Stuff what happened #2

I don’t know why it is news that virtual monkeys have nearly finished writing the complete works of Shakespeare: they’ve been writing the script for Neighbours for years.

A survey has announced that a third of under-tens own mobiles, but I don’t believe it – my kids grew out of theirs as soon as they could stop it spinning above their cot.

Greece has been handed a lifeline to pay off its enormous debt: Germany has discovered a large stack of washing up in a restaurant kitchen just outside Dusseldorf.

Tense, nervous headache? Psychotic tendencies? Nothing acts faster than new Neurofen Plus. For all life’s aches, pains and bipolar disorders.

Prison officers in Texas have abolished the last meal for inmates facing execution after one refused to eat his burger. The Governor admitted it was insensitive to have given him a ‘Happy Meal’.

I’ve been trying out that new antiviral drug derived from sharks. It’s works brilliantly but I haven’t stopped biting surfers since.

I feel sorry for the 98 year old war veteran whose local bus service repeatedly refuses to pick him up. “Too old, unkempt and with a nauseating whiff of urine,” said a bus company spokesman, “but they’re the only buses we’ve got and I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded.”

Silver worth £150m has been salvaged from a shipwreck in the Atlantic, believed to be the long-lost steam-ship SS Cash My Treasure.

I note with dismay that the founder of EasyJet, Sir Stelios Haji-Ioannou, is starting a new airliner called FastJet. Why is he naming them after my ex-landladies and will his next airliner be called LooseJet?

I feel for poor Bath City FC’s youth football team, who had 6 players sent off for wearing the wrong colour pants. They probably didn’t start wearing brown ones, but by the time they were 6-0 down, who can blame them?

Neutrinos faster than the oldtrinos

By a water-cooler somewhere in CERN stand Dave, a boy on work experience, and his boss.

DAVE: So Boss, these fruitinis, what’s that all about?

BOSS: They’re neutrinos, Dave, and they’re pretty swift.

DAVE: How swift?

BOSS: You know how fast Tony Blair agrees to give a highly paid public speech?

DAVE: Yep, the speed of light.

BOSS: Well, these neutrinos are even quicker than that. They travelled from here to Italy in less time than it takes a Greek to dip into his overdraft.

DAVE: They didn’t go with Ryanair, then. So, how DID they do that?

Stuff what happened #1

Medical research in Denmark has shown that yellow markings on the eyelids are an important early clue to potential heart attacks. A separate study has shown that eyelids are also important in heart attack prevention as keeping them closed will stop you finding your pies, fags and booze.

A study by a team of Dutch scientists has shown that people who eat fruit and vegetables with white flesh are 52% less likely to suffer a stroke. Not just good news for vegetarians, but a new advertising campaign for the BNP.

Nick Clegg says that the LibDems are “punching above their weight,” but;

(a) although impressive, would have been a far better claim in the days of Cyril Smith

(b) they won’t be taken seriously until they can punch above Eric Pickles’s weight, and

(c) critics say their approval rating would improve if they instead punched just above David Cameron’s shoulders.

Scarlett Johansson has asked the FBI to investigate the online publication of nude photos of her. 18,000 special agents have so far volunteered to look at the evidence.

Newly built houses in the UK are 45% smaller than newly-built houses in Denmark, although this is because we are a nation of animal lovers and therefore don’t actually need the room to swing a cat.

James Dyson, who has just unveiled a fanless heater to go with his bagless vacuum cleaner and wheel-less barrow, will now devote his time to inventing the chocolate teapot, the long weight, the glass hammer and a condom machine for the Vatican.

Why do the ‘Dale Farm Travellers’ need a permanent home? Surely they should never stop anywhere long enough to be evicted – the clue is in their name.

Surgeons have successfully managed to separate the Sudanese conjoined twins using techniques they learned recently during a similar operation to remove Jeremy Hunt from Rupert Murdoch’s pocket.

Although Chris Huhne has promised to get tough with the energy companies in order to help customers save money, it is believed he may just ask his wife to do it for him.

The Ex-Labour minister Elliot Morley, who was been freed from jail after dishonestly claiming more than £30,000 in parliamentary expenses, has decided against claiming Ford Open Prison as his second home.

The Occidental Tourist

In the same way that you should never go food shopping when you are hungry in case you end up buying a Pot Noodle, it is probably best not to look into summer holidays when you are freezing cold, lest you book a trip to the Sun or Hell (not Skegness, the other one).

Despite this rule of thumb and the bitter weather, the Marshan clan’s holiday itinerary has recently become the subject of, if not argument, then at least vigorous debate. (Only within our family, I hasten to add – I can’t recall its being discussed during Newsnight or PMQs.)

