Pubs, idioms, laws, customs: 100 things you didn't know

It's not the taking part, it's winning that counts

2008-04-10T18:59:00.010+01:00

Watching The Apprentice last night, I couldn't help but observe how the entire show reflects "nature in the raw". OK so the parties wear sharp suits rather than loincloths and compete with Blackberries rather than spears, but they do so knowing full well that the best team will win and one of the "losers" will be summarily sacked - the survival of the fittest as it were.
Strange stuff considering that we've spent the past couple of decades telling our kids that it's the taking part that counts to the point where schools ban sports days and everyone gets a prize in Pass the Parcel.
So starved have we been of competition that it's fun to watch a good old-fashioned fight to the finish (where no-one ends up brain-dead or eaten by lions, of course).
The very uncompromising nature of the programme and the inevitability of its conclusion gives the viewer a little frisson of delighted horror - especially when Sir Alan Sugar utters his now-famous catchphrase: "You're fired". Funny to think that when Sir Alan was young, being fired for underperforming was an everyday occurrence rather than the entertaining exception.
The other thing that strikes me is the fact that all these over-confident would-be apprentices fall over themselves to impress Sir Alan Sugar. It can't be just about the job - they all have pretty good ones in any case. I think it's a father-figure thing, which is ironic and rather poignant in this age of the fatherless family.
Anyway, enough of all this pondering. Who do you like best? I like Raif (because of his wonderful upper-class arrogance) and Simon (because he's hard-working and funny). The women are a nightmare. Sorry, sisters.

Bring back the breakfast-on-a-plate option

2008-03-24T20:06:00.008Z

Whoever came up with the idea of breakfast buffets?

Let's look at the facts:

1. Whether it's fried eggs, sliced meats, waffles, croissants - we all have a definite idea about what breakfast involves and how it should be served
2. None of us are at our best in the mornings

So what do hotels do? They abandon the wonderful practice of gently seating you at a table and bringing you tea before serving you - silently -with the breakfast of your choice. Instead they lay on an assault course of multi-coloured fruit juices, viciously spitting hot drink dispensers and huge covered dishes with clattery lids to confuse and bewilder the poor, blinky-eyed guest. Then they'll throw in a few special challenges such as the do-it-yourself toaster that ressembles an old-fashioned mangle, or the Scandinavian teacup-with-no-handle.

If you're on your own in a hotel, you'll of course have the added problem of finding a table and leaving your breakfast there before wandering off to find a cup of tea, only to discover that the Breakfast Police have helpfully removed your dish in readiness for the next guest.

I'm becoming increasingly tempted to "slum it" these days and opt for the traditional B&B where there are just two options: tea and toast or Full English. I'll then meekly accept whatever this entails whether it is simply eggs, sausages, bacon and tomatoes or all of the above plus mushrooms, fried potatoes - and if you're lucky, the downmarket but fantastic addition of baked beans.

One of the things we DON'T need in the mornings is choice. Just bring it on - quietly - and we'll love you forever. Or at least until lunchtime.

Leave today's substitute for elderly foreign women alone

2008-02-13T17:54:00.012Z

At one time, everybody used to moan about foreigners - and then it became racist and forbidden.
Women were also put down by society until sexism kicked in.
Then it was the turn of the old folk to become the butt of people's jokes. But Age Concern put a stop to that.
It's human nature to laugh at, moan about or put down someone else - preferably someone who's unlikely to fight back. Though the target group can't be completely defenceless like, say, toddlers. Or kittens. So now the elderly, the female and the foreign are out of the picture, who should we pick on next?
It seems it's teenagers who have become the target of today's outrage. The whole "Kevin and Perry" thing with teens portrayed as grunting, money-grubbing, parent-hating, loutish people started it off. Now you can scarcely pick up a paper without hearing about teenagers who binge-drink, play truant, take drugs or kick a person to death as soon as look at them.
Of course, some teenagers are like that. But has anyone bothered to find out what percentage we are talking about? For every loutish teenager on the street there are probably several hundred more at home revising for their A levels. And I think you'll find there are also plenty of loutish adults out there.
A recent BBC survey found that only 13 per cent of teenagers felt valued by society. That's very sad and it's time we changed it. Actually, teenagers are some of the nicest people I know. Some of the things I like about teenagers are:

They're so enthusiastic. Whether their passion involves an ambition, a rock group, a hobby or a film star, they'll give it 100 per cent
They're often much more polite than we give them credit for
They still get excited about food. While older people are picking at their foie gras and caviare, they'll be tucking into their biscuits and chips with healthy gusto
They still look up to their parents' generation and are more respectful than we sometimes deserve
They look better on the dance floor than we do
They're funny. A sophisticated sense of humour kicks in much earlier than you'd think

Mum's the word

2008-02-06T13:18:00.000Z

My Mum hasn't been well this week, so here's a eulogy for mothers in general.
When I was young I thought there was nothing my Mum couldn't do. I remember watching an old Disney film called Old Yeller in which a family adopts a yellow labrador that saves their lives (or something) and becomes injured as a result. The family lives miles away from a vet so the mother has to sew up the dog's belly while the children watch in awe, safe in the knowledge that Mum would be able to save their dog's life. I instinctively knew my Mum, sitting beside me, could do the same.
When did they stop making Mums like that? I couldn't sew up a dog's belly to save my own life - let alone that of the dog. In fact I couldn't even gut a fish or stuff a chicken. I hope my kids never knew their hypothetical dog was as good as dead in my hands.

