'Tis the season for pesky round robin letters

"Well, it’s almost exactly 12 months since we sent you our last irritatingly smug ‘round robin' letter, so here we go again. When I say 'we' I am of course referring to that collection of supremely talented people that make up our wonderful, golden family – so much better in every way than yours. And since we’re so busy and lead such incredibly full lives, we don’t have the time to edit this letter even slightly so that it appears to be directed entirely at you, and not to a ridiculously long list of our friends, relatives and acolytes. So, where to begin? Well, in January our eldest, Craig, was accepted by Cambridge (actually ‘clamoured-for’ would be more apt since so many other universities wanted him). In February my darling husband reached the Top 100 Rich List at last, and in March Suzi represented the county in hockey, netball and hurling. Or was it curling? Anyway, the rest of the year raced by in a blur of successes, triumphs, social whirls and the occasional good work. So that’s it for another year. Don’t bother to reply – we wouldn’t read it anyway since it would doubtless be filled with drivel about your own pitifully inadequate lives. Oh, and happy new year by the way."

Ridiculously excited about my new breadmaker

You may think all I'm doing is sitting here writing my blog, but you'd be wrong. I'm also making bread. My husband gave me a breadmaker for Christmas and it's the best gift ever. You just put everything inside and switch it on, and (after a rather agonising four-hour wait) you end up with a perfectly-baked loaf of bread. Kitchen gadgets like this change hands every Christmas because we all want something to play with on Xmas Day. But some are infinitely better than others.

Juicer/smoothy maker.
Great in theory - think of all that healthy freshly-squeezed juice after the excesses of Xmas. But you actually have to buy up the entire contents of a greengrocer's and torture it through various tubes, filters and syphoning agents to end up with a thimbleful of juice. You then down it in one before dismantling your toy to wash all those tubes and filters.

Slow cooker
Not a great deal of fun, but a real winner anyway. At last you can cook and go to the pub at the same time.

Toasted sandwich maker.
How clever - you butter the sandwich on the OUTside, which greases the sandwich maker and prevents it from sticking. So you end up with a greasier-than-you'd-like-it toasted sandwich and a contraption that you have to clean. Two problems that you don't get with the traditional option - ie the grill. (Yes, that's right - I never clean my grill).

Waffle maker
This was a big hit. Did you know that you can cast aside the scales and throw in eggs, flour, sugar and butter with abandon and still end up with something ressembling a waffle?

Potato peeler.
This involves putting the potatoes and some water into a big bowl and then manually turning a handle many, many times until you end up with tennis elbow and a piebald pile of potatoes that you have to go over again with, yes, a potato peeler to check for eyes. Pointless.

Pasta maker.
The ultimate in useless kitchen gadgets. This enables you to laboriously make a flat sheet of pasta and cut it into tagliatelli (using admittedly, a rather satisfying Playdough-like attachment). You then lay it carefully it on a plate. As your pile of tagliatelli grows you become increasingly excited - only to realise that it is all sticking together to form a ball of dough again.

Christmas: when stray Santas give you chocolate on the tube

You know the best part of Christmas for me? No, it's not the presents. Not the meal, either, nor the copious amounts of wine one feels compelled to drink. It's the Goodwill to All Men bit - that general feeling of warmth and complicity as everyone shares the excitement of the festive season.

I experienced a bit of Goodwill on Saturday when I was on the London underground. All the passengers were studiously avoiding each others' eyes as usual when about 20 Santas alighted. They were very jolly (but surprisingly sober) and we were all silently trying to work out who they were and what they were doing on the Tube. One of the Santas called out to no-one in particular: "Yes, that's right! Santa takes the tube. Your presents may be late this year!" To which the rest of us grinned, half-smiled or looked away depending on our disposition. What did they want? Were they collecting for something? we fretted. But no. Santa One reached into his bag and started tossing chocolate bars to the passengers. We all became quite animated then, waving our arms around to show we wanted one too.

This sort of thing happens quite a lot at this time of year. Some years ago I changed trains on the way home from a pre-Christmas night out in London and was disconcerted to discover everybody at Finsbury Park station singing Christmas carols. There was no choir or anything - just a bunch of random strangers obviously all feeling festive and a bit merry.

Here are some other good things about Christmas.

• Pubs with decorations. So cosy, especially when there's a roaring fire too.
  
• Candlelit carol services. Of course I never go, I just like to know they're there.
  
• Inviting neighbours you never see around for drinks just because it's Christmas
  
• Boozy phone calls to long-lost friends and relatives on Xmas Day
  
• Santa's visit (obviously)

The many faces of Santa Claus

Whether he arrives down the chimney or from under the sea, and whether he’s a fat man dressed in red or a kindly old witch - everyone is pleased to see Santa. Or are they?

German children leave their shoes outside the door on December 5 and the next day, the good children's footwear will be filled with presents courtesy of St Nicholas while there’ll be a rod (symbolising punishment) for the bad ones. But it’s the Christ Child who actually does the honours on Christmas Eve.

An old witch called Befana flies to Italy on her broomstick on January 6 and leaves presents for the children, who presumably haven’t read Snow White or wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about her visit.

As we know, British Santa is a jolly fat man dressed in Coca Cola red who ignores the doors and windows of the houses he visits and enters via the chimney instead. He then fills children’s stockings with presents; scoffs any spare mince pies and leaves via the chimney, staying pristine and rosy-cheeked throughout the whole process.

Santa doesn’t arrive from the North Pole at all for children who live in the Caribbean islands of Nevis and St Kitts. Instead he comes from under the sea.

The Dutch Santa has a dodgy sidekick called Black Pete who comes from Spain. Black Pete is the original Santa’s little helper and is depicted as a colourful character with a blacked-up face. The dodgy part comes when children have been bad. Black Pete’s job is to replace their presents with lumps of coal and he may even dump bad children into his sack and take them back to Spain, though for what purpose remains unclear.

Children in Puerto Rico don’t leave stockings at the end of their bed, but grass underneath it. They don’t do this on December 24, either, but on January 5. And Santa doesn’t come – the Three Kings do. Their camels are very thankful for the grass, and the kings are happy to replace it with gifts for the kids.

Cracking facts about your Christmas cracker

It took 44 children from a primary school in Chesham plus the Saracens Rugby Team to pull the world’s largest Christmas cracker (207 feet long) in December 2001. The cracker took four days to build - and even contained a giant hat and a lousy joke.

The sky’s the limit if you want to push the boat out on crackers this Christmas. Fortnum & Mason is offering six hand-quilted crackers decorated with real pearls and filled with gifts such as jewellery rolls, cufflinks and money clips for a cool £1,000.

