Plus - a lie in!

Banner seen on the wall of a school:

'Arriving at school at 9:05 means you are ten minutes late. That's fifty minutes a week, or over three hours a month, or over thirty hours in a school year. Believe it or not, that is a week out of school!'

Now, I'm no child psychologist, but I was, for several years early in my career, a child; and I strongly suspect that the lesson that banner is supposed to convey, and the lesson any right-thinking child is actually taking away from it, are two very different things...

Jesus' diary, if the icons I saw of him recently are anything like accurate.

Monday
Standing calf raises, 5 sets of 20 reps.
Incline sit-ups - train heavy, but not to failure.
Dead lifts - 4 sets of 10 reps

Tuesday
Cardio, plus maybe some work on abs and triceps.
35 widths of River Jordan.
Minister to sick

Wednesday
Dead lifts - 5 sets of 5 reps.
Hack squats - 5 sets of 15 reps - get Peter to spot me?
Cure leper.

Thursday
Half marathon to Tarsus.
Upper chest work.

Friday
Sabbath.
Power-walk to mount. Give sermon.
Ab crunches

Dark mysteries in the countryside of two nations...

Two urgent questions.

What have the mussels done to upset the people of Normandy?

And what are the people of Kent doing that they don't want the horses to see?

Adding a welcome touch of drama to asking for profiteroles.

Now, before anyone starts, I know that what I'm about to say is purely a reflection of the English language, not the French; that it only strikes me this way because we chose to use the words we ripped off from Germanic languages for everyday, and the words we ripped off from Romance languages for Sunday best. I know that. But it doesn't stop me enjoying the fact that the French are never just sorry, but desolated; that things don't just bother them, they derange them; that while English speakers are merely advised in fire warnings to keep calm, the French are told to guard their sang-froid; and, my favourite new one from this trip, that they are not asked in a note on a restaurant menu to order their pudding at the start of their meal, but to demand their dessert at the debut of their repast.

Things I have said to hills today. Out loud.

• Oh no, no. No.
• God, no.
• You bastard!
• Piss off
  
• I don't believe you. (To a hill that was pretending it was just a long gentle slope down now.)
  
• What in ****ing **** is the point of you? (To three hills, all visible at once, which left a road at the same height at which it began)
  
• Oh, yes, you're flat now. (To a hill that stopped being a hill at the point where I turned off it)
  
• Just stop it.
  

Watch out! Christ's About!

Sign outside a church in Chatham. 'Jesus is closer than you think'.

They were aiming, I suppose, for 'Thought-Provoking', but they seriously overshot and landed bang in the middle of 'Scary'.

Two announcements that surprised me today.

Woman on the radio: 'About one in five people with anorexia will ultimately die'.

I am agog to know what will happen to the other four.

Sign on hoarding outside building work on Oxford Street: 'Another exciting branch of HSBC opens here soon.'

I can hardly wait. What do you think the exciting part will be? Log flumes to the cheque cashing machines? Randomised hole in the wall that gives you anything from a penny to a million pounds? Bears as cashiers?

Look what I saw this week.

An unimaginable quantity of otters.

Literally anything could happen. Disclaimer: Not literally. Not anything.

Sorry about the lull. There is a time when having other writing that one really ought to be working on actually means one does things like this a lot more, as displacement. Then there comes a time then having other writing that one REALLY, REALLY ought to be working on means that one does things like this a lot less, as panic sets in. Other things one does less: Emails. Phone calls. Seeing people. Refraining from screaming at the cats.

However, I just had to say something about this week's Apprentice. Because I happen to know someone behind the scenes on the production team, and I can tell you, sparks really flew at Sir Alan's latest maverick decision. 'You've done what?!?' shrieked the producer, unable to believe the no-nonsense millionnaire's sheer chutzpah. 'You've put four of them through to the final!?! But Sir Alan, how could you? You know how hard I and the whole team here have been working on setting up a really exciting final task for two finalists- we've spent tens of thousands of pounds on making it the best one ever! And now, just because of your unpredictable on-the-fly decision, we're going to have to ditch it all, and start from scratch on a whole new idea that will work well for four finalists!' 'I'm sorry' growled the incorrigible tycoon 'But you know me - when I have a crazy loose cannon notion, I act on it. That's just the way I roll.' 'Oh well' sighed the long-suffering TV honcho 'You may as well sink those two paddle-steamers, Lyndsay. They're no use to us now. And hey, everybody - start thinking of something four people can compete at. Maybe... Ludo. And as for you, Sir Alan- just try to keep your iconoclastic behaviour to a mimimum next time!' 'I'll try...' grinned the rule-breaking entrepeneur 'but I can't promise anything!' 'Oh, you!' exclaimed the producer 'I can't stay mad at you for long!' And with that, he grabbed the surprising businessman by the fuzzy chops, and planted a big kiss right on his crinkled forehead!

That's what happened. True story.

He could have gone to the trouble of finding out her first name, though.

There is a bench near where I live which now bears the following inscription, half in black leading, half in blue felt tip. See if you can guess where the break occurs.

'In memory of John Randall-Gieves 1921 - 1995 - 2008 Frank Lampard's Mum.'

Despite the slightly unsettling Dr Who style regeneration picture it conjures up of the curious events of 1995, I find this oddly touching. I like the idea of these two people, Mr Randall-Gieves and Mrs Lampard, who are very unlikely ever to have met, finding themselves roughly yoked together by two other people's desire to commemorate them. After all, that's what you do with park benches - you share them with strangers.

Humph would be proud of us.

You know that little box on the BBC news website with the top five most popular stories at any given time? Well, at the moment the most emailed story is a report on how one British bird species is actually thriving under climate change, under the headline 'Great tits cope well with warming'. How encouraging to see that people are at last giving ecologicial stories the attention they deserve...

I am supposed to be writing a sitcom.

My friend Ed has just announced to the world, or that part of the world which is on F*c*b**k, (Gosh, that looks unexpectedly rude when you asterisk out the vowels) that he has seen 'more otters than you can possibly imagine'. Naturally, I scooted over to his page to leave a message with the funny joke that he shouldn't be too sure of himself, because I can imagine ten otters... only to find not one but two people had already got there. Well, I suppose it's quite an obvious joke. Plus my friend Ed knows a lot of comedians, both in the literal sense and the sense beloved of sarcastic policemen. However, I would like to point out that my two rivals used the numbers six and nine as the number of otters they could possibly imagine, both of which I think are slightly less funny than ten otters. Because it's a round number, and so sounds like a number I've genuinely reached by testing, not just one I picked for a joke, whilst still being hilariously low. But I didn't reach it by testing, of course. I just picked it for a joke. And that brings me to my sermon for today.

How many otters can you possibly imagine? Because if I say I can imagine a million otters, I'm obviously lying. I can't really even imagine a million pounds. I know what it could buy, but I can't imagine an actual million actual pound coins. Still less otters. They're famously harder to imagine than coins. Now, a thousand pound coins I think I can imagine. I can certainly imagine a thousand page book. But I don't think I can imagine a thousand otters. But then, what are my criteria here? To qualify as being imagined, do I have to be able to imagine each individual ottery face, and be able to distinguish in my imagination young Tasmania the Otter from Old Uncle Winchelsea the Otter? (I'm assuming here that otters use broadly the same naming system as Wombles.) No, I don't think so. I think I just have to be able to imagine what that mass of otters would look like, how much space they would take up, and how cross they'd be about it. I can imagine eight otters around my dining table, for instance, but I can't really imagine a thousand otters. My guess is that that's about a double decker bus full, but I can't imagine whether that's a tightly packed RSPCA nightmare of a bus, or whether the otters are lounging in relative comfort. (Remember they can sit under the seats as well as on them. And in the aisles).

Now, the ADC Theatre in Cambridge seats about 220, and I reckon I can imagine that full of otters. (An otter on every seat, that is. They only sit under them on buses. I mean, come on, they have to be able to see the stage). This is good - let's ramp it up. The Garrick theatre in London has a capacity, so Google tells me, of 656... but with regret I must admit I can't really imagine that full of otters. I mean, I can... but if I'm honest with myself, I'm just imagining the theatre, filling the stalls with otters, and then mentally clone brushing those same otters into the dress circle and upper circle. I'm not even certain I'm imagining the otters at the back of the stalls. I'm just imagining 'a theatre full of otters'. And now, confidence crumbling, I'm beginning to doubt my feat of imagination with the ADC. Did I really imagine 220 otters? Even the ones at the back, and the sides? Or am I just imagining 220 seats, and then tacking the word 'otters' over the word 'seats'? Hell, can I even imagine one otter? Let me check. Right, I've checked, I definitely can imagine one otter. He's called Barney, he's slightly over medium size, and he has a white mark on his muzzle where a larger otter named Velasquez snatched a trout from his mouth. From this we can draw two further conclusions: 1) I can imagine two otters. 2) The Womble naming system is not invariable amongst otters.