Other things Mums should be able to do:

Make pancakes
I tried again last night - ie Shrove Tuesday - but all I ended up with was little dollops of stodge covered with syrup and sugar. Poor kids - they still don't even realise how pancakes are actually meant to look and taste.
Know instinctively when a child is too ill for school
She doesn't say: Don't you think you ought to go? How ill do you feel exactly? Can't you decide by yourself?
Remember things
She'll have your packed lunch, ink cartridges, PE kit and school trip money all ready for you - and you'll just take it all for granted. In fact your lithe young brain will still be wrestling with where you put your school shoes while Mum's shrivelled up one grapples with everything else.
Be there when you're miserable
Let's face it, after you've reached your teens she'll become like some old coat that may be warm and familiar but doesn't quite fit any more. You hardly ever want to wear it - but you still like to have it around for thise rare occasions when nothing else will do.

Going round the bend of the 'U-shape' of life

2008-01-29T15:19:00.001Z

Academics are always carrying out lenghty, in-depth surveys that reveal the flaming obvious. For instance they've just discovered that teenagers - who rarely rise before 9am - need more sleep than adults. And that people who drink a lot of (calorie-laden) alcohol are more likely to be fat. Rocket science it ain't.
It's a shame the surveyers don't have a bit more common sense and actually attempt to interpret the results of their work.
For example I read today that people in their 40s are more likely to be depressed than young people or pensioners. They refer to this phenomenon rather pompously as the "U-shape" of life, but have no idea why it should occur.
They should have asked me.
It's pretty obvious, actually. Life is fairly simple as a child and young adult. Everything (food, travel, work, social life, love) is all rather new and exciting. Young people are generally liked, admired and excused for a lot of things - particularly if they are attractive - and the world is filled with unlimited possibilities.
By your 40s those possibilities begin to thin out a bit. You will probably never become a model, an actor or a footballer now. You are on a treadmill and are constantly striving for material possessions and/or recognition at work. You might have a partner (though a lot of break-ups occur at this time) and you may also have children, but are probably too busy to enjoy them.
Once you become old, your horizons have narrowed even further but you begin to expect much less from your life. You gain more joy from your garden and grandchildren than you ever did from that new BMW and home cinema system. People make fun of your sideburns and high waistbands, but you no longer care.
This is a very simplistic theory from someone in her 40s who is still unaccountably happy, but I think there's some truth in it. I certainly intend to be a happy pensioner if I'm still around by then. I'll behave atrociously at weddings and everyone will excuse the drunken granny because of her great age. I'll dance with all the handsome young men who will humour me (since I'm obviously harmless) and I'll generally have a whale of a time. I might even grow sideburns.

Am I the only one who hates fancy dress?

2008-01-24T08:36:00.000Z

We're going to a fancy dress party next week. It'll be full of people who've carelessly teamed old clothing and accessories together to create a totally co-ordinated, themed look. I really envy them.

I'll be agonising long and hard over what to wear. I'm always careful to avoid anything too over-the-top, since if you become miserable or angry during the party you look completely ridiculous when dressed as a clown or a banana. I also prefer to look reasonably attractive rather than go for the Frankenstein mask or full-face beard approach. So basically, I always end up as a tart.

You can't go wrong with a tart's costume. Short skirt, long boots and anything else you want to team with it, plus loads of make-up. And it works with almost any theme. Black and white party? Black mini, black boots. Rock band theme? Easy. A punk tart.

I've tried to be a little more adventurous in the past. I once went to a party as a stick of broccoli, wearing a green skirt and matching top and hat with some curly parsley in the brim. Yes it was rather lame, but arguably better than my friend's costume. She wore tartan trousers and a plain top teamed with Doc Marten boots. "Who are you?" people asked. "I'm Connie Frank." "Er.....who's Connie Frank?" "My friend in Canada. She always dreses like this."

I wish I were more like my husband, who embraces the whole dressing up thing with almost too much enthusiasm. Take for instance the M.A.S.H party where most people dressed in fatigues or camoflage. I, of course, went as a messroom tart. Brian went as a helicopter.

He made himself this elaborate costume with a wooden tailpiece and propellers on his head that cleared the place every time he went on to the dancefloor. Luckily there was bench seating otherwise he wouldn't have been able to sit down to eat.