WH Smiths and other leading stores may refuse to sell you crackers if you are under 16 because of their gunpowder content. But crackers are among the safest Christmas accessories there are. According to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, the biggest causes of Xmas mishaps are turkey fat burns; candle fires; falling off ladders while decorating the tree, and tripping over discarded toys when drunk. See, crackers don’t even figure.

Army bomb disposal experts were this week called out to defuse supplies of Christmas crackers that were being sent to soldiers abroad. The bomb squad had to manually remove every “snap strip” - classed as explosives - before the crackers could be sent to troops in the world’s major danger zones.

Christmas crackers were apparently given to returning war heroes as gifts after WWI. "Well done for withstanding the gas, bombs, sniper fire and footrot - have a pencil sharpener and a party hat on us."

You think that’s funny? You must be crackers

Have you ever thought about our strange custom of pulling crackers at Christmas? How we have to read out those terrible jokes, sneer at the toys and then wear those stupid hats?
It’s all the fault of some bloke called Tom Smith, a baker in Victorian London, apparently.
A bit of an entrepreneur, he began selling his own version of Parisian bonbons after a visit to France when he was impressed by those tasty almond sweets that came in a twist of paper.
When he realised his biggest bonbon customers were young lovers who bought them for their sweethearts, he began to incorporate love mottos. Then he became even more adventurous. Inspired by the crackle of his own log fire, he began looking at ways of recreating that exciting “ snap” sound.
Several accidents and nasty burns later he perfected his salt petre “snap” and incorporated these into his sweets as well. As competitors flooded the market with rival products he was forced to differentiate with small toys and hats. The rest, as they say, is history.
His legacy is a bunch of bemused, slightly sozzled British people who all sit around the table with their ridiculous hats worn askew as they groan at jokes. Thanks, Tom – we owe you one.

Some typical cracker jokes

Why did the turkey cross the road?
Because he wasn't chicken

What is brown and sticky?
A brown stick

What does Santa do with fat elves?
He sends them to an Elf Farm

Why is it difficult to keep a secret at the North Pole?
Because your teeth chatter

If a buttercup is yellow, what colour is a hiccup?
Burple

How does Santa like his pizza?
Deep pan, crisp and even

What always succeeds?
A budgie with no teeth

How does Bob Marley like his doughnuts?
Wi' Jammin

What did the fish say when it swam into a wall?
Dam

Wacky washrooms and terrific toilets: Part 2

An intriguing feature of the ladies’ loos at Schiphol Airport, Holland, is a cubicle for urination only. Is this the washroom equivalent of the “baskets only” queue in the supermarket?

In New York’s Bar 89, the unisex toilets are see-through kiosks that resemble telephone boxes (but with toilets). Unsuspecting visitors are alarmed at the prospect of peeing in full view of other diners – nut luckily the transparent walls fog up as soon as the cubicle door is locked.

Also in the US, Jungle Jim’s market in Ohio has a washroom that at first glance seems to be nothing more than a line of portaloos. Would-be-users form a queue outside – only to discover that the entrance is disguise for a large, plush, jungle-themed washroom within. Such wags, these Americans.

Apparently the ancient Greeks were pretty advanced when it came to plumbing and there’s an elaborate system of sewers in Crete dating back to 1700 BC. Why, then, are modern Greeks are unable to produce a toilet capable of flushing away loo paper?

Some lavatories in Japan have been programmed to automatically raise the seat for a man, but not for a woman. Apparently a sensor detects whether a person is backing onto the loo or walking towards it. I can imagine many late-night games of “confound the toilet” take place in that country.

When washrooms become fun

I seem to spend a large part of my life writing about lavatories. A sad admission, and one that will no doubt cause me some regret on my deathbed. But as a pleasant contrast, much of the rest of my time is spent writing about international cultural quirks. So I thought I'd combine the two and bring you some toilet quirks from around the world.

You’d better mind your pees and Qs when you visit the De Balie cultural centre in Amsterdam, Holland. Apparently this has an interactive talking toilet that rebukes you for smoking or leaving the seat up.

Japanese toilets are as high-tech as you would expect. Built-in bidets, heated seats, glow in the dark loos and toilets with a blow-dry function are all pretty commonplace. Some Japanese lavatories are so complicated they come with a manual and a remote control.

The Madonna Inn in California, America, has a “waterfall urinal”. This is more fun than it sounds since the man (only men can play, unfortunately) pee upon a bare expanse of rock and if they manage to break a beam of light they activate the waterfall themselves .

Peeing in Space is achieved with the aid of his and hers’ suction attachments. The liquid waste is then sent into space where it freezes and creates a light show as the crystals catch the sun. With solid waste, your average astronaut needs to keep his wits about him (or her) and catch it in a bag before it breaks loose and orbits the spacecraft.

More tomorrow.

The Americans: a law unto themselves

You have to be careful in America - there's so many things you can do wrong without knowing it. So here's a bit of help in staying on the right side of the law in the Land of the Free. Though basically you should be OK if you avoid shooting rabbits, jumping off buildings or getting marine creatures drunk.

In New York you need a special licence before you hang out your clothes on a washing line.

Unmarried women are not allowed to go parachuting in Florida on a Sunday.

Shooting rabbits from a motorboat is illegal in Kansas.

In Wisconsin, the state prisons are not allowed to serve butter substitutes to the inmates.

Don't be tempted to get a fish drunk in Ohio if you want to stay on the right side of the law.

The penalty for jumping off a building in New York is death.

In North Dakota it is illegal to lie down and fall asleep with your shoes on.

In California, animals are banned from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship.

In Nebraska bar owners aren't allowed to sell beer unless simultaneously brewing a kettle of soup.

Liquor stores in Indiana are banned from selling milk.

Bank robbers in Louisiana aren't allowed to squirt the clerk with a water pistol after committing their crime.

Vehicle drivers in Alabama must not drive when blindfold.

In North Dakota, it is illegal to serve beer and pretzels at the same time in a bar or restaurant.

If it's only rain, think yourself lucky

The storms they are a comin’, or so say the weather gurus. But then again they’re always prophesising doom in the shape of some sort of extreme weather pattern. So as we peer anxiously at the skies, spare a thought for those who have lived through much more extreme – and frankly, weird – weather in years gone by.

It’s raining frogs
Hallelulah! A shower of frogs apparently fell from the sky in 1954 and landed on Sutton Coldfield. Where else? The poor marine critters had apparently been sucked up into thunderclouds by a mini-tornado and then dumped miles away in a shower of heavy rain.

Flying fish
The same phenomenon was blamed for a shower of small flounder and Dover sole that fell to Earth in East London in May 1984. Most diverting – and handy for Billingsgate, too.