So. I'm confident I can imagine those two otters and their struggle to come to terms with that terrible summer's day when Barney's trust in Velasquez was forever shattered; but shifty about those 220 otters enjoying a patchy but basically competent student production of The Duchess of Malfi. So, maybe the thing to do is avoid any helpful framing device like a theatre or a bus or a netball team, and just imagine an increasing number of otters in a blank white void. No, that's too depressing. I'm just imagined Barney there alone, and it's breaking my heart. I'll imagine them in my garden. Ok. One otter. Check. Two otters. Will Barney ever forgive him? Three otters. Easy. Four otters. Piece of cake. Five otters. Yep. Six, seven, eight - yes. Nine, ten, eleven. I think so, yes. Twelve otters... ... ... ... ... no. I can't imagine twelve otters. Not really. When it comes right down to it, I'm just imagining six otters twice. And if I don't break it down into sub-groups like that, it's basically no different from my image of eleven otters. Come to that, I'm not sure my eleven otters were that different from my ten. What about my ten from my nine? No, there is a difference there. That's interesting. Because that seems to suggest that the number of otters I can possibly imagine... is ten. Ladies and gentlemen, it was funny because it was true.

I think Ed probably did see more than ten otters. I shan't bother leaving a message.

Two things you might be interested in.

'John Finnemore, Apparently', my pilot radio sketch show, will be going out on Radio Four at 11pm this coming Monday, May 5th, and will be available on 'Listen Again' for a week afterwards. Hope you like it.

Also, free tickets are now available on the BBC website ( http://shows.external.bbc.co.uk/) for the recordings of what they are pleased to describe as 'a new brilliant new sitcom'. So, both brilliant and new, then, but twice as new as it's brilliant... It's called Cabin Pressure, it's about the pilots of a tiny charter airline, and very excitingly it stars Benedict Cumberbatch, from A Life Backwards, Hawking, and Atonement; Roger Allam, from The Thick of It, The Queen, and A Cock and Bull Story; and Stephanie Cole, from A Bit of a Do, Housewife 49 and Talking Heads. And me, from here. The recordings are all in June - do come if you'd like to. (The tickets for the sketch show recording went surprisingly fast, so you may want to get in quick.)

Plug over, normal service will be resumed shortly.

Book titles that are improved by knocking off the last letter.

• Three Men in a Boa.
• How to be Goo.
• Of Mice and Me.
• Catch 2.
• Winnie the Poo.
• A Brief History of Tim.

My thought process on seeing the advert 'Make Yourself 3D'

1. Ooh. That sounds somehow intriguing. I wonder what it means.
2. Ah. It turns out it means 'Turn yourself 3D by making a character that looks and dresses like you. It's fun and free.' That no longer sounds intriguing, because I am not a nine year old girl. Besides, if I wanted to make a character that looks and dresses like me, I would simply have a child.
3. Hang on though. Surely if you make a character that's rendered on a flat computer screen, that's turning yourself 2D?
4. Hang on more... I'm already 3D! I don't need to make myself 3D - three is precisely the number of dimensions in which I currently exist!
5. I don't think it should have taken me four steps to realise that.
6. Oh look. A pigeon.

Enter our prize draw for a pickled egg.

Strapline of the April 2002 issue of the Fish Friers’ Review: ‘Win yourself some chips’. Now that’s what I call knowing your readership.

Lines from Bob Marley songs that were written for him by a middle-class Englishwoman.

• Don’t you worry about a thing
• There is one question I’d really love to ask
• Stand up for your rights!
• I hope this jam is going to last...

Not to mention the spin-off series about her brother Rhodes.

You know how sometimes you see a sign that suddenly inspires you to write a whole series of adventure books for children? Oh, don’t you? Well, to be fair, neither did I until ten minutes ago. But as I looked at that sign; like JK Rowling on that train journey, or Joe Craig after his usual pre-book pint of margaritas, inspiration struck; and my heroine leapt fully-formed into existence – the impetuous Irish-Italian girl detective, and the dare-devil adventures that lead her mother to exclaim the title of, let us say, the fourth book in the series: ‘Please Take Care, Piazza Slippery!’

Job done.

Sign at till at the British Library cafe:

"Due to a new credit card terminal installation, we are not able to process any payment by cards."

Right. Frankly, I'd have been tempted to stick with the old terminal.

Or: 'Yes, if you're some kind of IDIOT!'

What they say on the Northern Rock website in reply to the following Frequently Asked Question: (Thanks Marianne)

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

The Bank of England and HM Treasury has made it clear that all existing and new deposits in Northern Rock are covered by these guarantee arrangements and are safe and secure. Customers need not fear for their deposits. Northern Rock continues business as usual. Savers can, should they wish to, withdraw money in the usual way. But there is no need to do so, since all savings are safeguarded by the Government. If you still wish to make a withdrawal, you may do so in accordance with the Terms & Conditions of your account.

What they would like to say:

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why do you ask?

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Doesn't matter whether you can or not. You don't need to.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why? I've just told you, your money's fine. Leave it where it is.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

I'm not telling you.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Oh, for heaven's sake stop whinging on about your bloody money! There's more important things in the world, you know! Things that money can't buy! The tranluscence of a butterfly's wing! The laughter of a child paddling in a brook! It's not all about your stupid squalid little pot of cash, which is, in any case, perfectly safe!

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Yes.

So if anyone needs a towel, just give me a shout.

I was getting myself some car insurance the other day, and had to select my job from a drop down menu. Only they didn't have 'writer'. Fair enough, I thought, I suppose it's a relatively niche profession, I can understand them leaving it out. Except that here are just a few of the jobs they were absolutely fine with.

Violin Maker
Clay Pigeon Instructor
Foam Converter
Pearl Stringer
Weighbridge Clerk
Tea Taster
Water Diviner
Falconer
Head Lad
Towel Supplier

And doubtless someone, somewhere, was once given it for Christmas... and was overjoyed.

You remember how I paranoidly take out books to have on my desk at the British Library, so it looks like I have a right to be there; but cannily choose ones that look really dull so I won't be distracted into reading them? No? Well I do.

Such as the excellent 'Early United States Barbed Wire Patents', by Jesse S James. Presumably he added the 'S' to avoid being confused with notorious outlaw and train robber Jesse James. Though I can't help thinking he did this job far more efficiently just by writing a book about barbed wire patents. Here is the first sentence:

'I started to realize the dire need of a book of this kind soon after I started to collect old types of barbed wire in 1957.' Hats off to Jesse the use of the word 'dire'.

Here are my other three favourite sentences:

'I believe it would be a safe bet, if anyone could ever get a caller, that there has been more of this ‘Hodge’s ten-point spur rowel’ wire found by barbed wire collectors than all the other ‘rotating’ type barbs combined.'

Look out for some terrific exclamation mark work in this next one:

'I believe this patent takes the cake for the largest number of barb types shown that can be used on its fence-wire. Seven!'

And the peerless:

'If you happen to be a barbed-wire collector who has been trying to locate the patent data on your ‘saw-toothed ribbed ribbon wire’, you need look no further!'


See, now it looks as if I'm sneering at someone for being enthusiastic about their hobby, and God knows I've bored on about comedy for too long to too many people to be allowed to do that, even if I wanted to. But, Jesse, I don't know... barbed wire? Really?

Rejected titles for the film 'Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium'.

• Mr. O'Moore's Fantastical Store
• Mr. McWopp's Bewildering Shop
• Mr. Moletail-Begalia's Odd Wholesale Retailer
• Mr. Bleeosk's Kooky Kiosk
• Mr. Roy Far-Bus's Weird Branch of Toys-R-Us.
• Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (Memo to self - remember to change name of guy, and thing he owns.)
• Death Mask IV.

Next week: Will the Beatles ever reform? We ask them all.

An advert on my email sidebar has just encouraged me to subscribe to the Washington Post, with the following inducement:

'All the latest Pakistan news - Benazir Bhutto interview.'

The latest news? Really? I can't help thinking there's a story they may have missed...

No mention of their sworn enemy, the Sodding Fat-Faced Cat.

Good news, everybody! It has just come to my attention that there lives in Madagascar a species of rodent - in the Nesomyidae family, since you ask - known as the Bastard Big-Footed Mouse. See, don't you find that this bleak, cold, new year's world suddenly seems that much happier a place to be, knowing we share it with Bastard Big-Footed Mice?

There was no hesitation, either. Joe knows his friends, and he also knows those who are missing from that list.

Coo. Quiet round here, isn't it? Cobwebs and everything. Ah well, maybe I'll do better in the new year. I'll have a go, anyway. In the meantime, happy new year, and here is the latest in a very occasional series (by which I mean I've done it once before, and I'm doing it now): My Favourite Guess In The Game Of Articulate This Christmas Season:

Karl (describing 'stranger'): Someone you don't know!
Joe: Emily!

Also, I'm afraid I killed the French ambassador.

Every morning when I have my bath, my bleary eyes rest on my girlfriend's shampoo bottle, directly opposite me. And every morning, in that highly receptive and barely conscious state, I read, over and over again, the sentence they've chosen to emblazen on the back of it:

'Get A More Dazzling Blonde!'