Then there was the time he dressed as a jolly green giant for a work-related event in Switzerland - complete with Tarzan-style costume that had been elaborately-sewn by himself (funny he can't manage to sew on a button). The whole team even dared each other to travel back in fancy dress. He spent the flight with various kids on his lap being photographed by their parents. "Go and sit with the strange man while I take your picture." "Waaaaah!"

Then there was the time he went to a party with a "cruise ship" theme. Everyone went as a captain, a bathing beauty or a lounge lizard. Not Brian. He went as a deck chair. He made himself a seven-foot wooden frame and sewed a stripey cover through which he inserted his similarly stripey head. Very elaborate and very difficult to manoeuvre. When he walked through the door a German colleague threw a towel over him. And that's not a joke.

The theme next week is 50s and 60s and I'm already scanning ebay for costumes that don't make me look ridiculous, old and fat. I fear a mini-skirted tart seems inevitable.

We girls don't want to play with trains

2008-01-17T18:22:00.000Z

I see Ed Balls is busy challenging the old gender stereotypes again. Apparently he's trying to convince more male students to follow childcare careers, while girls are being urged to choose engineering as a vocation.

What a load of tosh. Why put a square peg in a round hole......? etc.
I remember there was a similar movement in the early 1990s that involved younger kids and their toys. For some reason it was decided that boys became rough, tough scalliwags simply because they were given guns and trucks to play with. Chromosomes didn't come into it apparently. Girls, on the other hand, chose caring careers because they were given dolls.

So some bright sparks suggested we give our little girls train sets and baby dolls to our sons. And what happened? The boys pulled the heads off their dolls to see how they were made, while many a toy train found itself dressed in a bonnet and tucked up in a cot.

What's wrong with gender stereotypes, anyway? I remember when my little girl was about four and announced while helping me to wash up: "Mummies wash up and daddies fix things." No, no! I argued. Daddies can wash up too, and mummies can fix things! She looked very confused since I'd never been known to fix a thing in her lifetime - and she probably hadn't seen Dad wash up, either.

Surely the whole point is not to discourage any boy/girl from choosing the career they want - whether it is a sterotypical one or not? And boys should also be allowed to play with dolls if they wish. I still can't see them doing a whole lot of washing up, though. Lousy Y chromosomes.

"Make your gums bleed? That will be 40 quid."

2008-01-15T15:15:00.001Z

What exactly is a hygienist? Someone who really, really cares about personal hygiene? Or someone who works in the hygiene industry? No, apparently not. It's a shadowy figure in a white coat who emerged about 10 years ago and whose teeth-scraping services we are told we can no longer do without.

Admit it, if you are a fee-paying adult aren't you constantly being urged to see the hygienist whenever you have a dental check-up? And when you finally succumb, does the hygienist ever say to you: "Your teeth look fine, no excruciating scraping required today"? No, of course not. Instead she (and it's always a "she" of about 18 who wanted to be a beauty therapist but who couldn't get on the course) fills your mouth with pointy objects and tut tuts about the plaque, the "pocketing" and other items you never realised you had in your mouth until now.

Another thing I object to is the fact that they poke and prod your gums with metal points and emerge from your mouth all triumphant at the first sight of blood. "There! You're bleeding, that's a sure sign of gum disease!" they say. If I weren't a lady I'd be tempted to nut them one and announce: "There, a broken nose! A definite sign that you're not getting enough calcium!" I mean, what sort of diagnosis depends on drawing blood and causing pain?

And all this for only 40 quid. What a rip-off. Unfortunately the hygienist isn't the only species who has emerged in the last few years to fleece as many of us as they can.

The personal trainer.
"You're too fat. Do some training. Now pay me." Only they spin it out a bit more.

The life coach
"You're boring. Get a life." I could make a fortune doing this.

The speech therapist
Brought in to make slow speakers anxious and their parents paranoid. Nearly all of us learn to speak eventually. And a speech therapist won't help the few who don't.

Colonic irrigation therapist
Frankly weird.

Be kind to yourself this January - it's the worst month of the year

2008-01-11T11:37:00.000Z

I've been meaning to write a blog about the good things that January has to offer to cheer us all up. Needless to say I couldn't think of anything. I came up with plenty of bad things, though.

It's cold, dark and raining

Summer - and even spring - seem aeons away

It's more than eleven months till Christmas

It's ages since last payday. And since January drags on forever it's also ages till the next one

Your partner is having fun on a snowmobile in Lapland while you're left tending the house (OK, that's just me)

So, what do we do to cheer ourselves up in this, the gloomiest of months? We launch ourselves into detox programmes, start exercising feverishly and make resolutions to give up all our favourite stuff. And all this while revising for mocks or AS levels if we happen to be teenagers.

We should be more like squirrels. They spend most of the winter sleeping - when they're not pampering themselves with little nutty treats that is. In fact, maybe that's what we're supposed to be doing. Look around you. It's dark all the time and your house is filled with leftover nuts from Christmas. A coincidence? I don't think so.