Is it a bird?
Dead birds have been known to plummet from the sky en masse, sometimes partly frozen. These are thought to have been swept up by the powerful updrafts of thundercloud and then frozen at altitude. They then drop to Earth like so many deadly oven-readies.

Ice, ice baby
Giant pieces of ice have reportedly crashed to earth in the past, the largest of which was apparently 20 feet long. This is said to have fallen on Scotland in 1849. The largest ever hailstones, however, fell on Bangladesh in 1986 - each weighed more than1kg and between them killed 92 people.

Bloody showers!
“Rains of blood” have been commonly reported since biblical times and are usually put down to some sort of divine retribution. The reality may be much more prosaic, however. In southern England in 1968 a fine red sand blew in from the Sahara before showery weather set in. The result? You guessed it – bright red rain.

Drivellers killed the radio star

All I want from the radio in the morning is a bit of contemporary music, preferably introduced by someone who tells me what I’m listening to. That’s not too much to ask, is it? But something weird and not very pleasant has happened to radio.

We used to listen to Capital before Johnny Vaughan and his Sycophants stepped in (not a lame Sixties pop group, but a loud-mouthed disc jockey with a bunch of fawning cronies). So we switched to Virgin, which is a little less irritating but seems to be stuck in a time warp. Seventies' music was OK in its day but we've moved on now, thanks.

So today we gave Radio One a try, on the assumption that it was still a music station. Why, then, did it take Chris Moyles 19 minutes to play the first song? “Disc jockey” has become a bit of a misnomer. “Drivel jockey” would be more accurate. And they no longer work alone, but in gangs of young, hip people who ramble on about how drunk they were the night before and what they did in the pizza joint afterwards. We don’t actually care if they ended up vomiting garlic bread all over the Old Kent Road at 4am. It’s not entertainment: it’s like eavesdropping on a particularly distasteful bunch of yobs.

Let's bring back the bloke who plays music and occasionally talks to you (yes, you, and not his mates in the studio). In fact come back Chris Tarrant: all is forgiven.

Click here if you want to wander into the madman's shop

I know I ranted on about internet shopping the other day, but now it’s Ebay’s turn. Actually I love Ebay. It’s fantastic for buying those out-of-print books and end-of-line toys. But when you’re a little more vague about your gift requirements it can all go horribly wrong.
By the time you reach the fifth page of your 57,000 results, your clicking finger has become numb and you’ve forgotten what you came in for. Then you make the mistake of visiting one of the Ebay shops (cue doom-laden music).
This is like visiting a weird old junk shop filled with highly obscure items and run by some cobweb-festooned madman. As you meander further and further into this virtual “store” you will gradually lose the will to live. It’s almost as bad as Ikea shopping.
Now, I loathe Ikea with a passion. You go in for a light bulb and your senses are immediately assaulted by millions of lamps, desks and duvet covers that totally distract you and steer you off course. Even worse, there’s no easy exit.
Ebay stores are like that. Once you hit the madman’s shop you have to feverishly start clicking the “back” key to manoeuvre your way to some sort of reference point – if only you can’t remember what it referred to. Of course, with Ebay you can always think: “Sod this for a game of soldiers” and close down your computer. In Ikea you still have to meander your way towards that exit. Until we invent teleporting, that is.

Why give birthday presents when you can give someone a nasty injury instead?

Since it is a friend’s birthday today I thought I would look into various birthday rituals and traditions around the world. Some of them are elaborate; others are just odd. But it turns out that many of us have a pretty cruel streak when it comes to celebrating each other’s birthdays.

In New Zealand it is traditional to sing “happy birthday” loudly and out of tune (is there any other way?). The birthday girl or boy then receives a clap for each year they have been alive and one for luck.

There’s mental cruelty in store for Norwegian children when they celebrate their birthdays at school. Norwegian kids have to dance in front of their schoolmates while the rest of the class sings them a birthday song.

Dutch people have a thing about chairs, it seems. The birthday child's chair at home will be decorated with paper streamers and balloons, while the Dutch adult will be made to stand on a chair at work while his colleagues sing birthday songs at him.

Brazilian kids have their ear lobes pulled once for every year they were born. Getting crueller, you see.

Canadian children are ambushed by “friends” who then grease their nose with butter or margarine for “good luck”.

Scottish kids get a pound note and a smack on the bottom for each year they’ve been alive. Presumably there's a cut-off point when the burly teenager turns on his parent.

The English tradition of giving birthday bumps has now morphed into “birthday beats”. No doubt it's a matter of time before it becomes a “good birthday kicking”.

OK, so men do sometimes get our gifts right...

Isn't a blogger allowed to take a couple of days off anymore without getting hassled by her reader to add a new post? Anyway (fanfare) here it is.

I decided I was a bit unfair to men the other day about their present-buying prowess. It's good of them to keep trying when we're so hard to please, after all, and it's not their fault they keep getting it wrong. And with only four weeks to go till Christmas I don't want to end up with nothing from my disgruntled husband. So here are some examples of presents from men who got it right.

A day trip to France. Big deal, you might say - but incredibly exciting for this young mother who found a trip to the shops without her toddler a huge treat.

An iPod. Pretty obvious, maybe, but not for this mother of four on her 40th birthday. It made her feel fun, funky and reassuringly young.

Expensive face creams. She knew he was horrified at the inflated price - but the fact that he bought them anyway made her feel great.

A table football machine. He bought it because it was one of the few games she beat him at, so it was wonderfully unselfish. Of course once it was installed in the house he improved dramatically, and was beating her in no time.

A website. Yep, that's right - domain name, contract, live pages about the woman's business - the lot. This gift had everything: it took loads of time and trouble and it was all about her. And it was also fairly cheap.

Here’s some things NOT to buy a woman this Christmas

Every year we hear the same story: “She’s never happy with the presents I buy her.” And from her: “He’s useless at gift-shopping”. It's uncanny how men always seem to get it wrong. The trouble is that men are simpler, much more literal creatures than women. He’ll think: “She spends most of her life in the kitchen – I’ll get her a new saucepan.” Or: “She’s always complaining she’s fat – I’ll buy her a book about dieting.” As we women know, it’s not the present (or even the thought) that counts – it’s the image of ourselves the present projects. So the woman who spends her life in the kitchen would like a weekend break, a spa day or ANYTHING to get her out of the kitchen and make her feel she’s attractive enough to warrant a romantic gift or body treatment. And the “fat” woman would appreciate a romantic break or perhaps a flattering top in a slightly-too-small size to make her feel you think she’s slimmer than she really is. My husband once bought me a dressing gown in size 14-16 (whereas I'm a 12) because he thought it would be more comfortable and roomy. That went down like a lead balloon, as you can image.

I once wrote an article for a women’s glossy on the Christmas howlers men had made. Here are some of them.