Now, luckily, my current blonde is more than dazzling enough for me. But still, I can't help thinking Derren Brown would advise her she's playing with fire.

The public need to know.

‘Badger’ is a very overused comedy word, we can all agree on that. But that doesn’t stop it being funny when you switch on the TV, and are confronted by a stern-looking Jon Snow addressing a huge grim-faced man in suit and tie on his enormous news-screen, and asking him ‘How many badgers do you have to kill?’

Ho hum, it's that time of the year again. Here comes a commercial.

Well, it's probably time to direct the merciless glare of my self-publicity on the people who diligently and inexplicably check back here for what is fast becoming a bi-monthly update. Hello, you chaps. Would you like to come to a sketch night? The reason I ask is, I have a sketch night. Here is a book which confirms that.

There. Told you I did. So, if my drawing of Stalin next to a seahorse has intrigued and excited you, and made you receptive to an hour of sketches one of which is tangentally related to Stalin, and none of which have anything whatsoever to do with a seahorse, why not turn up at the Hen and Chickens in Islington on Thursday or Friday at 9:30? Eh? Why not? What possible reason could there be not to?

Deadly Skunk Floods London

...According to an Evening Standard billboard I passed this week.

Well, this clearly raises more questions then it answers.
1) How much of London has the Deadly Skunk flooded? I must live in a high-lying area of London, because it all seems fairly dry round here, but perhaps the flood waters are rising inexorable towards me.
2) What was the Deadly Skunk's motive? Does he despise London, perhaps due to a formative time in his youth when a tour-bus full of Londoners sneered at his stripe; or is it just that London is an easy city to flood, thanks to the Thames barrier?
3) Given that skunks are not indigenous to Britain, why was the Deadly Skunk allowed past customs and immigration? Given that he has earned the soubriquet 'Deadly', he clearly has past form, possibly from gassing Milan, or triggering a volcano under Sacrimento. Surely he should have been turned back at the airport? No, mark my words, there is more to this apparently simple story of a North American rodent bent on the destruction of a city than meets the eye.

Didn't make me buy a paper, though.

How to remove stains from carpets - a pocket guide.

Red wine - White wine.
White wine - Red wine.
Rose wine - More Rose wine. Strange but true.
Tea - Coffee
Coffee - Cocoa
Cocoa - Tippex
Blood - Ring the police, and ask what they use. Be careful of arousing suspicion, however.
Books - These can simply be picked up.
Magma - Leave to dry, then chip off with chisel.
Unicorn Urine - This is largely academic. Since you ask, though: vinegar.

Presumably not THE Penelope Wilton. Unless she has a greater interest in the exploits of Mickey Mouse's dog Pluto than you would think to look at her.

Hey, Honeys, I'm home. The battle royale between me and the French is over, and we've decided to call it a draw. Under the terms of our peace agreement, I am to return to England, and stop eating all their cheese; and they are to buy some proper pillows for their beds, and stop pretending those weird long tubular bolster things will do.

Anyway, this weekend I've been sorting through some old stuff of mine that's been cluttering up my Mum's attic. Amongst it was a book I had when I was a little boy, which was evidently second hand when I was given it, and had the original owner's name in the 'This book belongs to...' space. For some reason, rather than simply cross it out, I appear to have tackled the problem laterally. The inscription now reads:

This book belongs to... Penny Wilton. No. John Finemore.

Pretty strident, coming from someone who can't spell his own name.

And thirty quid's worth of crackers.

Well, I think we all knew the old 'maybe I'll occasionally update this from internet cafes' plan was a bit of a non-starter, didn't we? Never mind. I'm still in France, as it happens, but I'm no longer canoeing down any of it, walking across any bits of it, or lolling by the pools of any of its chateaus. Instead, I've found myself a nice dull hotel room in a nice cloudy bit of France, and I'm holing myself up trying to finish something I'm been trying to finish for about a year and a half, before Real Life starts up again.

Anyway, my anonymous correspondent below might wish to pour herself a glass of whisky and hang on tight, because here comes another story about how I'm not very good at French. Today, there was a market in the village, and as I wandered through it, the lady at one of the 47 enormous cheese stalls offered me, of all things, a bit of cheese. I tasted the bit of cheese. It was quite nice. I told her so, and wandered off again. Later, as I wandered back she caught my eye and said (I think) 'You tasted it... aren't you going to buy it?'. In a nice jokey way, but still. I panicked. Maybe in France you only accept a taste if you're going to buy, I thought, in spite of the fact that a) I know perfectly well that's not true, and b) if it was true, it would make the tasting ever so slightly redundant, wouldn't it? Nonetheless, although I didn't want any cheese, and if I had I wouldn't have picked that cheese, I caved, and asked for 'a little slice.' She cut me an amount which made me assume that I'd confused either the French words for 'little' and 'vast'; or 'slice' and 'mountain'. I asked for half of it. This was apparently very funny, and we both laughed about it for a while. Then she wrapped up the whole slice, and asked me for quinze Euros. At which point my brain, presumably incapable of imagining a slice of cheese worth fifteen Euros, blew a fuse, and allowed me to confuse 'quinze' with... 'quatre'. 'Phew' I thought 'Only four Euros. I was worried it might be expensive...' And so it is that I am now the proud possessor of fifteen euros worth of average cheese. For comparison, yesterday I spent fifteen Euros on a three course dinner. Including cheese.

I have my suspicions about 'Tripous', though.

I have invented a game to play at restaurants here called 'French Roulette'. To play, you require a menu, and a very hazy grasp of the French language. Then, rather than doing what I used to do, and having one of the four or five things I could identify, you pick the most impenetrable looking phrase, ask for it, and cross your fingers it isn't liver. Yesterday, for instance, I went for 'coquilles de Saint-Jacques', on the grounds that they sounded like they might well be holy relics. In fact, they were bits of fish on a stick. But very nice bits of fish. Then I ordered 'coupe de fraises', probably because the word 'coupe' had subconciously made me expect something rather special- as if the chef had turned to the sous-chef and said 'You know, Serge, I think I've pulled off something of a coup with these fraises!' Then they turned up. And I realised that if so, the rest of the conversation would have gone like this:

SERGE: Really, Jean-Claude? Why, what have you done with them?
JEAN-CLAUDE: Well, I've cut them in halves...
SERGE: Mon Dieu!
JEAN-CLAUDE: Let me finish, Serge! I've cut them into halves... and then I've put them in a bowl.
SERGE: You, mon ami, are a culinary genius. But aren't those the fraises we've had in the freezer for two years?
JEAN-CLAUDE: The very same. And what I've rather cleverly done is only let them three-quarters thaw, so there's still a little frozen bit in the middle of each one. Like a baked Alaska in fruit form.
SERGE: Maestro. You stand alone.

That ç, by the way, is the nearest thing I can find on this keyboard to a question mark.

I'm away at the moment, going down the Dordogne in a canoe, because that's how middle class I am. Though having said that, earlier this year I spent a week in a holiday complex in Lanzarote; and later some chums and I are going to spend a week in a chateau. So who knows what class I amç (Answer: I do. I'm middle class, and there's nothing I can do about it.)

Anyway, it's going well so far - the water level is very high, which is good for not having to carry my canoe over dried up bits, but bad for making the rapids very rapid indeed. I had no idea I could swear so hard at water.

I shall try to put something up here whenever I get on line. Got to go now, it's half past twelve, so naturally the shop-owner is impatient to shut up shop and embark on his five hour lunch.

Very well respected family, the Vincehires.

Another sign that you are, in fact, a grown-up now:

The example birth date on forms is now sometimes more recent than your own.

Another sign that you, despite your newly discovered 'grown-up' status, are nonetheless watching far too much 'Sopranos':

You see a van with VINCEHIRE written on the side, and read it as 'Vinch-e-hiray'.

And now a message on behalf of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Philistines

Also whilst in Amsterdam, I visited the city's major art gallery, the Rijksmuseum. Unfortunately, it was being refurbished, and almost all of the collection was closed off - only a small selection of 'masterworken' were available to view in one wing of the gallery. Fortunately... this was perfect! Come on, any grown ups inexplicably reading this, please avert your eyes, but the rest of us... isn't this precisely what we want? There were two floors of exhibits; it took me about an hour and half to get round it - I could have done it in an hour if I'd been in training- and when I left, I'd seen everything there was to see. No hang-dog feeling of guilt about those rooms full of medieval madonnas and childses guiltily scuttled past to get to the good stuff. No shifty memories of just looking at the first and last panels of the 24 canvas Hideous Martyrdom of St Antifreeze, and telling myself I'd probably got the gist. No, I spent half an hour downstairs warming up with pen and ink drawings of naval battles and silver ewers in the shape of bottoms, then upstairs, and Wam! - Vermeer!; Boom!- Franz Hals!; Kapow!- Rembrandt! and I'm on my way rejoicing.