Should we go abroad where it is warm, or stay in the UK where it is generally not? Would a hotel be best, replete with central heating and steaming showers, or should we plump for a self-catering apartment/caravan/tent where electricity, even if available, is metered with Scrooge-like parsimony? Or would it be a whole lot easier just spend a fortnight in Shrewsbury like we do most years?

Gray Sky

The comments for which Sky football pundit Andy Gray has been sacked from his £1.7m job (surely some mistake?), were not only ill-advised from a sexism point of view, but also for being one of the most hackneyed football clichés ever, alongside “sick as a parrot” and “over the moon”. The offside law is only even slightly complex because the rules keep changing, and comments about women’s ability to understand them are a generation out of date.

Still, clichés are still a massive part of a football commentator’s weaponry, so here are some that you will hear in every Match of the Day, along with explanations:

Day Five – New arrivals

The day that finally signalled a change in the weather. Goodbye dark clouds and heavy rain, and hello fluffy clouds, warm sunshine and a happier mother-in-law. The weather forecast for the next few days was also good. 

Her brother, Uncle L, and his wife, Auntie J, made the short journey from their home to join us for the day, first for lunch at the golf course – accompanied by several wasps (or wasp impersonators, I’m never quite sure until they try to sting me and then it’s impossible to tell from the squashed remains) – then for golf, swimming and dancing, something at which they are rather good. 

After swimming with his new best friend from the morning play-groups, son#1 did some putting on the green for the first time since we were here some three years ago and, once he started concentrating and taking his time, did rather well. I think he has perhaps left it too late to get into the Ryder Cup team, but maybe next time… 

The dancing went on until nearly midnight to so L and J stayed over on the far-better-than-it-needed-to-be sofa-bed. By this time, however, the weather forecast had changed back to “rain every day”… 

Cue unhappy mother-in-law again.

Day Four – The birthday

Today was Son#1’s 7th birthday, though you never would have guessed from his sullen early-morning behaviour: a tooth had suddenly become very wobbly and the end of the world was nigh. However, once he was told of the Tooth-Fairy doubling the money for teeth lost on a birthday, his mood lightened and he vigorously started working the troublesome tooth with his tongue. Before the morning was out, so was the tooth and subject to a 50p bonus for coming out pre-lunch (I’m not sure where that rule came from…) – I hope the fairy has an understanding bank manager.

The order of activities was chosen by the birthday boy and first up was a game of badminton. He managed to avoid any further injuries during play but inflicted one on me when an overly-enthusiastic swing of the racquet came to an abrupt halt when it collided with my hand. The match was quickly followed by birthday cake, just to ensure no net loss in calories.

Next was swimming, with Son#1 spending the entire hour holding his nose and diving to the bottom of the shallow end to rescue Sammy the Sea lion, his poolside pal (some overpriced toy guaranteed to sink!) In a strange move, the hotel had decided to install air-conditioning in the changing rooms, just in case leaving a pool soaking wet wasn’t quite cold enough. All the cubicles were rife with a mixture of shivering and mild swearing, but none of us were brave enough to mention our collective disappointment to the management.

Last on the itinerary was a spell in the soft-play area. Son#1 took a run-up to dive in the ball pit so Son#2 tried, unsuccessfully, to follow suit. Not to be deterred, he took a longer run-up, but still failed to get over the padded wall of the pit. Longer and longer run-ups were then employed, with some so long that he had to stop mid-way to negotiate furniture or doorways. With every near-miss he uttered “Nope, that’s not it” before running away again with a huge smile on his face. At about the fifteenth attempt he succeeded, but being a little perfectionist he still wasn’t happy with the way he landed, so he cheated and climbed on to the wall and then jumped in. A lesson for us all, there.

Day Three

There were two schools of thought regarding breakfast this morning following yesterday’s enormous dinner. The first, shared by Mrs M, Signora Gillie and me, was that food would be unnecessary for another couple of days. The second, that adhered to the grandparents, was the theory that the hotel restaurant were doing enormous full Scottish breakfasts and that a Monday, just after dropping the kids at the activity centre, might be the quietest and thus best time to eat.

The Signora spent the morning burning off a couple of the previous night’s calories at the gym and Mrs M, after several changes of mind a not inconsiderable amount of pressure, decided to join her. Grampa and I went to the pitch and putt and, despite my having not picked up a golf club in nearly 10 years, I was almost mediocre. So surprised at this was my opponent that near the end of the round he ‘accidentally’ stole my 7 iron, leaving me with just a putter to negotiate the rough. He would still have beaten me, but his cheating was an encouraging sign. Way before we reached the nineteenth hole the heavens had opened once more and trench foot started to set in or the second summer holiday in succession.