A mechanical spade. He wanted her to take over the gardening and thought this was the spur she needed.

A Paul Daniels conjuring book. She was a harassed mother and he thought she'd appreciate being able to do magic tricks for the kids.

A highly colourful jumper. This particularly woman received one every year from her husband – who always purloined the rejects and wore them himself.

A drill. Yes, it was what he wanted for Christmas.

A tool kit. She'd just bought an old car that kept breaking down. What she really wanted was for him to fix the car and take her somewhere romantic in it.

A remote control telephone. Right again: he wanted one himself.

A wastepaper basket. Highly practical…..but on the downside, highly practical.

A fire extinguisher for her car. See above.

How can buying a bag be this difficult?

Sometimes the internet can be a magical place of discovery and wonder. Other times it can be a bewildering labyrinth of cul-de-sacs and side alleys that lead you further and further away from the path where you would actually like to be.
I’m doing my Christmas shopping at the moment. This, rather depressingly, no longer requires going out. Instead I just type in the desired gift in Google and all the options in the world are open to me. That’s the theory, anyway. In the pretty firm belief that my teenage son never reads my blog I’ll let you into a secret - I’ve been trying to buy him a messenger bag. A cool one that a 17-year-old might like. So first of all I typed in “messenger bag” and this elicited a huge range of dull bags at inflated prices. So I tried “cool messenger bag”. Now I am given a selection of cool bags for summer picnics. Hmmm. “Rock messenger bags” fares slightly better. Here I find a range of band-themed bags (though none that would appeal to my son). Then eureka! I remember that he is studying French and decide to try “French messenger bags”. This leads me to an even more confusing selection of options including a You Tube video (in French) on how to make a messenger bag out of duct tape. So I try “theme messenger bags” and weirder still: I come up with “how to make a messenger bag out of floppy disks”. Everything now points to me making my own messenger bag out of bits of old rubbish lying around the house. Either that, or going out.
In case you are also looking for a messenger bag, here are some that a teenager might actually like:
http://www.inretro.net/dj-messenger-bag-beatles-i1724.html
http://www.munkeygames.com/shop/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=1227
http://www.inretro.net/rock-messenger-bag-the-who-i2040.html
Though of course, input from any teenagers who might be reading this would be very welcome!

Forgotten your password? Don't worry - a hacker will find it for you

Life doesn’t half get complicated, doesn’t it? The average adult head is now constantly buzzing with the mixture of upper and lower case characters (plus numbers and symbols) required for our numerous internet passwords. Add to these our PIN numbers and it’s easy to see why 30 per cent of people regularly forget their passwords and around a quarter of us forget our log-in names after a week. So why do firms make them increasingly difficult for us to remember? Is it really necessary to confound us by asking for a mixture of letters, numbers, symbols etc?
Actually it is. A hacker using an average computer can crack a four-number PIN virtually instantaneously and a six-letter password in just 8.5 hours. So what about an eight-character password using a mixture of numbers, symbols and upper and lower-case letters? OK so these are harder to remember, but the good news is that there are a staggering 2.9 quadrillion permutations and will take the average computer around 9,488 years to crack. The bad news is that a supercomputer will still guess your password in just 346 days. So change it every year and you should be OK.
Unfortunately we humans are simple creatures and we all come up with the same passwords. Here are the most popular:

1. password
2. 123456
3. qwerty
4. abc123
5. letmein
6. monkey
7. myspace1
8. password
9. blink182
10.(your first name)

So. Computers pretty clever, humans really, really stupid. Time for another video to illustrate this I think.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGoi1MSGu64&feature=related

It's tea time and raining: you must be in England

A friend of mine sent me an article where people had been asked to sum up the British using only five words. Suggestions included:

“Turned out nice again”
“Sorry, is this the queue?”
“At least we’re not French”

Hmm. A nation of weather-obsessed, French-hating queuers. That’s us. So then I thought: how do our idioms sum us up as a nation? And can other nationalities also be summed up by their idioms? I took a look and though I’m stereotyping outrageously, here goes.

English:
That’s not my cup of tea
Make hay while the sun shines
There’s plenty more fish in the sea
He’s taken French leave (he’s gone AWOL)

Yes, that’s right – we are a tea-loving people, relentlessly chipper about our terrible weather and secure in our position as an island nation. Oh – and we still hate the French.

French
That will put butter on the spinach (That will put food on the table).
Look after your onions (Mind your own business)
He’s taken English leave (he’s gone AWOL)
These show the French as a nation of food-obsessed onion-lovers…… who hate the English.

German
That is not your beer. That’s none of your business
He’s looking silly amid the laundry. He’s been caught with his trousers down
It’s about the sausage! It's do or die!
Yes, it’s always about the sausage for the Germans. These people don’t like to look a fool and are partial to a beer.

Italian
If one Pope dies, we can always get another. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.
He’s taken English leave (gone AWOL)
You can't have a full bottle and a drunken wife. “you can't have your cake and eat it”,
As we suspected, the Italians are a nation of wine-guzzling, women-loving, pragmatic Catholics - who also hate the English.

Dutch
It's easy to cut big chunks from someone else's cheese. " It’s easy to spend someone else’s money
He's such a liar, you can feel it with your wooden shoes. ???
You’re sticking feathers up my a**e You’re flattering me
It seems the Dutch are a clog-wearing, cheese-making nation who are not averse to performing the occasional dubious practice in Amsterdam after dark.

A combination of song, worldly goods and urine ensure the guy gets the girl

OK, so yesterday’s mating rituals seemed to go down well. Here’s some more.

The grasshopper
When grasshoppers want to mate it’s like karaoke night. Eerily like when humans want to mate, in fact. The male grasshopper will start to sing and if that impresses any passing female, she will join him in a duet until he finds her. The grasshopper has some 400 mating songs to choose from - unlike the human, who only has “My Way”.

The porcupine
The female porcupine only wants to mate once a year, so how does the male harness this rare opportunity? He waddles over, stands on his hind legs and pees all over her. That seems to do the trick. If she’s unimpressed, she will scream and shake off the urine. Then it’s back to the watering hole for the male so that he can drum up sufficient pee to try again.

The bowerbird
The male bowerbird is like a very fussy interior designer. He’ll spend hours getting his love nest ready, decorating it with flowers, feathers, stones, and bits of old rubbish. He will then sit back and wait for the materialistic female bower bird to wander over and marvel at his skill. He'll only leave his post to nip across to the bower next door and steal things and kick stuff around to improve his own chances of success.

The manakin
The male manakin performs a kind of moonwalk to attract the female. But his version of the dance is so revved up it needs to be captured on camera at around 1,000 frames per second, then viewed in slow motion to be fully appreciated. Eat your heart out Michael Jackson.