I therefore hereby recommend the following two point plan to all the major art galleries of the world: 1) Go into "refurbishment" immediately, and permanently, and put your greatest hits into a modest bungalow next door. 2. More bottom-shaped ewers.

I mean, if it was a seasick dragon, I could understand...

I went to Amsterdam this weekend. I hadn't been before- what a lovely place it is. Whilst there, I read this:

'According to legend, Amsterdam was founded by two fishermen and a seasick dog, which ran ashore and threw up on the site of the city when their ship ran aground. The reality, sadly, is rather more mundane.'

More mundane than a vomiting dog? Crikey.

Frequently Questioned Answers.

• It wasn't me!
• Nothing's the matter.
• I had to work late at the office.
• It fell off the back of a lorry.
• I'm almost sure it's the red wire.
• Because I say so.

Frequently Asked Questions

• Are we nearly there yet?
• What time do you call this?
• Is anyone sitting there, mate?
• What do you call a man with a spade on his head?
• How do you do?
• Where have all the flowers gone?
• Can I help you?
• Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?
• Where's the loo?

Free Bees

Today's book of choice is the excellent 'Proceedings of the Sixth European Bee Conference'. Now, you might think any organisation able to submit this title to their publishers would be entitled to sit back with a feeling of a job well done. It's a very good title. But not the International Bee Research Association. They went the extra mile. 'Proceedings of the Sixth European Bee Conference' is merely the sub-title of this great work. The title is... 'Bees Without Frontiers'.

IBRA, I salute you.

They don't, though. They DON'T jar.

I don't understand the Maestro credit card ad campaign. I mean those black and white posters with slogans like: 'There's a reason machines spit out coins', 'R.I.50p' and 'Coins Jar'. What are they trying to get us to do? Stop using coins? Coins are really useful! How do Maestro think they're going to brainwash us into not believing coins are useful? Is their advertising agency's dream that one day, I'll fancy a Kit-Kat, and thanks to their clever indoctrination think to myself: 'Oh no, here comes that dreadful and laborious business of getting a fifty pee out of my pocket, and giving it to the man! I can hardly bear the sheer tedium and difficulty of it... Ah, but wait! I've just remembered - Maestro, so I am reliably informed by those helpful posters, is the new cash! No more terrible coin-handing-over ordeal for me - all I have to do is produce my Maestro card, watch the assistant sigh, put it in the chip and pin machine, wait for it to be recognised, no luck, take it out and rub the magnetic strip with the corner of my shirt, put it back in, ah, that's better, enter my pin, wait for that to be recognised, enter it again because I absent-mindedly put in my credit card pin not my debit card pin, wait for it to be recognised.... oh dear, slow connection today... Ah, there we go, take out my card, wait for the reciept, and the Kit-Kat is mine! R.I.50p indeed! Sorry, mate, what was that? Big Issue? Yeah, ok! Where's your chip and pin machine?'

Don't tell anyone I told you this.

Banner strapline on the front page of the Evening Standard yesterday:

'Win Tickets to Secret Paul McCartney Gig!'

Oh, Paul, Paul... this mania for secrecy will surely destroy you...

Things I learnt today about legal contracts in China during the Tang dynasty.

Illiterate signatories signed contracts by drawing lines indicating the place of their finger joints on their middle finger. Men used the middle finger of their left hand; women the right.

'Ambulance chaser' clerks who went round villages persuading peasants to file suits or amend contracts were known contemptuously as 'Men With Brushes In Their Hats'.

A man could divorce his wife if she committed any of the 'seven outs': failed to bear children, committed adultery, stole, disobeyed his parents, was jealous, contracted a fatal disease, or... talked too much.

Turns out you're supposed to take that triangular thing off the balls before you start...

Yesterday, a friend and I went to a snooker hall in Camden, and played, of all things, snooker. At the table next to us were a big fat guy in his sixties, and a little wiry guy in his twenties - possibly, but not definitely, father and son. As the session went on, the younger guy was getting more and more furious at the older guy's refusal to compliment him on his good shots. What was great was how his tactics evolved.
First he tried querulousness: 'Ain't you going to say 'nice shot' then? Ain't you even gonna say it?'
Then he tried over-compensation 'Oh! What a brilliant shot! The boy's on FIRE tonight!'
Then he tried sarcasm 'No... please... all these compliments... really, it's too much... I'm embarrassed'
Then he tried retaliation 'Oh no! What a terrible miss! You must feel so stupid! That was an awful shot!'
Finally, he tried getting us involved: 'I'm sorry... did you guys hear something just then? Did someone say 'good shot'? I couldn't hear it myself...'

And all the time the older guy played stolidly on, creeping up on the younger guy's lead until eventually, right at the end, the younger guy sunk the cue ball whilst trying to pot the black - and the older guy, without saying a word, started replacing the balls on the table for the next game. It turned out the younger guy had automatically forfeited the game. I didn't know about that rule. Neither, it turned out, did the younger guy. And if we hadn't been there, I'm sure fairly sure the older guy would have wound up in Camden Hospital A and E, for surgical removal of a snooker cue.

Meanwhile, at our table, it very quickly became apparent that there was a violent mis-match between the serious, professional, 'Fast Eddie' look of this dim hall full of huge snooker tables, and our - particularly my - utter incompetence at snooker. It was like watching someone on the centre court at Wimbledon, playing Swingball. Badly. This is not false modesty - I really am dreadful. It's not just that I can't do it, it's that I have no idea what I'm doing wrong, or how to try to do it better. I'm basically just a monkey with a stick. But- and this is what I found funny, at least afterwards - none of this stopped me, every so often, picking up the chalk, and thoughtfully chalking my cue. As if that was my problem...

If you go down to the woods today, be sure of a big surprise...

Sometimes, the Klan just wanna have fun.

I'm sure a couple of you must be short story writers. If this isn't inspiration on a plate, I don't know what is. Remember, this actually happened. Every one of those men is in that photo; in that costume, and on that ferris wheel for a good reason, which, if we could only ask him, he would be able to explain, and wouldn't find in the least unusual or absurd. I would dearly love to know what that (those) reason(s) is (are).

I dedicate this blog entry to Nelson Mandela. I hope he's grateful.

Kudos to Joseph Alessi, an actor in the new comedy musical The Drowsy Chaperone (which is fun and funny, and recommended so long as you like That Sort Of Thing) not only for being very good, but also for putting the following in his programme biography, after a long list of theatre credits: 'Television includes: the usual array of cops, robbers, medics and patients'. That's the way to do it.

Not so sure about one of his castmates, who ends his biog 'He dedicates his performance to his gorgeous Rebecca'. Which is the sort of thing you can just about get away with if the performance in question is as Romeo or Mark Anthony- but when it's as one of a duo of comedy New York gangsters disguised throughout as pastry chefs... not so much. (And if you didn't know what I meant by That Sort Of Thing before, you do now.)

Samuel L Jackson IS Joe Bowel, the cop who don't take no shit...

Here’s a game you can play on IMDB. Think up eight common two-word phrases or expressions which are not, as far as you know, film titles… but which easily could be. Then make a list of eight more which you think really probably couldn’t. Then check them all on IMDB. Award yourself one point for every title on your first list which has indeed been used, and five points for every title on your second list. (Yes, I realise this scoring system rewards failure in the second list, but don’t worry, it’s not going on your permanent record.) Here’s how I did.


Probably:

• Storm Warning - No.
• Last Words - Yes, in 2002
• Coming Home - Yes, 1978
• Danger Money – No, astonishingly.
• Cat’s Cradle – Yes, not once, not twice, but six times, between 1903 and 2009.
• Night Terrors – Yes, a treat we have in store this very year, apparently.
• Learning Curve - No. ‘The Learning Curve’, yes, but not ‘Learning Curve’.
• Extreme Prejudice – Yes, 1987

Probably Not:

• Curly Kale – No.
• Mucus Membrane – No.
• Cub Camp – No.
• Machine Washable – No.
• Kennel Cough – No.
• Human Resources – No. A Dutch TV documentary, but not a film.
• Irritable Bowel – No.
• White Lightning - Yes! Twice – once in 1953 and once in 1973! I suppose if you take away the My First Cider connotations it has in Britain, it’s quite a macho phrase. Just how macho you will appreciate when I tell you that the 1973 release starred Burt Reynolds playing a character named… Gator McCluskey. Now that’s a name. To family and friends reading this: I hereby announce that I wish from now on to be known as ‘Gator McCluskey’. I will respond to no other name. Thank you.

So, that was May then...

Ok, let's face it, this blog is increasingly looking like it’s on its last legs. It's bravely struggling on, bless it, but it's blind in one eye, and has lost most of its teeth, and keeps bumping into walls. And I’m probably going away in July and August, so this is kill or cure time. Here’s a plan. I’m going to try and post something – however short, ill-thought-out, or asinine – every weekday in June. If I can manage this, it might be worth carrying on with it when I get back from my trip; if not, I’ll do the decent thing and take it on that final one-way trip to the vet's....

Let’s find out which.

Why, who will it help?