Here's my five-point plan on how to cheer yourself up this January.

Have a treat every day. One of those leftover truffles, a sliver of Christmas cake or a small sherry won't hurt, and it will make you feel so much better about the rest of the day's abstinence.

Book a holiday. If you've booked one already, pore over the brochure. If you can't afford one, enter a competition and google the destination to give you something to dream about.

Celebrate Burns Night. Good old Burns - thanks for giving us a reason to go out and have fun in depressing old January.

Go shopping. OK, you've missed the sales and you're broke, but time it right and your purchases will go on next month's credit card.

Find a snug pub with a log fire and enjoy the cosiness that only winter can bring.

Labelled for life as a Dick Brain or R Slicker

2008-01-06T11:46:00.000Z

Some parents should be shot. Surely having a surname such as "Boner" or "Hardon" is bad enough without exacerbating the problem by giving them a Christian name that draws attention to it?
I mean, what's wrong with "Rick Hardon" or "Gerry Boner"? Why call these two boys Ivor and Daily respectively?
Then there are those families with relatively innocent surnames such as Myass and Ulate. Why would anyone call these two unfortunate babies Dick and Jack?
Still quoting from Potty, Fartwell and Knob, here are some of the ruder names I mentioned the other day.

Dick Surprise
Daily Boner
Ivor Hardon
N Gorge
Dick Justin
Mo Lester
Virtue Slip
Anice Bottom
Jeani Talia
Dick Brain
D Viant
R Slicker
Dick Myass
Ray Pugh
Jack Ulate

Gladys Friday? Love A Duck, me too!

2008-01-04T10:28:00.000Z

A couple of months ago I wrote about a new book entitled Potty, Fartwell and Knob by Russell Ash which is a celebration of some of the more absurd British names through the centuries. I now have a copy of this book and had to share some of the odder names with you.

Do you remember those joke book titles that used to be bandied around some time ago - "The Baby Sitter" by Justin Casey Howles, and "Yellow River" by IP Daly? Well, these names are almost too perfect for jokey book titles - which is weird considering they were all real people, documented with dates and everything. Here are some of them:

Lou Roll
Gladys Friday
Dick Tater
Large Bee
Hugh Swelling
Page Turner
Mike Robe
E Vil
Love A Duck
Min Spiess
Tom Ato
P Freely
Luke Warm
Lew Pole
F Off
Ben Dover
T Cosy
Sally Vates

Then there were a bunch of names that would have meant very little to the holder in days gone by, but give us a chuckle now. Take for instance:

I Pod
ID Card
T Vee
E Mail
Eva Ready
Jay Walker
Jean Pool
Al Dente
Tommy Gun
Sue Perman
Al Fresco

There are also some delightfully naughty names, some of which I will share with you tomorrow.

'Tis the season for pesky round robin letters

2007-12-30T16:37:00.000Z

"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

2007-12-29T10:49:00.000Z

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

2007-12-16T16:45:00.000Z

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

2007-12-13T20:33:00.001Z

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

2007-12-11T07:41:00.000Z

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

2007-12-10T09:16:00.001Z

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

2007-12-07T17:33:00.000Z

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

2007-12-06T08:20:00.000Z

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

2007-12-04T18:39:00.000Z

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

2007-12-03T13:14:00.000Z

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

2007-12-01T14:18:00.000Z

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

2007-11-29T21:42:00.000Z

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?

2007-11-27T09:38:00.000Z

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...

2007-11-25T13:33:00.000Z

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

2007-11-22T09:37:00.000Z

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?

2007-11-19T09:59:00.000Z

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

2007-11-17T12:59:00.000Z

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

2007-11-15T15:02:00.000Z

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

2007-11-14T09:01:00.000Z

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

2007-11-13T13:35:00.000Z

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

2007-11-09T08:04:00.000Z

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

2007-11-07T08:26:00.000Z

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

2007-11-05T08:22:00.000Z

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...

2007-11-04T10:41:00.000Z

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

2007-11-03T15:56:00.000Z

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

2007-10-25T10:11:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-24T08:21:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-10-23T08:39:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-19T16:30:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-18T08:50:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-10-16T11:04:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-10-15T08:05:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-10-14T10:12:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-13T09:11:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-10-12T08:05:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-11T08:12:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-10-10T08:29:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-09T07:47:00.000+01:00

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?

If you wanted to know more about Flaming Nora.... bob's your uncle!

2007-10-08T09:41:00.000+01:00

Here are some more of those historical characters whose names have been immortalised - though their actions are long forgotten.

Bob (your uncle)
In a move of unashamed nepotism, British prime minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil appointed his nephew Arthur Balfour as Minister for Ireland in 1887. Balfour eventually followed in “Uncle Bob's” footsteps and became Prime Minister himself. So the phrase "Bob's your uncle" was coined to mean: "success is in the bag".