The Argentine lake duck
I don’t actually know how the male Argentine lake duck attracts his mate. He probably preens his feathers and struts around a bit. What I do know is that it’s all academic because the Argentine lake duck has the world’s longest penis. It’s a corkscrew-shaped monstrosity that measures about 17 inches long. And if that doesn’t impress her, he’s not above using it as a lasso to haul her back to the nest.

Dancing, chatting, twirling his tail: how men win over the ladies

If there's one thing we all have in common - animals, politicians everyone - it's the mating ritual. Every species develops its own way to win over the opposite sex. And we all do it differently - though hopefully with the same result.

The hippopotamus

Hippos attract their mate by urinating and defecating simultaneously, then twirling their tails like a propellor to spread the proceeds far and wide. Irresistible.

The flatworm

An obscure Australian species of hermaphrodite flatworm engages in a sort of Gladiators' match with their penises before mating. The first to stab the other with its penis wins the privilege of injecting the sperm, while the loser lays the eggs.

The human

The male of this species uses a mixture of alcohol-induced bravado, dance moves and chat-up lines to attract the female.

In fact, is this still true? Do people simply add each other as a Top Friend or "poke" each other on Facebook to show they're interested these days? It's a long time since I've been chatted up but I have to say that the death of the chat-up line as we knew it wouldn't be a great loss to humanity. Here are some particularly underwhelming ones:

• "You have lovely eyes. They sort of match your knees."


• "Would you like to come back to my place to sleep with me? 'Course if I really fancied you, I'd ask you to dinner first."


• "I can't help noticing that you have lovely teeth."


• "I thought I'd come and have a chat with you since you've been eyeing me up all night."

Yes, they were all used on me and no, I won't tell you which ones worked.

Talking of underwhelming chat-up lines, here's a video you might like:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3OnUz1QZXs

Come back People On Phones, all is forgiven

There was a time when a consumer who had a problem with a product or service would pick up the phone and ring the company. The call-handler would then sympathetically deal with your complaint and leave you feeling marginally better than when you started.
Then Customer Services branched out into two different directions. On one hand was the recorded voice giving you a list of increasingly bewildering options that ended with the words: “To hear these options again, press One”. It was like one of those convoluted Eleven Plus questions: “John has a problem with his internet connection but not his email service. Mabel is a new customer with an issue with her email service and who doesn’t have Broadband. Sam is an existing customer who can’t connect at all. Which customer is the most disgruntled?”
The other innovation was the Indian Call Centre. This involved someone completely remote from you and your business attempting to solve your problems from a script. Cultural differences made this unsatisfactory; people in Indian call centres are often too polite for us British and don’t always understand our quips.
The other day I was introduced to a new refinement of customer services torture: the Indian Instant Messaging Complaint Service. A little dialogue box popped up and said: “Hello. I’m Jasmin. How can I help you today?” My problem was that Jasmin’s company had sold me a Broadband acceleration package, the latest version of which had immobilised all my browsers. So I wanted to find out how to dump the new version and reinstate the old. It took 90 excruciating minutes. She was obviously using cut and paste to fix the problem and whenever I asked a question that was “off script” she simply ignored it. After asking fruitlessly: “Can I have the old version back?” and “How can I reinstate the original version?” I became more than a little annoyed and ranted: “WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME HOW TO REINSTALL THE OLD VERSION??” I was interested to note that after another 10 minutes she sloughed off her innate courtesy and ranted back, also in capitals. But when the problem was eventually fixed and all inhibitions now gone I typed: “It worked! YIPPEEE!” She regained her formality and replied: "Is there anything else I can help you with today, madam?” I nearly replied LOL but it seemed inappropriate.

Next time you go whale-shooting, be careful what you wear

Back to those strange laws again…it seems that every nation has its personal preferences about what people should wear in public. As you now know (see Sunday's blog) men in Florida are barred by law from wearing any kind of strapless gown in their home state. But in glamorous California, women are prohibited from getting into a car while looking drab (see below) while the dress restrictions on MPs in England are truly outrageous.

It is illegal for a Member of Parliament to enter the House of Commons in England wearing a full suit of armour.
In California, women aren’t allowed to drive while wearing a house coat.
In Australia it is illegal to roam the streets wearing black clothes, felt shoes and black shoe polish on your face. Apparently this clearly marks you out as a cat burglar.
In Scotland, it is illegal to refuse a passing caller the use of your toilet.
In York you can't shoot a Scotsman with a bow and arrow on a Sunday.
In Texas it is illegal to milk another person's cow.
Having sexual relations with a porcupine is against the law in Florida.
In California you're not allowed to shoot at any game – other than a whale - from a moving vehicle.
Shooting a buffalo from the second storey of a hotel is illegal in Texas.

Don't forget to celebrate Catesby Night tonight

Have you ever thought how strange it is that 21st century Britain still embraces the Guy Fawkes night tradition with such bloodthirsty enthusiasm?
Why do we do this? Surely we don’t still loathe and despise the so-called traitor who tried to blow up the government leaders of his era. Many of us secretly admire him, in fact. Yet we still light bofires every year to celebrate the safety of King James I – or at least that was the rationale behind the very first Bonfire Night on November 5, 1605.
Some say our deep-rooted subversive streak makes us proud of the mavericks who dared to challenge the leaders of their day. Others say we're just a bunch of pyromaniacs who like fireworks. But whichever is true, here are some things you may not have known about the festival.

The gunpowder plot was actually masterminded by Robert Catesby, but poor old co-conspirator Guy Fawkes just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in charge of 36 barrels of gunpowder inside the Houses of Parliament. "What, these? Nothing to do with me, guv." So but for a quirk of fate, we would today be celebrating Catesby Night and burning "Roberts".
The tradition of making stuffed “guys” and burning them on bonfires leads some people to assume that Guy Fawkes was burnt at the stake. But as every schoolchild knows, he was hanged, drawn and quartered. Except he wasn't. Wily old Guy leapt from the scaffold and died before any drawing and quartering could take place.
Although uniquely British in its history, Guy Fawkes Night is also enthusiastically celebrated in New Zealand. Though Prime Minister Helen Clark is this year threatening to ban all those nasty dangerous fireworks.
Guy Fawkes night is so bang up to date that it even has its own website: http://www.bonefire.org/. Besides informing us about this annual event, the site also has a merchandising section where visitors can buy Guy Wear (for guys, naturally) and would-be female plotters can kit themselves out with Fawkesy Lady T-shirts.

Looks like the Queen's guard has forgotten their socks again...

