Greetings from the blowy Scottish coastal village of Gullane in East Lothian where the four of us are once again shoehorned into a cosy little cottage to escape the daily mundane of the French winter. No, we don’t come here for the weather, although at least it doesn’t flood like those unfortunate ones near the river Severn, but for a little civilisation. Because France is closed - well, our part of it is anyway – due to lack of interest. Thankfully, Scotland isn’t. Not only that, but we get to eat porridge for breakfast and broth for lunch in a good old traditional way.
Unfortunately, for me anyway, that is followed by scrambled eggs for tea and rice pudding, since my jaw started giving me problems. At first the sudden intrusion that arrived in my mouth on Christmas Eve was diagnosed as a wayward wisdom tooth, which had tunnelled out of the gum in the wrong direction, like a soiled and tired POW popping-up in the courtyard instead of outside the perimeter fence of the prison camp. But then, after a few expensive trips to dental experts – who are now called orthodontitional consultants, such is our obsession with elaborate self-important handles – the jagged edge sticking into my tongue is deemed not to be of wisdom at all, but a deformed piece of my jaw which has taken a wrong turn. With little explanation as to the why’s and wherefores, the edges of it has now been ground away with some pretty brutal equipment and I am then referred to hospital to have the remainder removed with some heavy plant-hire machinery when they can find me a slot. And this being UK, that may be some time around November 2014. And, until then, I can only eat soft food. Harumph! Thankfully I can utilise some local malt to numb the effected area!
Being in UK also privileges us to watch British TV during the ‘celebrity’ season, should we so wish - which we don’t! Why is it that during January just about every quiz show insists on having b-list celebrities on its panel, some of whom can barely spell their own name? And who are all these people, anyway? I have never heard of them. Last night’s Mastermind had some numpty who knew a few simple answers about Arsenal football club but when asked ‘who declared their independence on 4th July 1776’ he said Australia! Please. And then we had Clemency Lawnmower-Groundhog-Marshmallow-Biscuit-barrel whose specialist subject was Downton Abbey! For crying out loud. That isn’t knowledge, its title-tattle. But is doesn’t stop there. University Challenge has a whole selection of pompous individuals such as Gross Grossman and ‘..hello, I’m Clarissa Fowls-Pavement, I am a TV dog-walker and graduated from the university of Antiques in 1872...’ Spare us. Next a bus-load of has-beens arrive for a 3 week jail sentence in the Big-brother house in an attempt to gain some column inches about their mid-rift inches, and the whole nation tunes in. But the best of all has to be that feeble program on just before the 6 o’clock news, entitled Pointless Celebrities. Oh, how right they are. At least we know that the BBC humour department still maintains a sense of irony.
Talking of the news, this may be old hat by the time it goes to print but what the hell does Argentina think it is playing at? ‘Please, Sir, can we have our islands back?’ What? Were this still Dickensian Britain, this question alone would ignite a retaliate strike. You tried that once, remember? But, seemingly, times have changed….and we are not aloud to retain our rightful outdated colonial ownership any more?’ Here is what Call-me-Dave should say: ‘OK, actually we don’t really want them, so here’s the deal. You have the worthless sheep infested crags of rock back as long as you give your own country back to Spain, as they could do with the money. And we’ll have Hong-kong and Singapore back instead, because they are loaded - and Australia for the weather. Oh, and while you are gathering rocky outposts full of sheep, you can have Scotland if you like, it is looking for a new owner!’
OOPS – may have overstepped the mark there! Moving swiftly on.
Over the last few years I have dabbled in a few exploits into online marketing and note that in a rapidly changing commercial world, websites are becoming more and more specialised. For example, where you would once have found books and dvds all for sale in one place, you will now be able to benefit from a variety of defined e-shops offering more specific detail in certain sectors such as travel books or war-films. Personally, I believe this trend will grow.
And so it has, into the taboo world of online dating. Recently, a TV ad has appeared for uniform-dating.com, and I find this quite bizarre. Whereas before your average 30-50 year old single would go online looking for mate, they now have a choice to find someone who wears a daily uniform such as, I suppose, a traffic-warden or milkman. Does anyone else find this a bit strange? OK, there may be a few older gentlemen who have a hidden cacoethes for a nurses outfit, but do people in general still hanker after men and women in uniform? I thought that all went out with the Village People. Intrigued, I did try and look at the site, just to ascertain whether an airline pilot was more popular than, say, a dustman, but didn’t get past the first page which wanted me to register my address. No way, hosea. I can imagine Wendy’s face when a six foot police-woman knocks on the door, baring her cleavage, wielding some hand-cuffs and asking if Andy-pandy had bene a naughty boy!
But it does beg the question on how far this will all go? Will we get welders-mate.com or lay-a-lawyer.co.uk very shortly? Maybe I should start othodontal-surgeons-with-big-tits.com and see if I can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak?
Hmmm. Moving on again..
As the remnants of last year’s monumental achievements in sport fade to grey, a new debate raises its head about what constitutes an Olympic sport? Already the tabloids have proffered a few unlikely contenders, such as binge-drinking and pie-eating, both of which Britain would be hot contenders for gold. In the end, they have settled for a combination of both, in the name of darts. Yes, stumbling up to the ocky, throwing 3 arrows and then sitting down for a breather seems to be on the cards for the 2020 games. What a spectacle these fine athletes will make in the opening ceremony, blending in with our team of 500 muscle-toned torsos with their obese bellies bulging out in front of them like humpty-dumpty in lycra. It would fair draw the crowds too, as they flock to a down-town Tokyo smoke-filled pub, jeering and singing drunken racist insults in front of the cameras. Can’t wait?
Apparently, for the 2024 games in Miami they are also introducing bare-knuckle fighting and shoot-the-mexican, and by 2042, in Hartlepool, whippet-racing will make its first Olympic appearance in an attempt to bring sport back down to the degraded level of the masses.
Come on, Sir Seb, make a stand?!