The Real McCoy
There are several theories, but my favourite centres around Kid McCoy, a US boxing champion in the early 20th century. A drunk challenged McCoy to prove that the boxer was, in fact, who he said he was and not one of the lesser boxers trading under the same name at the time. After a near knockout punch, the drunk concluded that, yep, this was in fact "the real McCoy".

Proper Charlie
Not, as you may think, a reference to Charlie Chaplin (though this would make sense) but to Charlie Smirke (who?). This particular Charlie, though a successful English jockey in the 1930s-50s, was immortalised simply because his surname happened to rhyme with "berk" (an English insult - see more on this and Cockney rhyming slang later). Charlie Smirke entered into Cockney rhyming slang lore as berk, and from them on "a proper Charlie" was synonymous with "a right berk".

Flaming Nora
Sorry to disappoint, but despite heralding this lady in the title of the blog I can’t actually find anything on her apart from the fact that she was also known as “ruddy Nora”. Presumably being set on fire would turn anyone a little ruddy.

Flaming Nora, it’s that Gordon Bennett again!

2007-10-07T18:12:00.000+01:00

Who was flaming Nora, and who set her on fire? Who was the original “proper Charlie”, and was Fanny Adams really sweet? We constantly sprinkle our language with other people’s names with barely a thought for who they were and why they have been immortalised. So here are some explanations.

Hobson’s choice
Hobson was a stable owner who rented out horses. He used to insist that his customers took the horse nearest the door – ie he gave them no choice.

Gordon Bennett
As a rich 19th century playboy, Gordon Bennett had a reputation for doing wild and unpredictable things. He once set fire to a roll of banknotes; he apparently flew an aeroplane through the open door of a barn and he became blind drunk at his fiancee's father’s party and mistook the fireplace for the lavatory (with inevitable results). As a result, his name became immortalised as an expletive.

Sweet Fanny Adams
Sweet Fanny Adams was a little girl who was horrifically murdered and dismembered in the 19th century. Her murder occurred at about the same time in history as canned mutton was introduced as a new convenience food on British Naval ships. One gloomy seaman remarked that the unprepossessing-looking meal could just as easily be the remains of sweet Fanny Adams. The saying stuck and evolved to signify “nothing of value.

The inn next door has an even better name

2007-10-06T10:14:00.000+01:00

Since it's Saturday (and therefore pub day) it seemed a good day to share with you some of my favourite pub names. I love the ones that are full of tradition and mystery. The Case is Altered in Harrow, for instance, has a faintly sinister ring to it. They say it's a corruption of La Casa Alta - Spanish for "tall house" - but surely not. Why call a sprawling pub a tall house, anyway? Then there are all those literary and historical pub names that have apparently been misinterpreted by generations of boozers. The Goat and Compasses is a corruption of "God encompasseth us"; The Bag o'nails was originally Bacchanals, and the Elephant and Castle was once the Infanta de Castile.

The Quiet Woman, York. The pub sign depicts a woman carrying her own severed head. That should shut anyone up.
Bull & Spectacles, Staffordshire. Used to be called the Bulls Head until some drunken wag climbed up and placed his reading glasses on the sign.
The Drunken Duck Lancashire. Named after an incident when the innkeeper's wife found her ducks lying in a drunken stupor after eating grain soaked in ale from a leaking barrel.
The Leg Of Mutton And Cauliflower, Surrey. Novel idea – naming the pub after the Sunday lunch menu
The Inn Next Door Burnt Down - Bedfordshire. Less of a pub name, more of a news flash.

Fame at last for Minty Badger and Peter Piddle

2007-10-03T18:46:00.000+01:00

I’m glad to see that someone has finally written a book about silly British names: Potty, Fartwell And Knob: Extraordinary But True Names Of British People. The book celebrates the fact that our countryfolk can (and do) call their children unbelievably silly things such as Constant Pain, Florence May Pee, Nicholas Orgy and Gertrude Obedience Goose. So what do children think about their parents’ joke at their expense? Or were some of the names a genuine a mistake? I heard of two Liverpudlian girls called Pat Mycock and Adora Dick respectively whose parents hadn’t a clue what they had done until the playground enlightened them. Admittedly, sometimes the fault is not down to the parents at all but the result of a tragic decision to move to the wrong country. For instance, the little Chinese girl called Wi Mee (pronounced “why me” earned sniggers from her classmates and fury on the part of her teacher when asked for her name in class and forced to respond. Let’s hear it for little Wi and the owners of some of those other truly silly British names: Minty Badger, Peter Piddle and Matilda Suckcock.

Your baby's overdue? Don't phone the midwife - call the curry house

2007-10-01T15:57:00.000+01:00

I was tickled to read about the woman who gave birth during her own dinner party and managed to steer her guests in the direction of dessert before being taken away in an ambulance. If anyone had an excuse to shirk their duties as a hostess, it would be her. One interesting aspect of the story was the debate as to whether the curry served up for the main course was likely to bring on the birth. This is an old wives’ tale of the first order. But is it true?