Sometimes when I'm watching or reading the news, I get an uneasy feeling that it's to no-one's benefit that I'm seeing this. Obviously the video made by the Virginia Tech killer is a recent example of this, but there are other, subtler ones all the time, even in news media I respect.

"Watch Natallie Evans' reaction"? Do you know what, I'm not entirely certain it's necessary that I do.

I wouldn't marry you if you were...

According to the BBC:

'Duncan Larcombe, the Sun's royal correspondent, told BBC Five Live: "The last person on earth who's going to be pressured by newspaper columnists and television chat shows to get married is Prince William."'

People on earth who may temporarily have slipped Duncan Larcombe's mind:

Mr. Samat Ozer, a washing machine repairman from Trabzon, Turkey.
Mrs. Rosa Inez Alverez, a great-grandmother from Turillo, Venezuela.
Mr. Yan Shujian, a goatherd from Xing'an province, Inner Mongolia.
Pope Benedict XXVI.
Me.
You.
Duncan Larcombe.
In fact, given that I cannot think of anyone else at all who IS being pressured by columnists or chat shows (why chat shows? Does William even go on chat shows? Surely not) to get married... Everyone else in the world.

Or, alternatively, Mr. Larcombe may have inadvertently used the word 'last' when in fact he meant... 'first'. It's easily done.

You can always go and GET the arrow, surely? Lazy, lazy Omar.

Quote on repulsive 'Promoting Creativity' leaflet lying around the office I've borrowed:

"Four things never come back: the spoken word, the spent arrow, the past and the neglected opportunity."

Omar Idn Al-Halif.

Wise words, Omar. Though to be honest, item three on your list - the past - sort of encompasses at least two of the other three. But if you're going to be so specific, why stop there? Here's my revised and improved version.

"Amongst the many, many things that never come back are the following nine things:
The spoken word.
The spent arrow.
The past.
The neglected opportunity.
The ill-trained dog.
The stick.
The Global Hypercolor T-shirt.
The deadbeat Dad.
The HMS Titanic.

But hey, it's not all bad news! Four things that DO come back:
The boomerang
The spawning salmon
The Last of the Summer Wine
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles"


John Finnemore (Based on an original, but stupid, idea by Omar Idn Al-Halif)

Inspirational.

Why yes, as a matter of fact I do live in Islington. However did you guess?

Er… hello. Remember me? I used to write stuff here. KQ’s last comment has shamed me into returning to this blog, if only because I cannot bear to see that blameless man take the rap for the truly atrocious novel I plan to write in my forties.

Yesterday, I saw a shop called ‘Essentials’. Subtitled ‘Aromatherapy for people, houses and dogs’ Has there ever been a more triumphant misuse of the word ‘Essential’?

Must try harder.

Well, this hasn't been a vintage month for my blog, has it? Sorry about that. I've had a big old project to complete, which meant long days spent doing lots of writing, which meant not very many interesting things to write about here, and a disinclination to write any more away. A pretty fatal combination, as it turned out. Anyway, I'm off away for a week now, back next Tuesday, when normal service will, I hope, be resumed.

Yeah, it's somewhere in the back there... underneath all those old props from the fake moon landing.

Hoo, it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry.

Anyway, according to the BBC:

A previously unreleased film of President John F Kennedy's motorcade has revealed new details of the final moments before his assassination. The silent film shows the president and his wife Jackie shortly before the fatal shot was fired. Amateur photographer George Jefferies held onto the film for more than 40 years believing it was unimportant.

Yeah, it's amazing the junk you hold on to, isn't it? Junior's milk teeth; the licence for that old Buick you had, what, thirty years ago; video footage of the moments leading up to the most hotly contested events of the twentieth century... You know it's all rubbish, but somehow you can't bring yourself to let go.

The article goes on to say:
The new film only came to light when Mr Jefferies mentioned it in conversation to his son-in-law, Wayne Graham.

That must have been quite a conversation.

So, Pop, do you remember where you were when JFK was shot?

Well, let me see... yup, I was in Dallas. Dallas, Texas.

What? You were in Dallas! How come you didn't go see the motorcade?

Oh, I did. Wouldn't have wanted to miss that.

My God! I bet you must've wished you took your video camera along, like that Zapruder guy...

Yeah, I took it along alright.

You took it!? So... what happened? Didn't the film come out? Did the feds take it off of you?

No, no. I still got it someplace. Why... you want to see it?

YES! Why have you never shown us this before!?

Oh... you know... no-one wants to be the boring guy who's always making you watch his holiday films...

Round up the usual suspects.

List of my possessions currently not working or working imperfectly:

My printer
My camera
My mp3 player
My nose

List of people I suspect of being to blame for the above:

Me.
The Samsung Corporation of Korea.
No prime suspect as yet.
The ginger haired woman who sat opposite me on a crowded tube and coughed continuously for twenty minutes, dammit.

Book I'm pretending to read today: 'Vibrational-rotational excitations in nonlinear molecular systems.'

Reviews not found on the back:

‘Vibrational, rotational… sensational!’ The Daily Express.

‘Molecular systems have never been so excitating!’ The Mirror

‘A rip-roaring, block-busting, page-turning romp through the world of multi-quantra intra-molecular transitions in the vicinity of bifurcation points. Don’t read it on public transport – you’ll laugh like a loony!’ The Sunday Times

‘Disappointing’ The New Scientist

Actual first sentence:

“If there would be no God – then what a staff-captain am I?” said one of the characters in a novel by Dostoevskii. In a similar way we can exclaim: “If there would be no nonlinearity – then what physics would that be?”

Difficult to pick my favourite word there: obviously ‘staff-captain’ is very tempting, but I’m going to have to go for ‘exclaim’.

Still, they also make 'The Thick Of It'.

In the receptions of one of the BBC's buildings, there is a muted television tuned to BBC1, with the subtitles turned on. This means that every time you pass, you get a little captioned snapshot of what the largest public sector broadcaster in the world is all about. When I passed it the other day, this is what was on the screen.

Two men looking at a house.
Caption: 'If this house was a celebrity, what celebrity do you think it would be?'

I sneak cooks.

On the back of a cubicle door in the gents at the British Library, someone, possibly under the impression that a survey is being taken, has written ‘I suck cocks’. And underneath, someone else has written ‘I cock snooks’. Excellent.

VERY slow, ideally. You might even like to consider stopping.

Cuh. Windy out, isn't it? Luckily, the police force is there to serve and protect us whatever the weather. For instance, a large tree has been blown down in Borehamwood, but the local bobbies have lost no time in springing into action with a prudent warning:

There. That should do it. Who's for a doughnut?

I say Potato, you have no comment to make at this time.

So, what's going on then? Is it:

A) You've all sent me to Coventry as punishment for posting a cutesy picture of the dog?
B) Changing from Blogger to Google Blogger at the start of the year has somehow messed up the 'comment' funtion?
C) You're all hiding until February, when you're going to jump out and shout 'Boo!' at me?

I do realise, of course, that if it is any of these, you won't be able to tell me so. Therefore:

If A), leave a stern and disgusted silence.
If B), leave an apologetic but helpless silence.
If C), leave a hushed but giggly silence.

Go.

I looked again, and found it was / A hippopotamus.

I just looked out of my window to see what I thought was an elderly gentleman in a dark business suit and overcoat consulting a pocket watch attached by a chain to his waistcoat. Except of course it wasn’t, because I am not Dickens. He was quite a young man, and it was an mp3 player attached by its headphones to his inside jacket pocket. But the attitude he struck as he stood there looking at it would have been entirely familiar to his great-grandfather.

But try the one in Jail Road, Lahore.

Book I’m pretending to read at the British Library today:

‘A List of Post Offices In Pakistan (corrected up to 31-5-74)’

So, if you happen to be reading this in Dhari Sayyadan, Jhelum, in 1974, (possibly after a ‘Life on Mars’ style accident), and are hoping to send a telegram, I can exclusively advise you not to get your hopes up. Telegrams are not accepted. Sorry about that.

How can they be so sure?

Seen outside a shop advertising diet supplements:

'Can you pinch an inch? We can pinch up to 12 inches, or more!'

So, either less than twelve, or more than twelve, or twelve. And that's a promise!

Similarly (so similarly as not to deserve its own post) in a little independent video and DVD shop near me:

Sale! All films for £1.99 or less*!

*Excludes some dvds.

May 2007 be full of the things you like, with hardly any of the things you dislike.

(One or two small ones, obviously. Otherwise you'll have nothing to feel hard-done-by about, and where's the fun in that?)

Anyway, happy new year! I've celebrated it by redesigning the appearance of my blog to more exactly resemble a leisure centre swimming pool, and by joining myspace. Because the one thing I really need in my life this year is another way to procrastinate. Oh yes.

www.myspace.com/johnfinnemore

His top hat is being re-lined.

Merry Christmas Eve, everyone. I'm off to Dorset to indulge in some family traditions like necking mulled wine with my sister, playing Ludo with my Granny, and smoking a thoughtful after-dinner cigar with the dog. Thank you for reading, and see you in the New Year.