Did you think you were a perfectly respectable, law-abiding person? Well be careful – breaking the law is easier than you think.
For instance, imagine you have just finished the grocery shopping at your local (English) supermarket and are on your way home on the bus. That big bar of Fruit and Nut in your shopping bag is calling out to you and you finally succumb, breaking off a hefty chunk. Immediately you have fallen foul of the law: in England, it is illegal for a woman to eat chocolate on a public conveyance.
Or maybe you are a dairy farmer in Scotland and after a night out at the local hostelry you come across one of your herd ambling down the road, having wandered away from the rest. You lurch over to Esmerelda and drunkenly try to coerce her back into the field. Don’t be surprised when a police car screeches to a halt beside you: in Scotland it is is illegal to be a drunk in charge of a cow.

Here are some other random laws:

In Florida it is illegal for a man to be seen in public wearing any kind of strapless gown.
Liverpool law says no woman shall be topless in public, unless she is as an assistant in a tropical fish store.
In France it is illegal to name your pig “Napoleon”.
English law dictates that no-one should stand within a hundred yards of the reigning monarch without socks on.
In New York it is against the law to throw a ball at someone's head for fun.
In Alabama it is illegal to wear a fake moustache that causes laughter in church.

Someone, somewhere, give poor old Doctor David a hug

Apparently research carried out at Manchester Metropolitan University has revealed that nowadays people are just too busy to hug.
It appears that everyone needs at least one cuddle a day, and most of us are not getting our quota either because hugging takes up too much of our precious time, or because we fear our touchy-feeliness may be misinterpreted in today’s politically correct society.
Actually, I’m not convinced. Over the past 50-or-so years the British people have changed from a reserved, restrained stiff-upper-lipped nation to a rather sentimental bunch. We cry in unison at the funerals of people we didn’t even know, and we leave flowers at the site of any tragedy we come across. And yes, we are more inclined to hug. Teenagers seem to hug each other at the drop of a hat these days. Boys even hug other boys – something that would have horrified my dear old Dad.
Apparently the research was spearheaded by just one man - psychologist Dr David Holmes. I wonder why. Does he spend his time holed up at Manchester Metropolitan University yearning for a cuddle? And did that prompt him to begin this research just to prove that it was everyone else – and not just him – not getting their fair share of hugs?

Someone give him a hug, quick, just so he'll get off the backs of the rest of us.

Fat? Try a spot of arsenic and wash it down with alcohol

According to the health police we're all going to obese and/or dead by the middle of next week. So it’s probably about time we went on a collective diet. Take your pick from the list below - all are tried and tested but whether any of them work or not is anybody's guess.

The alcohol diet
In the 11th century, William the Conquerer became too fat to ride his horse. So to lose weight he took to his bed and went on an alcohol-only diet. Sounds like a plan.

The arsenic and strychnine diet
Yes, that would work - it’s hard to eat when you’re dead. Arsenic, strychnine and washing soda were among the common ingredients in dieting products of the 1890s.

The grapefruit diet
Also known as the Hollywood Diet, this was created in the 1930s and allowed dieters to eat only grapefruit, hard-boiled eggs, green vegetables and - to glam it up a bit- melba toast.

The mineral oil diet
In the 1940s, some bright spark decided to promote indigestible mineral oils as an alternative to olive oil since it merely passes through the system. But mineral oil doesn’t just tippy-toe through – it bludgeons its way through the system with lots of mess and disturbance. Dieters experienced all sorts of nasty symptoms such as wind, bloating and diarrhoea.

The clock-watchers’ diet
Diet gurus in the 1970s instigated a weight loss plan that imposed rigid guidelines on which foods should be eaten when. Before noon the dieter could eat nothing but fruit and during the remaining hours, proteins and carbohydrates were never to be eaten at the same time. This was misguided for two reasons: a) some foods (such as pulses) contain both proteins and carbohydrates, and b) our bodies can’t tell the time.

The “eating less” diet
A recurring dieting suggestion during history has been that we actually eat less at each meal in order to lose weight. This "diet" didn't grab the imagination and sadly never caught on.

From very small, the cucumber is bent

OK, here are some more food idioms to help you celebrate the harvest.

I am as sad as a poor sausage (German – what else?) I’m very upset. According to the Germans, sausages are unhappy and easily offended (see yesterday's blog). Being eaten would have that effect.
From very small, the cucumber is bent. (Portuguese) Blood will out. Portuguese idioms lend an air of mystery to sayings that are actually faintly ridiculous in themselves. The other one I like is:
Women and sardines: you want them to be small. Do the Portuguese have a morbid fear of Amazonian women wielding oversized sardines?
You have the heart of an artichoke
(French) You are inconstant in love
Even if it rained milk, his bowls would be upside down. (Dutch) This refers to someone who is very unlucky, but I would prefer this scenario than falling with my nose in the butter any day.
He has the blood of a turnip (French) he is lily-livered, chicken-hearted, yellow-bellied…all perfectly good idiomatic expressions - but no, the French have to drag a vegetable into it yet again.

So much meat, and here I am with no teeth!

So here we are in thew middle of autumn, which is all about plentiful supplies of fruits and grain being harvested from the land. A tenuous link, I know, but it seemed as good as any to bring you some food idioms from around the world.

It's interesting to note the different themes that crop up from country to country. The agriculturally-minded French manage to bring a vegetable into practically every sentence. The Dutch have a bit of a thing about dairy produce. And can you take a wild stab at the Germans' food fixation?

He is a big vegetable (French) Interesting how we English find a man-made "big cheese" impressive whereas the French compare their VIPs with huge turnips or other large examples of nature’s bounty.

She's playing the insulted liverwurst (German) Yep, you guessed it. The Germans are always banging on about sausages. Pardon the pun. This means: "She is being very touchy."

He fell with his nose in the butter (Dutch) For some reason, this means: “He is very fortunate” though this doesn’t sound like my idea of a lucky day.

He is making like a leek (French) He is standing around doing nothing. Possibly wearing his best green suit and smelling of onions.

So much meat, and here I am with no teeth. (Spanish). Water, water everywhere…..I know it doesn't fit in, but I threw this one in because I liked it and it makes a great title.

Everything has an end: only the sausage has two (German) Weird. What about bits of string, phone lines, motorways….nope, just the sausage. This means: All good things must come to an end.

Don’t stand in the sun with butter on your head. (Dutch) Good advice. I'll get in the shade straight away. Though why people who live in glass houses should think of throwing stones either is another mystery.

This post is getting a bit long so I'll add more of these tomorrow if it's all the same to you.