Old Wives Tales

If your baby is late, a good hot curry will bring on labour. Actually, this is true. It's something about the proximity of the bowel to the uterus in a pregnant woman, coupled with the aggravating effect of spicy foods.
If you suspend a wedding ring over a pregnant woman’s bump, a clockwise swing denotes a boy while an anti-clockwise swing heralds a girl. Who makes these things up? Actually you will find this to be correct – but only around 50 per cent of the time.
Your baby is most likely to be born just before the new moon. Weird, but statistically correct - something to do with the gravitational pull of the Earth.
If your bump is all out in front, you are having a girl, while an all-round bump heralds a boy. Utter rubbish. The only certainty is that your baby will be baby-shaped.

Isn't it about time we English had a haka of our own?

2007-09-30T11:35:00.000+01:00

Did you see the Tongan Haka when the team faced England in the Rugby World Cup on Friday? It was all a bit “up close and personal”, wasn’t it? Terrifying for the England team and a bit embarrassing, too – I mean what do you do while a bunch of big men are dancing ferociously in your face? I think the haka is wonderful – and what a powerful psychological tool. Imagine if we all adopted that approach to conflict. It would certainly liven up the start to Quiz Night at the local pub. And when two businessmen meet to hammer out a deal, just think of the effect if would have if one of them were to fling his tie over his shoulder and crouch down for a spot of in-your-face dancing. Come to think of it, is the haka actually a fair tactic if only one team performs it? Shouldn’t every team have something up their sleeve to redress the balance? Personally I’d love to see the England team watch impassively while their Pacific island opponents perform their scariest haka – then whip out some sticks and handkerchiefs and break into a Morris Dance routine. It might not strike fear into their rivals’ hearts, but it would certainly disconcert them a little.

I have an aunt who plays the guitar. So what?

2007-09-28T08:57:00.000+01:00

Let’s start Friday off with a chuckle with more of those foreign language idioms that don’t translate too well into English. I’m going to write a book about this some day – as soon as I can find a publisher who gives a rat’s cuss about idioms.

“There’s no need to push granny in the nettles.” (French) What a delightful image. This means: “There’s no need to go over the top.”
"He doesn’t have all his cups in the cupboard.” (German) He has a screw loose or even, “he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic”.
“I know you, codfish, even though you wear a disguise”. (Spanish) Weird! This means: “I know your game.”
“If one Pope dies, we can always get another one.” (Italian) A rather cynical alternative to our own: “There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”
“He fell with his nose in the butter”. (Dutch) Surprisingly, this means: "he is lucky", or “he fell on his feet”. Sounds rather painful and messy to me.
“Come out of the cottage cheese at last!” (German). Stop joking!” Germanic folk seem to spend much of the time with part of their bodies in dairy products.
“I have an aunt who plays the guitar.” (Spanish). So? you may reply. Precisely. The English equivalent is: “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

You'll see - I'm going to bag the Mayor's job

2007-09-27T12:25:00.001+01:00

I’m about to go to Tesco’s, but I don’t relish the prospect. Not because of the shoppers’ trance I’ll quickly be lulled into, what with all that extraneous choice; nor even by the checkout queues (they don’t have those anymore – Every Little Helps, apparently). No, it’s the guilt that’s going to hit me when once I again I refuse the overpriced Bag for Life and opt instead for those devil’s creations, the Plastic Bag. No matter how hard the gimlet-eyed till operator glares at me, I’m still going to say no. But why should I have to feel so bad? And what’s more, why does the burden of saving the planet have to fall on the poor, confused shopper? In other parts of Europe and even in the US – hardly the most environmentally-friendly of countries, what with all those gas guzzling cars and the ubiquitous freeze-your-whotsits-off air-conditioning – they have recyclable brown bags for your shopping. These are strong enough for bottles and so tough you can even reuse them, seemingly the greenest option of all. So if only the government would encourage supermarkets to use these as a matter of course, we could shop once again with a spring in our steps and a crystal-clear conscience.. Sorted. Me for Mayor.

Let sleeping dogs lie

2007-09-26T10:26:00.000+01:00

Did you read in the paper that They have discovered it is bad for you to have less than seven hours’ sleep a night? Apparently being deprived of sleep can give you anything from cancer, a stroke or heart problems to boils, bunions and haemorrhoids. OK, I exaggerate, but you get the idea: Sleep, Good; Sleeplessness, Bad. Though apparently not. It appears that more than eight hours' sleep a night can actually lead to …well, death. Hmm, not so good. But wait a minute – how accurate is this study? Have They considered that the people who sleep for fewer than seven hours’ a night are spending their time drinking, smoking, visiting prostitutes and generally doing all manner of other things that could lead to disease? Or perhaps these people are lying awake worrying about the early symptoms of illnesses they have already detected? And the sluggards whose sleeping habits end in death – how many of them had slipped into an irreversible coma by the time the researchers came to quantify them? There are just so many variables that this study is pointless, and surely designed just to worry us all into an early grave. All we really need to know is that all of us will die - and some will become ill first. In the meantime, let’s get some sleep.