Dinner was accompanied by the odd glass of wine with an odder serving suggestion: not for them the mundane “goes well with fish or white meat,” but the bizarrely specific “tastes its best when enjoyed alongside a tuna and cheese melt.” This was no Lidl own-brand plonk either, but a proper label, from a proper vineyard. I have no idea whether the buyer for Oddbins had a say in how it was to be presented, but maybe this is a whole new angle for drinks. A bottle of chianti would recommend it be best served with kidney and some fava beans, Sunny Delight would go nicely with jelly and ice-cream and a can of Special Brew would no doubt be most appreciated when accompanied by a greasy kebab, twenty Benson & Hedges and another can of Special Brew.

Son#1 took his minor injury count to well into the 30s, including crushing a finger in the hinge of the utility room door. First Aid was administered in the form of a double choc-chip cookie and a marsh mallow and all was quickly forgotten.

The rest of the evening was spent doing random and incomprehensible Scottish country dances and the Hokey Cokey in the hotel’s packed dance floor, before returning to the lodge for a supper of Haribo Fizz Bombs, as suggested by some hot chocolate.

Day two

“There’s a space!”

“What, that one there? Bit small, isn’t it?”

“Aye, you’ll get in there!”

“You sure… this isn’t the Punto, remember?”

“Well, give it a go, there’s nowhere else!”

“Right… there! Am I in, do you think? Aarrgghh, the front wheel’s just clipping the double-yellows! Ah well, I’m not moving now. You hurry for the curry, I’ll stay here just in case the traffic wardens are nearby. They love Sundays ‘cos drivers think they take the day off. If I’m not here when you get back I’ll be driving round the block… or in a cell with the car being impounded.”

Such is my paranoia that, despite seeing awful parking escape without punishment just about everywhere, I am convinced that the one time I flout the rules even slightly I will be caught and fined a month’s job-seekers’ allowance. No-one else seemed worried though, as within minutes two cars had parked fully on the yellows in front of me, one of them even going so far as to partly block the only road back to the hotel and then, as if to show a complete lack of concern for the possible presence of law-enforcement officers, immediately started smoking a joint.

There were of course no Yellow Perils – it was a Sunday after all – but it meant that poor Mrs. M. had no help to carry out enough ‘cairry-oot’ to feed if not an army, then at least a moderately-sized regiment. There’s a fine line between not wanting people to still be hungry after their repast and having enough food left over to last the rest of the week. We always err on the side of extreme caution and no-one has an appetite ever again.

Earlier in the day, Son#2 refused to do anything, Son#1 suffered about 25 very minor bumps and bangs on the death slide (or zip wire as it is now called to avoid scaring the Grandparents), Signora Gillie went to the gym, Granny showed why she has never played football for Scotland, Grampa did the Guardian quick crossword in a little less than three hours, Mrs. M went swimming and I spent ages checking email, Twitter and other social networks on my phone while studying and failing to be sociable with my family as they played ball.

It was all ever thus.

Day One

There are three givens when travelling on Britain’s motorways with small children; one of the the wee darlings will keep asking me to drive faster in very heavy traffic on the M6, the other one will need the toilet 10 minutes after having been at the last service station, and someone, at some point, will start singing ‘10 Green Bottles’.

 

The traffic on the M6 was particularly heinous, with it taking 15 minutes just to get out of the Lancaster services. According to the radio’s sporadic traffic reports, on a stretch of road already buckling under the strain of being reduced to two lanes, someone, or rather someone’s car, had chosen a very inopportune place to burst into flames.

 

After an hour of stop-start driving in the rental tour bus, a few more toilet breaks, some driver swaps and a visit to a supermarket (ostensibly to pick up bread and milk etc, but effectively to get some alcohol) we made it to our hotel in Creiff just two minutes before the final member of the party, Signora Gillie, sauntered in. The lift she had been given from nearby Stirling had managed to knock over one of the concrete bollards in the car park right outside the expensively refurbished foyer and so they beat a hasty and discreet exit. Unfortunately they took the sunny weather with them and it rained. Actually, it absolutely bucketed down, like it can only in Scotland during a summer holiday.

 

“When in Scotland,” we thought, so after a fish and haggis supper in our luxurious, hill-side, three-floor, self-contained houselet, we headed to the hotel and its dance floor. The rain had made the already steep path resemble a burn, with the running water splashing up over one’s feet.

 

The dance floor itself was not much drier with its roof struggling to keep out the torrential precipitation. The altogether-too-complicated eightsome reels, led by a man who was drumming whilst holding a microphone in one hand, were given an added frisson by having to avoid first the growing pool of drip-water, then the large, yellow “Caution – Wet” sign partially covering it. Still, at least the band weren’t playing ‘10 Green Bottles’.

 

 

 

Random you-had-to-be-there quote of the day:

 

Joe, upon seeing a Winnebago towing a Smart Car, “I wish our camper van could tow a wee car”  
Charlie: “We don’t have a camper van”   
Joe, “Oh yeah, silly me, heh heh heh!”