Fill up your wine glasses, everyone - the revolution is on

This week the Government decided to metaphorically peer through our windows and wag its finger at us for drinking too much at home. Apparently our wine glasses are now too big and our wine too strong, which means we may be drinking more than we actually realise. The inference is that now the Government has pointed this out we'll have a new, enlightened look at our glasses of wine and exclaim: “My word! You’re right! I’ll cut down immediately.” Do they know anything about psychology at all? We parents understand that if we disapprove of our teenagers’ relatively harmless lifestyle choices they will imediately rebel and step up the forbidden activity. Of course, we middle-aged tipplers aren’t going to suddenly dye our hair in two-tone skunk colours and get a collective flesh tunnel, but we'll probably drink as much - if not more - than we ever did. And what does the Government have to lose from our drinking habits, anyway? Presumably alcohol shortens our life expectancy, which would save them a nice fat wad in pension money. Ah but no, they are probably more concerned about our livers all failing at once which would result in a huge drain on the NHS. Though they’ve got that one covered, too. They simply have to start up more of those MRSA and C. Difficile labs they operate around the country to prevent us from lingering, and that will be it. Job done.

A tattoo isn't just for Christmas - it's for life

I did feel sorry for steelworker Alan Jenkins whose girlfriend left him for a Latvian toyboy after he’d had a big smiley tattoo of her face etched permanently on his back. Tattoos are always a big risk – especially if you choose a loved one as the subject. We live in the age of the e-mail where nothing is permanent (until you press the “send” button, when you can land yourself in all sorts of trouble). But with no typewriter ink and no Tippex anymore, people seem to have this weird compulsion to leave a permanent mark on their bodies instead. True, most of those who do are drunk at the time. But if you’re thinking of having a tattoo, it’s worth bearing in mind that 75 per cent of the tattooed community eventually live to regret their actions. I'm sure that's already true of the young local guy who had the Mercury Radio logo tattooed across his buttocks to try and win Oasis tickets from the station. And win them he did - but the tattoo will live on long after the memory of the concert has faded.

Here are some other tattoo howlers:

David Beckham made a bit of a faux-pas when he misspelt his wife’s name as Vihctoria instead of Victoria in a Hindi tattoo. Why Hindi? Because David thought a Hindi tattoo was “less tacky" than an English one.

Johnny Depp had to have his Winona Forever tattoo altered to Wino Forever after breaking up with Winona Ryder.

Britney Spiers decided to have the Japanese symbol for "mysterious" tattooed on her hip. But the symbol she chose turned out to mean "strange".

A former sailor had to have "her" tattoos removed after a sex-change operation because they made her feel self-conscious in a sleeveless top.

Who wants to buy a rugby World Cup Final ticket?

Don’t you feel sorry for all those French and New Zealand supporters who suddenly find themselves owners of unwanted rugby World Cup Final tickets? No, me neither. In fact as the mad scramble to buy and sell tickets begins, it is interesting to see the many facets of human nature revealed in all their glory. There are the entrepreneurial chancers from England who are asking £25,000 for two tickets to Saturday’s final, claiming “they would like to see the match, but are open to insane offers”. Who isn't? Then there’s the grimly disappointed Frenchman who is asking £3,290 for his tickets to take away the pain of losing to the English (it still makes me smile just writing that). But you don’t have to dig so deep to secure your place at the final. Official tickets are still on sale for a relative snip at 1,590 Euros (£1,108) from: http://www.2007rugby.net/?gclid=CJzPnauJk48CFRUrlAodnyKtAQ And if you really want to pay over the odds, you can have a three-course buffet, drinks and souvenirs plus transport to the match with your Category 1, 3790 Euro (£2,641.70) ticket. from http://www.rugbyticketshop.com/hospitality_package.aspx?match_id=59 . But if I were going to the match, I would definitely buy my tickets from the rueful Ms Active247 who is advertising her two tickets on ebay at the relatively reasonable price of £1,470. Apparently, Mr Active 247 is a kiwi whose act of buying the tickets in advance was “possibly the biggest error he has made in the marriage so far”. She says the tickets are now available though unforeseen circumstances, but adds: “not sure why it's 'unforeseen' as this happens every time, but there you go.” Anyone who can see the funny side of a deluded husband squandering all their money on a dream deserves my business (and my sympathy) any day.

How many environmentalists does it take to reach the moon?

Today is Blog Action Day which means that blog-owners everywhere are writing about the environment. I figured you would quickly become sick of being told how materialistic you are and how plastic bags are your enemies, so I decided to bring you some interesting environmental facts instead.

Every year Americans throw away 18 billion disposable nappies, a sufficient number to reach the moon and back seven times.

Cycling is an environmentally-friendly way of getting around but we lazy Londoners only get on our bikes for four per cent of our total journeys compared with up to 20 per cent in Germany and 50 per cent in Holland.

Every year in the UK we use 13 billion steel cans. If you placed these end to end they would stretch to the moon and back three times. Again with the moon comparisons.

Each year in Britain we throw away 28 million tonnes of rubbish. This weighs the same as three and a half million double decker buses, which would go around the world one and a half times. Or part way to the moon. But only if you rocket-powered them, which would make them very environmentally-unfriendly indeed.

The energy we save when recycling one glass bottle is enough to light a traditional light bulb for four hours.

If you were to use 300,000,000 cans to make a giant pyramid out of recyclable cans, then climb to the top of this pyramid and extend both your arms, you would probably fall off.

Rugby World Cup final here we come!

England is going to be very, very quiet this morning as we all recover from last night’s mammoth celebration. Winning a place in the World Cup Finals of anything is something we don’t do very often these days. In fact as a nation, we’ve lost the knack of winning in general. Now that sports days in schools are strictly non-competitive and there’s a gift in every layer of Pass the Parcel we’ve pretty much had it drilled into us that “It’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that counts”. Try telling that to one of the losing French side and see where it gets you. But wasn’t it hugely exciting? Wasn’t Josh Lewsey’s try an act of sheer audacity, and didn’t Johnny Wilkinson manage to pull it out of the bag when he had to? And weren’t you on the edge of your seat at the end? So bring on the final. Apparently we are still only rated seventh in the World Rugby Rankings http://wrr.live555.com/ despite last night’s triumph. Yes, seventh. That’s lower than France (ranked third) and Australia (fourth), both of whom we've now beaten (in case you needed reminding). You want to know where South Africa and Argentina rank, don’t you? Well, South Africa is currently sixth – only one rank ahead of us despite that 36-0 trouncing the other week. For that alone, we definitely don’t want to meet them again in the final. But Argentina is ranked second in the world, so we don’t want to play them either. How about a world cup for every team - just for taking part?

Some European drinking tips for pub day

Why can’t Europe “do” pubs? Continental bars are as far removed from the English pub in style, ambience and general cosiness as a dentist’s waiting room is from a cottage sitting room. Maybe those Europeans like all those harsh lights, hard seats and goldfish-bowl like windows, but why? Don’t they understand the soothing effect of velveteen seats, an open fire and junk all over the walls? They have some very odd drinking customs in Europe, too which you should really be aware of before you set out. Here are some tips of what not to do.