Oyster cards. As if life wasn’t complicated enough.

2007-09-25T11:05:00.000+01:00

Oyster cards. Why? Remember when you would hand over your money to a Person at the underground station? They would give you a ticket and some change. Simple. Now you have to force-feed a machine with your last precious banknote and perform a series of mad swiping movements to be allowed through the barrier at all. Youngsters seem to understand the system, but what about the rest of us? What ever happened to the Person, anyway? And who do you ask when your banknote gets chewed up and it all goes horribly wrong? The youngster, presumably, only he's already spent five minutes explaining to an old lady how to buy a day return and there’s only so many trains he’s prepared to miss before his patience runs out. That’s supposing you can actually get an Oyster card at all, that is. Adult ones are fairly simple, but it’s a nightmare trying to get one for your kids. You need the right form (there’s two categories of youngster, apparently) and don’t even think of asking for a form at the station. That would be too easy. You can’t download it, either. No, you need to go to the Post Office, fill it in, add a photo, add signatures of the child, yourself and maybe even a teacher, add some dosh and then return it to the Post Office, then wait for the Oyster Card to arrive in the post. It arrives with some patronising drivel about how they will take your Oyster Card away if you misbehave on the train (over my dead body). Your youngster then takes it to the underground, promptly loses it, and the whole process begins again. Life is complicated enough without Oyster Cards. Or multi-choice telephone answering services. Or Indian call centres. Let’s face it, I don’t even understand my TV anymore.

Things you didn’t know about kids before you had them

2007-09-24T07:42:00.000+01:00

You don’t always bond with your kids straight away. When my first child was born I thought: “A boy. Nice. Now I could do with a good night’s sleep.” And I got one – ooh – it must have been only about seven months later.
Children are really dull for the first six months. Did you know you can spoonfeed a young baby and watch paint dry at the same time?
They eat on an epic scale. If I leave six bananas unattended in a bowl, within five minutes they’re gone. It’s like having live-in burglars.
As they get older you can have a really good laugh with them.
They know you almost as well as you know them. My heart sank when I first overheard: “Mum always pulls that face and does that dance when she’s had too much to drink”.
There are always at least 20 odd socks around the house at any one time.
No matter what else you do with your life, they will always be your biggest achievement.

It's no longer just Big Brother who's watching you anymore

2007-09-23T11:10:00.000+01:00

Don’t get me wrong, I think the internet is wonderful. How else could I get away with publishing this drivel in the privacy of my own home for the rest of the world to read (or realistically, just you). And I love the fact that research is now a doddle. As a young freelance journalist any article would involve countless trips to the library, many phone calls (perish the thought) and days and days spent waiting for background material to arrive in the post. But there are a few downsides to the WWW. People we lost touch with, quite voluntarily, 30 years ago start to come out of the woodwork and expect some sort of correspondence to ensue. Spooky. Also, having teenage children makes me realise just how linked-in we really are. I only realised recently that when my son is on the computer, chances are he has allowed the rest of the world to view him on webcam. That’s all very well, but it also means that I’m live to half the glamorous 16-year-olds in the county when I wander haplessly into the study in my old dressing gown and specs. He even has a microphone now so that he can speak to his friends with his actual voice while looking at them at the same time. It’s almost – well, like meeting them in person.

"Four pints coming up. You have a nice day now."

2007-09-22T11:08:00.000+01:00

It’s Saturday, which means it’s Pub Day. Aah, the pub. Great place. Not necessarily because of the booze – you can get that at home – but for the wonderful quirkiness that is the English pub experience. Some American friends visited us a few weeks ago. They were new to England and it was weird trying to describe to them the peculiarities of the pub, “No, you can’t look through the window first to see what it’s like inside – that’s as bad as peering into somebody’s house”. “Yes, it is normal to cover the walls with all those trombones, horse brasses and bits of old ship” And: “Don’t mind the guy behind the bar – pub landlords are always over-familiar and tend to take the mick.” Can you imagine how the American version of the pub would be? “Hello, my name’s Stan. I’ll be your pub landlord today. Our specials are lager and lime and John Smiths on hand pump, and I can recommend the pie and mash. Oh - you’ll have the Sunday roast. Would you like over-cooked roasties or lumpy mash with that?” Give me grumpy, mickey-taking publicans with a tendency to take unreasonable dislikes to their customers any day. Yes, you know who you are.

