have been a very interesting sermon! (Do they have sermons in RC churches?)

Great Britain

Moving swiftly on, it seems we Brits are getting bigger. A crematorium in West Bromwich has had to increase the size of one furnace, the present ones being too small for some customers. Evidently a noticeable trend over the last decade. More exercise and less sitting and phoning needed. Not helped by Canon Parrot at St Lawrence Jewry Church, London. He had city workers bring in their mobile phones to church. (The idea where city workers bring in the tools of their trade to be blessed.)

So what else caught the eye. We are told the recession is officially over. And just in time, for there are bargains to be had out there. I notice a five by seven foot beach hut is for sale in Southwold for a mere £40,000. The reason its so cheap, the windows broken, the doors missing and it needs repainting. If I were you I'd go for the houseboat Ocean, much bigger and moored at Cadogan Pier near the Albert Bridge in London. Now this one's in good nick, a snip at £1,000,000.

I reckon the twerp of the month was Owen Woodgate, an actor playing Prince Charming in the pantomime at Lowestoft. His Twitter post read 'Sh*t hole of a town. Everyone is pregnant. No Starbucks. Hoodies dominate the streets. Poo.' Charming! Was he too surprised that he was booed when he appeared on stage!

It's no pantomime either for the prisoners in the Isle of Man jail. Its Europe's only non smoking jail and now teabags are banned because prisoners were smoking them. Talking of criminals, police in Sweden were puzzled as to why thieves were stealing left shoes of designer footwear from displays in Malmo boutiques. Some clever detective work revealed that they were then transported to Denmark where right shoes are traditionally displayed. Paired up correctly with shoes in Copenhagen, seven pairs were worth £900. You couldn't make it up!

Finally, does size matter. Please, please, stop sniggering, especially the ladies, its a rhetorical question! The reason I ask were two items of news that make you think, or is it blink. In Istanbul the worlds largest and the worlds smallest men met for a photo shoot for The Guinness World Records. At 8ft 1 inch and 2ft 5 inches respectively they made an amazingly, if curious couple. I hope those who organise such meetings compensate the pair properly.

More in my line is PC Robin Port, a police officer in Tiverton, Devon. I would have loved to have been a policeman, but at 5ft 4 inches in the 1950's, no chance. I was born too early. But now there are no maximum or minimum height requirements. And at 5ft nothing PC Port is Britain's smallest policeman. Good luck to him.

Yet another good month. Bob Dylan was indeed right when he sang, 'Times they are a'changing.'

There and Back to See how Far it is.

Do you remember the saying' There and back to see how far it is.' I wonder where it came from.

I was on holiday in Southwold recently. There I met a delightful man and his family. We chatted, as holiday makers do and he turned out to be, like myself, a football fan. Now I reckon I'm keen, but he far surpassed my dedication to Derby County. I noticed he had tattooed on his fingers letters that together spelt out the words TRUE BLUE, his love of Chelsea Football Club self evident. Even more remarkable was the large tattoo on his back. He was proud of his tattoo and showed it willingly, there presumably for all eternity. The name Chelsea and their post code for all to see. He was indeed a character, a very affable one and he lived on the Isle of Sheppey.

Many years ago, when lessons came to an end early (lesson plans, what's a lesson plan?) I had a pupil who rescued me many a time. He gave a touching rendering of 'Old Shep' that was far more moving than anything I had offered in the previous fifty minutes. The ending was guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of even the most street-wise.

'Old Shep he has gone

Where the good doggies go

and no more with old Shep will I roam

But if dogs have a heaven

There's one thing I know

Old Shep has a wonderful home.'

(Evidently you can get the lyrics of Old Shep as a ringtone. As Michael Caine would say 'Not a lot of people know that'!)

All this was in the seventies when Elvis Presley, who recorded Old Shep was particularly popular. (Walter Brennan's version is far more moving and probably influenced Elvis.) The day Elvis died is one of those dates in history that almost everyone can remember where they were when the news broke. (August 16th, 1977. I was at Chapel St Leonards at the time camping with my family.) Who could fail to remember such important moments in history.

Yet they also reckon most people remember where they were when both J F Kennedy and John Lennon were shot. I remember the Kennedy assassination yet have no recollection as to my whereabouts when John Lennon's demise unfolded.

A strange thing, memory. Many amongst us can remember what we were doing at the age of five, in some cases being over sixty years ago. Yet we have difficulty in remembering more than three items 'the wife' sent us to buy at the supermarket less than an hour ago. I once attended a funeral on the wrong day, went to the wrong church to attend a wedding, visited town on my bike and came home on the bus. (Not all on the same day!) Not that a sat nav or a computerised memory aid would have made much difference.

Sat navs, who needs them! I reckon we are on auto pilot in life, particularly when driving, for much of the time. (A year or so travelling north from Bath on a filthy black night, my wife and I had sat nav trouble; the darn thing refused to let us find the motorway. After what seemed for ever, the wind blowing a gale we arrived in a dark gloomy town. I wound my window down and shouted to one of the few people daft enough to be on the street. 'Gloucester?' I enquired quizzically. 'Cheltenham' he replied dismissively.)

I know little regarding Cheltenham. It has if I remember rightly an establishment for the education of young ladies, Cheltenham College that is highly regarded. I served as a teacher in a large comprehensive for many years. But it was certainly no Cheltenham. A public school yes, in that anyone could come, but an establishment of refinement, not really.

I have taught both in the secondary age sector and in adult education. In the latter I taught a young man, previously one of my school pupils. He had led a somewhat undisciplined life since leaving school, and had served a spell in prison. He was sentenced, amongst other things for hiding a policeman's helmet in a lively street altercation. I wonder what the charge was.

He once told me that 'he had run over a car.' 'What were you driving, a bulldozer' I asked with typical teaching ignorance. 'No,' he replied, exasperated at his former teachers stupidity. 'You know, ran over a car. Ran over, up onto the bonnet, over the roof and down the boot.' He was in my 'night school' class because he now realised the value of education and wished to 'better himself.'.

He too had a tattoo; plus it was on his back ; a tattoo and picture in large letters. Only he wasn't a Chelsea supporter. He had had this tattoo done when he was barely out of school. Now, some fifteen or twenty years later, with a wife and children, he was less than enamored with his tattoo.

He no longer went in the local swimming baths and certainly not with his children. At seventeen or so it had seemed a fun thing to do. His tattoo too will be there for ever and a day. And why is he less keen nowadays. I don't suppose too many people would like a large coloured butterfly and the words 'Butterflies Eat Shit' across their nether regions. Ah, the foolishness of youth. I wonder if my Chelsea friend will ever rue the day he had inscribed his support of Chelsea.