Don’t accept an offer of a Grappa in Italy unless you’re made of stern stuff. It’s made from the wine harvest leftovers (that’s right - pips, stems, skins and stuff) and it is also around 45 per cent proof.

Don’t expect a French pub to look like a pub. Most of them double as a tobacconist, barber’s shop, hardware store or butcher’s which means that booze is just a sideline. So you’ve come to the right place if you fancy a smoke and a shave with your Ricard.

Don’t panic when your Dutch barperson brandishes a knife. It is customary to use one to slice off the froth from your beer. If he happens to be a psychopath, that’s pure coincidence.

Don’t start drinking with a group of Germans until you have raised your glass and met everyone else’s eye. It is considered very unlucky to do so and some Germans claim it can lead to “seven years’ bad sex”.

Don’t refuse a refill in Russia as it is considered rude to stop drinking until your host is ready to do so. And since your vodka is supposed to be downed in one, inebriation is a bit of a given.

In your Face, teenagers – now we too have a Space of our own!

Has Facebook exploded into your life yet? One minute we older people were using our well-thumbed address books to look up our friends while scorning teenagers for spending every second of their free time on MySpace. Though to be honest some of us secretly envied them, too, because we’d have loved a similar facility when we were young. Then, hey presto! Someone from Harvard sets up a MySpace-style site for graduates, and before you can say Superpoke the rest of us are piling on the virtual bandwagon in our hundreds. Facebook has only been around since 2004 but is already one of the top ten websites and the age profile of users is gradually rising. I was invited in by some Canadians I knew 30 years ago and at their suggestion, tentatively created an account. Then my young friend Dilan “added” me and wrote on my virtual “wall”, and I was away. I haven’t yet “poked” anyone (that seems a bit rude. How about a “half-smile of recognition” or “gentle tap on the shoulder” function instead?) Actually, that’s the crux of the matter for me. We older users more or less gatecrashed Facebook and are still a bit uncomfortable hobnobbing with the younger guests. How about a corner of Facebook just for us? It could have a cosy background with flattering lighting and nice soft furnishings, and perhaps a fire. The quiz section could include crosswords and Countdown, and we could even have our own Superpoke functions such as: “Mary gave Stan a back rub” and “Jim gave Sue a nice cup of cocoa”. I actually meant that as a joke, but am I giving away a fantastic new business idea?

Hampton Court? Sorry to hear that, sir

So. Those rude Cockney rhyming slang phrases I promised you. Hopefully you’ll know some of them already – Bristol Cities, Khyber Pass, bottle and glass, pony and trap, tom tit, Jimmy Riddle, rattle and hiss etc. Even if you didn’t know them you’ll no doubt be able to work them out pretty quickly from the rhyme. Then there is coach and four, raspberry tart and the rather elaborate Aristotle (bottle) that translates in turn to bottle and glass (arse). It was definitely some smart Aris who thought that one up.
My favourites though are those terms that seem to have been thought up simply to give your average Cockney a laugh at other (posher) people’s expense. Take for instance orchestra stalls, Hampton Wick and Berkeley Hunt. Orchestras in general are associated with the well-to-do so when we Cockneys (or neo-Cockneys from Herts) hear that Andre Previn was famous for his orchestras, we can’t help but laugh. Hampton Wick, meanwhile, is a pleasant Thames-side area where many of the residents probably live in happy oblivion of the fact that their home town means “dick”. Hampton Court has connotations of its own and can sound pretty painful when said out loud.
As for the Berkeley Hunt in Gloucestershire, they probably took themselves very seriously until the Cockneys came along and used their name as a euphemism for the unmentionable. This term (pronounced Barclay) is usually shortened to Berkeley. It caused much hilarity in neo-Cockney circles when a well-known bank recently launched an ad campaign that ended with the tag line: “You’re better off talking to Barclays”.

Give us a butcher's at your linen, would you?

How many people out there are still using Cockney rhyming slang? I’m pretty sure you know what it is (thieves’ cant, developed in the 18th century, spoken by anyone born within the sound of the Bow Bells, etc) but does anyone actually use it as part of their everyday language? It’s still very much alive in our house. My Dad used to use Cockney rhyming slang all the time when we were growing up and much of it has become interchangeable with “real” English in my head (or should I say “loaf”). The rest of the family has assimilated the slang, too. Here's an example of what you might hear round our house.
“Let’s have a butcher’s at the linen.” Could you see your way clear to letting me have a look (butcher’s hook) at the paper? (linen draper)
“Oi, saucepans! Wash your Germans for tea.” Children! (saucepan lids = kids) Kindly wash your hands (German bands). We are about to eat.
“How about taking the cherry to the rub-a-dub? I fancy a pig’s ear.” Shall we walk the dog (cherry hog) to the pub? I'd like a beer.
“I’ve got a pain in the Hampsteads and me Newingtons are playing me up again.” I am in the unfortunate position of suffering both from toothache (Hampstead Heath = teeth) and a stomach ache (Newington Butts = guts) at the same time.
OK so we may not use these actual phrases every day, but you get the gist. It would be nice to know we are not alone and won’t end up holding "save-our-language" sit-ins at Somerfields like the Welsh. Having a little-known-language in one’s repertoire is actually very handy when it comes to swearing, too, since few other people know what you are saying. More later.

True confessions from OCD 315

Why can’t our registration plates be more like the American ones? For a small fee US drivers can have their name, company or personal message emblazoned on their car for everyone to see. In the UK on the other hand, anyone with a personalised number plate is treated like a big loser and show-off. But that isn’t my main concern.
I have a confession to make. My name is Ann Laffeaty, and I'm a number plate addict. It all began in 1995 when my five-year-old son became bored and grizzly during the return drive home from holiday in Scotland. I suggested we play a game: we should look for a car with a registration plate containing the number 1 (such as BMW 1), then a registration plate with a number 2, and so on. Not surprisingly our son quickly became tired of this lame pastime. I, on the other hand, decided to carry on on my own for a while. And I did. For about 15 months. I was up to 254 then realised it was time to stop when I found myself automatically scanning cars on the way to my Dad’s funeral. I was so horrified with myself that I ended the game there and then. So that was that – until I confessed to this former addiction some years later during a visit to a friend. He remarked idly that the game would soon be obsolete, anyway, what with today’s numbers denoting the year of sale (056, 07 etc) instead of the old random number system. So on the way home I idly began playing the game again to see whether it was, in fact, still viable. That was three years ago, and I am now up to 315. I foresee several wasted years ahead visiting car pounds and knackers’ yards to see if I can reach 999. Or perhaps someone can suggest a cure?