When maths and sausages collide.

Sign in a shop on Tottenham Court Road: 'XXXX Sausages - now with 50% more meat!' You see, what they've done there is over-reached themselves. 10% more meat sounds quite good. Even 20%. But 50% more meat... frankly, there shouldn't have been that much room for improvement in the old sausages. They must have been at the most only 66.6% meat... and not even that, because if they were the signs would now say 100% meat. Which they don't. And suddenly the possibility that they were, say, 10% meat, and are now a mighty 15%, starts seeming horribly plausible...

Let's give him a big hand...

In case you haven't yet seen it, it is my very great pleasure to bring to your attention what a friend of mine has already called 'The best story that has ever been in the news'. From the BBC website:

"The world's tallest man has saved two dolphins by using his long arms to reach into their stomachs and pull out dangerous plastic shards."

I mean. That's just unbeatable, isn't it? The World's Tallest Man! Two dolphins! Using his long arms!

If you want the full story, go here...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/6178659.stm but first, seriously consider whether reading more might ruin it. Are you not better off leaving the glorious details to your imagination? For instance, I like to believe that when they called in the World's Tallest Man, they hadn't even thought about his long arms. They just called him in because they were overwhelmed by the dolphin crisis, and thought... well, he's the World's Tallest Man! He's bound to have some ideas! So The World's Tallest Man arrived- travelling, as always in the World's Tallest Car- he had a look at the dolphins, shook his head sorrowfully (incidentally causing eddies in the lower atmosphere that would later result in a typhoon of the coast of Taiwan) , had a cup of tea, smoked his pipe... and then it hit him! Maybe my long arms could be of use!

Or better yet, maybe he wasn't called in at all. Perhaps he was simply taking a walk, using his long legs, when he stumbled across the two dolphins, lying on the beach of the river uttering piteous clicks, and pointing with their fins at their tummies... The World's Tallest Man, moved by their plight, had a look at the dolphins, shook his head sorrowfully, and... well, you know the rest.

Or perhaps it was no accident. Perhaps the World's Tallest Man sought the dolphins out. Perhaps he is so modest that this is the first of his acts of animal heroism to reach the press, but in fact some years ago the World's Tallest Man took a solemn oath to use his God-given height to save God's creatures from distress. Yesterday, he used his long arms to rub embrocation on the throat of a giraffe with pharyngitis. Tomorrow, he will use his long back to provide shelter for a family of marmosets. And every night, animals everywhere thank God for the long limbs and benevolent nature of the World's Tallest Man.

However it happened, the thing I'm most keen to keep believing - and which, fortunately, the article does not contradict- is that the World's Tallest Man saved both dolphins at the same time. After all, there were two dolphins, he has two long arms... why waste time? As I see it, the dolphins were placed on trollies, and positioned one on each side of the World's Tallest Man. The World's Tallest Man took a deep breath, and extended both arms sideways.... until in no time, the World's Tallest Man was up to both shoulders in dolphin. And that's the image I shall be using on my Christmas cards this year.

Who'd have thought it - the French are no different from you and I.

Well, wasn't that fun!? Oh. Wasn't it?

Nevertheless, the results are:

=1 Phoebe 12
=1 James H
=2 Tessa 11
=2 Joe
5 Matt 10
6 The Squirrelator 8
7 Miss Teak 5

James Lark is, as ever, in a class all of his own.


Which means, on average, you guessed 9.8 out of 27 (not counting the Americans, which was a mean trick) - almost exactly what you'd have got by random guesswork. I hope that's taught us all a valuable lesson. It's not for me to say that with this humble game, I have essentially abolished racism, but if that's the view of the Nobel committee, then it would be graceless not to accept their prize. Oh, and in case you're interested, the most misleading faces belong to the French and German gentlemen in the first set, whom not a single person correctly identified; and the most easily identified face was that of my Granny, labelled British by everyone except the one person who's met her. So, there you have it. You can't get more British than Granny.

If James H and Phoebe would like to get in touch one way or another, stating their preference for Crunchie, book, or blog entry, then their prizes will be sent winging to them.

An Englishman, a Frenchman and a German walk into a bar...

Behold: The answers!

1) Herr Marc Schulze. 2) Mr. Chris Wootton. 3) M. Sylvain Tesson.

1) Ms. Gabby Hood. 2) Fraulein Katharina Gebauer. 3) Mlle. Valerie Allain.

1) Herr Kurt Weinzerl. 2) Mr. Piers McCausland. 3) M. Pierre Yves Le Franc.

1) Mme. Germaine Belleguic. 2) Frau Elisabeth Heister-Neumann. 3) Mrs. Doris Finnemore.
1) Prof. Dr. Rolf-Dieter Heuer. 2) Prof Anthony Snodgrass. 3) Prof Georges Rhin.

1) Councillor Harry Webb, Labour Councillor for Havering. 2) Mme. Martine Leclerc, Vice President, The Regional Council for Limousin. 3) Herr. Hartmut Mollring, Minister of Finance, Lower Saxony.

1) Pfarrer Wolfgang Ipolt. 2) Pere Alain-Christian Leraitre. 3) The Rev. Douglas Claypole-White.
1) Herr Hermann Dornemann, 111. 2) Mme. Marie Bremont, 115. 3) Mr. Henry Allingham, 110.

1) Marcel Marceau. 2) Florence Nightingale. 3) Jacques Offenbach.

Triple Bluff. 1) Abe Goldstein of Iowa. 2) Bob Carlson of Washington. 3) Jim Ross of Vancouver. Sorry about that one.

Tomorrow: The Results!

N.B. If you're one of the people featured, or a member of their family, and you'd like me to remove you from this post, let me know, and I'll happily do so. I hope you don't, though. How many google searches for your name turn up the opportunity to find out how French, German and British people think you look?

Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome.

Here it is, then: the Grand One Hundred (And One) Posts Celebratory Picture Quiz.

Essentially, it's a version of the always-amusing game you can play in departure lounges, where you try to guess whether a particular passenger is from the country you're leaving or the country you're travelling to. But, with the help of the magical internet, I have assembled thirty people who are not only from three different countries, but are also quite astronomically unlikely ever to catch the same plane.

Your task, if you choose to accept it, which you must, is to look at the following ten sets of three people, decide which of each is from the great nations of France, Germany and Britain, and post your guesses in the comments section. Next Monday, I shall put up the answers, and then we shall see what we shall see. There may even be a prize. Hell, there will be a prize. In the spirit of the game, the winner can have his or her choice of one of three things: 1) the opportunity to write the next entry in this blog. 2) A secondhand book of my choice from my shelves. 3) A delicious Cadbury's Crunchie. So, with the prospect of milk chocolate with a golden honeycomb centre spurring you on to victory, get to it, and see if you can tell Hermann from Henry, Sylvain from Siegfried, and Piers from Pierre.

Good Luck. Bon Chance. Good Luck in German.

Turns out you get a telegram from Christopher Berners-Lee.

This, would you believe, is my 100th post. Who would have thought I had so much to say.

I'm working on another exciting picture quiz to celebrate, but it's taking me far too long to prepare, so it'll just have to be in celebration of the 101st post instead. That's a significant number too, isn't it? If you're a dalmation. Meanwhile...

Book in the library I'm working in: 'Just Enough German.' Third time lucky for the publishers, there, after disappointing sales for 'Not Enough German' and 'Too Much German!'.

Which had to be delivered in a truck.

...And his lovely wife, Misery.

I have just received a cheery email entitled 'Christmas Special!' about some replica watches the sender thinks I might be interested in. And who is this jovial festive watch salesman? Apparently, it's a Mr Ashamed Curse. Well, sorry to disappoint, Mr Curse, but I always do my Christmas shopping with the fine old family firm of Tragedy, Guilt and Woe.

Incidentally, I have an entirely ridiculous pride in the fact that my spam is only ever for watches, stock tips, and poker sites. I like to think this reflects the spammers' high opinion of me. "Well now, Quintessentially, this chap seems like a sucessful yet clean-living type, wouldn't you agree?" "Quite right, Candelabra old man. No cheap viagra or nympho sluts for him! He's a man who needs to know what to invest in, when to invest in it, and how then to re-invest his winnings in a game of skill. Send him the 'respectable young high-flier' set, pronto."

For Sveriges Finska Pingstmission, see Uusi Yhteys. Or, if you prefer, don’t.

I like to work at the British Library, because it has large, serious reading rooms full of large, serious desks, at which large, serious people work seriously, which, on a good day, has the effect of shaming me into working seriously too. Not to mention largely. Whereas in my room, I am surrounded by my bed, my dvd player, and shelves full of some of my favourite books. None of which are large or serious, and all ofwhich are more fun than working. So, I go to the BL. But the reason everyone else goes to the BL is that it is a copyright library, where you can order up practically any book ever written. So the large, serious people aforementioned tend to be surrounded by piles of large, serious books. Looking to my right for instance, someone is poring over ‘The Origins of Marxism’. (I have a feeling that Marx wrote Das Kapital in the British Library, so he doesn't have far to look), whilst to my left we have ‘Figured in Marble’, ‘The World as Sculpture’ and a fierce lady with an expression that says ‘Stop Looking At My Books, Beardie’.