Old age cometh – better shoot us all now

2007-09-21T07:52:00.000+01:00

Have you ever noticed how well-turned-out the elderly are? You see them in town struggling with their shopping, clearly finding the very act of putting one step in front of the other a major effort. But their shoes are immaculate, their clothes beautifully pressed and every hair is in place. I’m full of admiration. Now look around at the younger generations (and for the sake of argument I’ll include myself since you haven’t seen a picture yet). Scruffy jeans, old trainers, sloppy jumpers, crumpled T-shirts….I know that’s just me, but I’m certainly not alone. The very young with their brand new bodies can get away with sub-standard, crumpled clothes. But we older people with our sub-standard, crumpled bodies need a smarter outer layer to compensate. I can’t help wondering what will happen when we scruffy middle-aged people become elderly ourselves. We’ll be down-at-heel, messy, still wearing our ancient jeans and trainers – give us a couple of placcy bags and sympathetic passers-by will be throwing us the occasional 50p for a cup of tea. Now there’s a thought.

If you are fat, broke and have a terrible voice, you too could be on TV

2007-09-20T08:27:00.000+01:00

Did you read this week about those sad women addicted to being on TV? It seems they will do anything - swap partners, proposition strangers for sex, even undergo intimate surgery just for the thrill of being on TV and subsequently recognised in the street. Do you remember a time when people became famous for, well, for having talent? Now you merely have to know someone with a dubious talent (yes, Abby Titmuss I'm thinking of you here) to get onto the reality TV show circuit. Soon everyone will have forgotten that you can't actually do anything clever, funny or entertaining. As for those TV-addicted women, how weird. They are willing to put their real lives in jeopardy for the sake of having complete strangers come up to them at parties and say: "Wasn't that your spleen I saw being removed on 'Gory Operations' the other night?" I've just had a look on their favourite website - http://www.beonscreen.co.uk/ - and it seems that the reality TV wannabes in big demand at the moment are obese people, bad karaoke singers, people in debt and couples who've lost the "spark" in their marriage. Chances are that "spark" will be a long-forgotten memory if you're married to a fat, broke person with a terrible voice who is also a reality TV junkie. The whole thing is madness. Why crave recognition in this way? It's like standing in a public place and shouting "look at me!" It's like writing your innermost thoughts and pinning them up on the town hall noticeboard! It's like.......oh.

If you can learn a language in a week, I'll eat a whole broomstick

2007-09-19T09:07:00.000+01:00

Do you know what makes me mad? It's the current trend for "Learn a language in a week" CDs to be given out with your Sunday newspaper. So presumably you idly peruse the sports pages in the morning, then slip your CD into the machine and by, ooh, teatime you'll have mastered the present tense and all the subject pronouns. And by Wednesday you'll be forming complex sentences and starting on the subjunctive.
It's madness. If you were to study for 24 hours a day for the entire week you'd probably be able to ask for a beer and a room by the end of it, but what about all that vocabulary it takes a lifetime to learn? Even if you're a native English speaker I bet you don't know what honorificabilitudinitatibus means, do you? (Neither did I - I had to look it up). And what about all those idioms? In English we might talk about someone being "a chip off the old block", or we might comment: "It's an ill wind", or "What goes around comes around....".
Foreigners would be totaly flummoxed by these idioms (flummoxed? Is that a word?) And of course, they have their own quirky idioms. For example: the "I'll eat a whole broomstick" reference in the heading is the German equivalent to "I'll eat my hat" in English. Why? For the same reason, presumably, why it "rains cats and dogs" in this country whereas in Sweden it "rains small nails" and in France it "rains like a urinating cow".
People who think they can learn a language by investing only one week of their lives are the type who want their cake and eat it. Or who want their butter and the money for the butter, as the French would say. Or as the Italians put it, who want their full bottle and their drunken wife.

Who's afraid of the big bad PR?

2007-09-18T13:21:00.001+01:00

It's my belief that a lot of companies don't use a PR agency because they are afraid to. PR charges can be pretty hard to pin down: how many hours did that press release take you to write?? And did you really need to charge me for two hours' work when you came to my offices to present it to me?
Grasping PRs give the rest of us a bad name. Personally, I charge per press release or per 1,000 words of copy rather than by the hour. But then again I've never really understood how people who charge an hourly rate ever do so with any accuracy at all. Do they stop the clock for every bathroom break? And do they also stop timing themselves when their mind starts straying to Johnny Depp, say, or chocolate?
No, charging per item is much more straightforward. As a journalist you always charge by the article, after all, so why should PR be any different?
For more information on my PR services, email me at annlaffeaty@rockford.u-net.com

Welcome to my blog

2007-09-18T12:23:00.000+01:00

Hi. I am a freelance journalist, PR, copywriter, editor and general creator of all sorts of stuff made up of words. This is my first attempt at a blog, though, so bear with me!

See my website at http://www.annlaffeaty.com/ for more information about how I can help you out word-wise. Otherwise, watch this space for further blogs.