The effect of this is that when I first started coming here, I felt a bit of a fraud for writing away with no books beside me, as if it was clear to everyone that I might as well be writing in a Starbucks, and they all resented me for taking up a large, serious desk for my thin, facetious work. So I started ordering books myself, for camouflage. Unfortunately, this meant that instead of being distracted by some books, I was now distracted by my pick of every book ever written. Suddenly, my work-rate dropped sharply, and my reading-old-James-Thurber-collections-rate shot up. So I instigated plan B - picking a random dry text book from the shelves, rather than ordering up something I might be tempted to read. But when your only alternatives are working or reading a text book, it’s amazing how fascinating the geology of the Scottish oil-fields can suddenly become. Go on, ask me anything about the Scapa Flow. So now I’m on plan C. The book lying open in front of me as I type is the Svensk Tidskriftsforteckning 1990-91 (a vintage year for tidskrifts, as I’m sure you know) and I don’t understand a work of it. Perfect. Except that now, I’m paranoid that as a Curb Your Enthusiasm-esque punishment for my folly, a Swede is going to pass by, notice what I’m reading , utter a glad cry of… whatever one Swede cries when he meets a fellow Swede- and I’m going to be forced either to explain my shameful ruse to the whole reading room, or trust to my ability to improvise Swedish. But until that happens, it seems to be working. Even I can’t spend more than ten minutes reading what appears to be a bibliography in a foreign language, and for the last twenty minutes, I have been diligently writing away.

On this blog entry, though. Not on, you know, any of the four things I absolutely have to complete in the next six weeks. But still, it’s a start.

Bad Names For Twins

• Catherine and Kathryn
• Luke and Darth
• Bob and Not Bob
• The Indistinguishables
• Jesus and Judas
• Samantha and Her Sister
• Yours and Mine
• Good Twin and Evil Twin
• Jane and the Back-Up

Middlesex pluckily takes a stand against the dreaded wall thieves.

An embarrassment of riches.

Ok, deadlines are out of the way, and normal service will now be resumed. Sorry about that. (You can make up your own minds whether I'm apologising that there was a break, or that it's now over.)

Today I saw this strapline on a women's magazine:

'Inside - Win A Designer Handbag Full Of Chocolate!'

Dear readers of that magazine: I can't help thinking that the guy who came up with that must either have had some pretty serious deadline trouble of his own this month... or he's openly mocking you.

Next Week: Win, I Dunno, A Cake In Some Shoes.

Also, nice use of brackets.

Sorry about the eerie silence last week - the air is heavy with the acrid smell of deadlines here at the moment. Normally, of course, that would mean a marked increase in blog-posting-as-displacement-activity, but these particular deadlines are big, angry ones that mean business, and they have me scared.

So, just time to report some graffitti seen in a pub loo:

'MUSLIMS OUT'

To which someone had added:

'This is a pub, you cretin. (They don't drink.)'

So, not disagreeing with first writer's message, particularly - just critical of his logistics.

It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been a wreath.

God, that was unnerving.

Today is my birthday. And as I go to check something on Google, this is what confronts me:

How creepy is that? It's the internet equivalent of waking up to find a polaroid of yourself asleep pinned to the headboard. Have I ever given Google my birthdate? I don't think so. Surely I haven't. But maybe Google know everything about all of us. What am I saying- of course Google know everything about all of us. What's sinister is that now, apparently, they're not afraid to show it.

'Hey. You. Happy Birthday. Yeah, that's right, we know your birthday. And your address, your passwords, your pin number, your credit rating, and what you did last summer. So, enjoy the cake, punk. And watch yourself.'

(Either that, or this is Google's birthday too. I know which I believe.)

One just for the Londoners.

I'm thinking of marketing a new line of T-shirts, for wear in central London.


Who wants one?

Simple safety precautions.

Large sign I saw today in a works site in Smithfield market:

Our Number One rule: we don't hurt people who work on our site.
We need your help to make this happen.

Suggested graffitti to go underneath it:

So please stop being so f***ing annoying!

A correction

Re. my suggested names for poodle cross-breeds a couple of posts down.

I am reliably informed that shih-tzu and poodle crosses are in fact common, and are known not as shih-tzoodles, but as shih-poos. Similarly a cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle is known as a cockerpoo.

I should therefore like to take this opportunity to retract my foolish and faecetious suggestion that there should be a dog called a King Choodle's spoodle. It should of course be a King Charles's poo.

An even more than usually self-indulgent post. Sorry.

This is a link to a column from The Onion. Not one of their best, actually. But...

http://www.theonion.com/content/node/52703

...doesn't that guy look like my brother? I mean, I don't have a brother. But if I did... he would look like this guy. It's a bit disturbing.

Also, the fake name they've given him rhymes with the name of a friend of mine. They're definitely mocking me.

Tune in next week, to hear me explain how George Alagiah is giving me secret messages through the news headlines.

Now available for your office wall.

Other poodle crossbreeds I'd like to see, following the success of the Labradoodle.

• The Weimaroodle.
• The Rottwoodle.
• The Shih Tzoohdle.
• The Great Doodle.
• The Chihoodlehoodle.

And, most of all:

• The King Choodle's Spoodle.

A second Pooter

So, yesterday morning I had a nice hot bath. I know, thrilling already, isn't it? Then I dried off, stumped back into my room, glanced at the mirror... and saw to my horror my cheeks and forehead were covered in little thread-like broken capilleries. Bright scarlet ones, too, clearly leaking vital arterial blood straight into my skin. Well, I've seen enough episodes of 'House' to know what this was all about. Any moment now the camera was going to zoom up my nose to show the massive brain haemhorrage I was undergoing, then I'd slump comatose to the floor, then there'd be the opening credits...

Oh. Unless of course the little thread-like broken capillaries were actually not so much thread-like as... threads. From the brand new bright red towel I bought yesterday. With which I'd just dried my scratchy, bearded face. Ah.

It looks like I'm going to pull through.

And now on Forget What Did, a choice of listening.

For people who are fans of hearing people whose weblogs they occasionally read guesting on Radio 4 sketch shows, there's this:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/comedy/pip/ooeoc/

(I pop up throughout, but my main bit's at 16.20)

For everyone else, there's this:

http://snipurl.com/vuec

(Make sure you watch till the end, with the sound on.)

Volumes of a set of encyclopedias in the British Library which I think would make rather good book titles in their own right.

Airports Ancient
The companion work to the rather larger volume 'Airports Modern', this intriguing coffee-table book includes details of the Ithaca Aerodrome, the great landing plains of the Nile Delta, and Ninevah International Transport Hub.

Interjection Jesus
We know from the gospel of Luke that even as a boy of twelve Jesus was found in the temple, debating with the elders. But the author of this theological study has found more details in the apocryphal gospel of Leslie, revealing that the young messiah was in fact a right little know-all, given the nick-name 'Interjection' Jesus by his rabbis from his habit of piping up during talmudic debate with comments such as 'Yes, obviously'; 'Doesn't sound like Dad to me' or 'Tell you what -shall I just ask him?'

Overseas Patella
The inspirational story of little Chrissie Brown of Newfoundland, who in 1983 was involved in a serious dogsled accident, and urgently required a knee transplant. But so uniquely knobbly was her kneebone that the only suitable donor that could be found was an old man in a remote village in the Scottish Highlands. And so began a thrilling dash across the Atlantic to track down the donor, forcibly remove his knee, and return it to Chrissie before it went all green and manky. Heart-warming.

Quran Ropework
Islamic boyscouts! Impress your troop leader and the Almighty in equal measure with this guide to rendering the 99 names of Allah in knotted twine! Instructive, but potentially blasphemous if you're hamfisted.

Surveillance Tea
Suspicious of how much work the builders are doing while you're out of the house? Worried about what the au pair or babysitter gets up to? Surveillance Tea is the answer, according to this brochure from Janus Security Devices Ltd. Brew them a pot before you leave, flick the in-handle camera and the up-spout microphone to 'on', and prepare to learn the worst.

An elephant never exfoliates.

It struck me today that 'pachyderm', as in elephant, means 'thick-skinned'. Fair enough. They are. But it does seem to suggest that two ancient Greeks must once have had a conversation on these lines:

- So, then. Regarding this gigantic creature in front of us, then; the largest land animal any man has ever seen, with its monstrous flapping ears, its two huge shafts of bone projecting from its mouth, and its incredible prehensile proboscis, with which it is even now sending gallons of water cascading over its enormous body, as it lets loose a mighty trumpeting roar... what would you say is the most striking thing about it?

- I bet it's got really thick skin.

- ...Yes, it probably has. Ok, let's call it that.

- Fine by me. By the way, what's a gallon?

- Oh, alright. Kotulai, then. Smart alec.

Bad news for Mrs Venetia Phair, an 87 year old retired teacher from Epsom.

Pluto, the planet for which she suggested the name, as an eleven year old schoolgirl in Oxford, is now officially no longer a planet. It is now... a rock.

Poor old Pluto. We've all had days like that, haven't we.

My lawyers wish me to point out that my friends are in fact all exceptionally moderate and responsible drinkers. Almost tediously so, in fact.

The terrible thing about going on holiday with a group of old friends, of course, is that it becomes impossible to carry on ignoring the scale of their various drinking problems. Some, of course, make no attempt to hide the extent of their dependency:



While others try to hide behind such subterfuges as the 'I'm just going up to my room for a nap' ploy...

...or the 'Oh, only one glass for me...' dodge.

But perhaps saddest of all are those with that particularly acute type of drinking problem familiar to anyone who's seen the film 'Airplane!'...

Tragic.

The Mysterious 'Mystery' Mystery.

Last November, I posted to an eager world my enthralling adventures googling for the lyrics of Hugh Laurie's song 'Mystery'. ( http://johnfinnemore.blogspot.com/2005/11/spoilt-for-choice.html , should you want to relive those heady days.) This month, people from all over the world, but especially America, have reached my site by doing exactly the same thing. What on earth is going on? Is it a question in an international pub quiz? Did he start humming it in a new episode of 'House'? Whatever the reason, I feel a bit bad, because the post was about my failure to find the lyrics, which must be particularly irritating to read if you're only here as a result of your attempt to find them yourself. So here, as a public service are the lyrics to Mystery, by Hugh Laurie. And perhaps in return, one of you could tell me why you're all looking for them...

MYSTERY

Mystery
All my life has been a mystery
You and I were never ever meant to be
It's why I call my love for you a mystery

Different country
You and I have always lived in a different country
And I know that airline tickets don't grow on-a-tree
So what kept us apart is plain for me to see
That much at least is not really a mystery

Estuary
I live in a houseboat on an estuary
Which is handy for my work with the Thames Water Authority
But I know you would have found it insanitary

Taken a violent dislike to me
I'd be foolish to ignore the possibility
That if we ever actually met, you might have hated me
Still, that's not the only problem that I can see...

Dead since 1973
You've been dead now . . . wait a minute, let me see
Fifteen years come next Jan-yoo-a-ree
As a human being you are history

So why do why I still long for you?
Why is my love so strong for you?
Why did I write this song for you?
Well, I guess it's just... a mystery

Three lines of dialogue in an otherwise harmless novel, published 1938, that made me suddenly keen to make sure no-one was reading over my shoulder.

Spoken by the hero:

'That's what comes of emancipating the wrong type of female. For a thousand years they breed a species to need a keeper and then they let it off the chain and expect it to behave.'

By another character:

'These government fellows, they wouldn't stand me for ten minutes if it wasn't for one thing. Do you know what it is? I'm a genius with my niggers.'

And, most strikingly of all, by the hero again; to his sister:

'What you need, my girl, is a good cry or a nice rape - either, I should think.'

For the record, his sister finds this annoying, and replies 'witheringly'. Cuh. Some people'll take offence at anything...

Walkies

Hello. I'm back. Tell you what, tiny bits of France are a lot bigger than they look on the map. Thank heavens I had with me those two veteran walkers, the Start-Rite kids.

It was a lot hotter than it looked on the map, too. Although the ingenious walker can always find a solution to this problem. Drinking plenty of water, perhaps, or carrying a portable fan, or...

...something.

By the time you read this, I will be gone.

By the time it's August... I will be back.

Such is the nature of holidays.

I'm off to walk a tiny bit of France. Wish me luck!

Maryland took a while as well.

Number of hours it took me to remember all fifty states of the USA:
4, over 4 days.

Number of hours it took me to remember forty five of the states of the USA:
Half an.

Those last bastard five, in the order eventually remembered:
Wyoming. Missouri. Nebraska. Minnesota. New Mexico.

State I don't know if I'd ever remembered if I hadn't, by complete coincidence, picked up an old Garrison Keiller book to read on the train, and found it mentioned on almost every page, in a coincidence which felt uncomfortably as if God had been peering over my shoulder with increasing frustration for the past three days, and was now unable to control himself from shouting out the answer:
Minnesota.

Four places which, to my shame, I seriously considered as possible states:
Wicheta. Omaha. Nantucket. Alberta.

Place which I actually did think was a state, and the non-statehood of which meant that when I finally checked my completed list, I discovered to my anguish I had in fact only suceeded in remembered 49 of the states, a significantly less impressive achievement (and let's not forget, that makes it significantly less impressive than 'really not very impressive at all'):
(District of) Columbia.

State I'd left out:
Delaware. Bastard Delaware.

Amount of use any of this was in its intended task of helping me get to sleep on any of the four nights:
Zero.

A Found Play

You know people sometimes describe an unintentially poetic list, spam email, or Donald Rumsfeld quotation as a Found Poem? Well, I've just found a play. Which is handy, because writing my own is turning out to be a bit of a bugger. But this one is brilliant: it's pacy; exciting; brilliantly evokes character; and has a great twist at the end. It's a list of questions on a website search form, along with the first options from the drop down menus, and you need to imagine it as a conversation between a patient French estate agent, and a billionaire client who's very enthusiastic, but has an extremely short attention span. Here it is, in full.


MAKE A SELECTION OF THE HOUSES IN FRANCE

A new play "by" John Finnemore

-You wish to rent a house in France or buy one?
-I want to buy a house in France.
-In which part of France?
-Everywhere in France
-In which French Region?
-Every region of France
-What do you want to pay if you want to buy a house in France?
-Any price
-The house must be suitable for how many persons?
-Never mind


Curtain.


Interested theatre companies, please contact my agent.

Of course, tap water actually DE-hydrates you.

According to its label, the bottle of water I've just finished was no ordinary bottle of water. Oh no. It's 'One Litre of Pure Hydration'! Wow. You mean to tell me that every drop I drank of this water has added water to my body? That the water was, in fact, entirely made of water? What a miraculous age we live in. Now excuse me, I'm just off to eat One Banana of Pure Fruit.

Finland, Finland, Finland; the country where I quite want to be...

The BBC website is running a quiz where you listen to a World Cup chant and guess the country. Once you've guessed, they provide the translation: for instance, for Croatia, the touching ballard 'Call, just call, all your sokolovi, they would give their life for you.' This gave me an idea for a quiz of my own. Here are twelve World Cup chants. Which ones are genuine translations, at least according to the BBC, and which have I made up out of my head? Answers in the comments section. Let me know how well you did.

(Oh, you can play this and then the BBC quiz without spoiling it, but not the other way round. So do this one first.)


BRAZIL
R. R. R. R. We could beat you just with our players beginning with R.

CZECH REPUBLIC
Czech Republic is the winner in the championship because the Czechs are the best in the world. It's very beautiful and it has good people.

GERMANY
'54, '74, '90, 2006. We will sing together and with our hearts in our hands and the passion in our knees we will be the world champions

GHANA
Ghana, Ghana. Thanks to him, thanks to him, let's give thanks to God because this ground he has loved and he does forever and his mercies are bountiful.

IRAN
The football team of Iran with their cool players, we will win the game and we would die for Iran in this situation.

ITALY
There are very little silver fish all over the pitch, very little silver fish, very little silver fish. There are very little silver fish all over the pitch, and we know who released them.

MEXICO
Aye, aye, aye. Sing and don't cry because singing gives a happy heart. Sing don't cry.

NETHERLANDS
Netherlands, Netherlands, you are the champions. We all love orange because of your achievements.

TOGO
We won’t win the cup! We won’t win the cup! We won’t win the cup, but we’re happy to be here, and we’re having a joyful time!

SAUDI ARABIA
Win the championship, or don't come home; win the cup or cease to call yourself Saudis.

SERBIA AND MONTENEGRO
The best striker in the world – he is from Serbia. The best centre-forward in the world – he is from Montenegro. How happy we are that they are brought together.

USA
USA. USA. Let’s go score some goals today.

Lesson Six: How to punch a stream.

Oh dear. A month seems to have gone by. It would seem I am a bit of a slacker. Let's see if I can pull myself together and do this a bit more regularly, shall we?

I saw two signs yesterday that made me worry about Men. As a breed. The first was in the window of Topshop, and announced that all or some of the money raised by something or other (meticulous research- that's the secret of good writing) would go to funding research into male cancer. Male cancer? Prostate cancer, I've heard of. Testicular cancer also. Doubtless there are other male-only cancers I haven't heard of - cancer of the beard, perhaps. Cancer of the bald-spot. Cancer of the Black and Decker Workmate. But what on earth is male cancer? Cancer of the man?

The second sign was in the gym, and it advertised a new class, under the cheery banner 'Sorry Ladies - Men Only'. And that class was... Aqua Combat. Yes. That's right, ladies, when the water comes to get us - and it will- you delightful creatures can just stand on a table and scream. We men will fight it back for you. With our deadly aqua combat skills.