I'm not saying it's a bad symbol of it. Just a surprisingly honest one.

Is it me, or has this shopping centre in Merthyr Tydfil selected as its symbol...

...a litter-bin on fire? 

(Incidentally, I don't want you to think I've spent the whole of my time in Wales taking pictures of signs in shops.)

                            

                            

Though I once lived on a street called 'Szyszko-Bohusz'. 10-3.

Talking of supermarket signs, I'm in Wales at the moment, and very much enjoying the language.

That's a twelve letter word with a single vowel. You've got to admire a language that can do that. Even if you count the ys it's a 9-3 walkover for the consonants. 'Beer' is cwrw - a 4-nil whitewash! I gather, from the extremely tiny bit of research I just did, that actually w is a vowel in Welsh (damn), and so cwrw is pronounced something like 'cu-roo'; but as I first tried to pronounce it to myself, in my ignorant English way, it came out very much like the noise our dog used to make when puzzled.

That extremely tiny bit of research also told me that Welsh does not have the letters J, K, Q, V, X or Z. What extremely low-scoring Scrabble games they must have. Though apparently they do sometimes borrow these letters for words that originate from other languages, with the excellent result that the Welsh for zoo is 'zw'.

Our Wine & Spirits Pledge: Helping you get cirrhosis of the liver.

Dear Tesco. (I imagine you read this blog.) I recently enjoyed this sign in one of your excellent shops, but I just wondered if you could explain to me what these twelve words actually mean? When you say 'Our Fruit and Veg Pledge', it's very stirring, but it does rather raise the expectation that you're about to make some sort of, well, pledge, perhaps relating to your fruit and veg. Something about the freshness, maybe, or the extent to which they're locally sourced, or, if you like, a pledge only to sell fruit and veg that if hollowed out could house an average sized muskrat, but something. Instead, you have 'Helping you get your 5 a day'. How? What are you pledging to do to help me get that? Give me my first five pieces of fruit free? Refuse to sell me cakes and ale unless I also buy fruit and veg? No. What you mean by 'Helping you get your 5 a day' is 'Prepared to sell you fruit and veg'. Which I sort of suspected, Tesco, because you are a grocery. 

So, can I suggest you don't really need 'Helping you get your 5 a day' on that sign, and you certainly don't need 'Our' or 'pledge'. All you really need is 'Fruit & Veg'. And even then, since the sign is above an enormous display of fruit and veg, we could perhaps take the signified for the signifier, and drop those words as well. Which just leaves us with the four wispy dancing stick people. You should definitely keep them. They're beautiful. 

About six foot, incidentally.

A couple of days ago, because of the odd job I have, I needed to know roughly how long a giraffe's neck is. But, as a friend of mine has already brilliantly illustrated, when you're halfway through typing a phrase like that into Google, it starts suggesting the things that most people who start a question that way have gone on to ask, in a way that looks rather like a poem. It's quite an arresting snapshot of a world of curious people:

How long is a g-

How long is a generation?

How long is a governor's term?

How long is a giraffe's neck?

How long is a giraffe's tongue?

How long is a goldfish's memory?

How long is a girl's period?

How long is a great white shark?

How long is a good nap?

Did anyone else see the nap coming? I didn't. Until then, it was pretty clearly a precocious but bashful child trying to slip the question he really wants to ask in a barrage of camouflaging stuff about animals. But then right at the end, he suddenly becomes about 75. And sleepy.

Anyway, obviously I now had to go through the rest of the alphabet. Here are my two favourites. In both cases, as in the above, I've removed some obvious repetition, but otherwise left it untouched.

How long is a kilometer?

How long is a killer whale?

How long is a keg good for?

How long is a king size bed?

How long is a klick?

How long is a king cobra?

How long is a kitten a kitten?

See, once again, it saves the best till last - just as you're getting worried about what kind of grotesque stunt, or possibly illegal fight, these frat boys are planning to stage with their whale and their cobra and their beer and their bed... suddenly out of nowhere comes that adorable meditation on the precious transience of kittenhood. 

Ok, last one. For this one, I like to imagine it as a dialogue, with one person insistently asking the first seven questions, and the other finally answering with the eighth.

How long is a passport good for?

How long is a paragraph?

How long is a pregnancy?

How long is a patent good for?

How long is a prescription good for?

How long is a p90x workout?

How long is a platypus's bill?

How long is a piece of string?

Just the one, Mrs. Wembley?

I wouldn't normally trouble you with an example of the old misplaced quotation marks thing, because it's so wide-spread, and there's a whole blog doing it already. But this one is something special. It easily replaces my previous favourite (a sandwich board outside an Edinburgh pub proclaiming that Thursday was "Ladies" Night), if only for the sheer unfathomableness of the thought process that lead to it.  I present:

Oh, me too. The number of times I've promised myself that I'm just popping out for 'a' pizza- and then the red mist has descended, and I've woken up, six hours and fourteen Quattro Stagionis later, spreadeagled in the gutter amongst a heap of crusts and discarded olives - once more a victim of my liking for 'a' pizza.

Great unidexters of history.

Maybe you knew this already, but I've just discovered that Robert Louis Stevenson based the character of Long John Silver on his friend, the physically imposing, charming, and one-legged William Ernest Henley. Henley was also a friend of J.M.Barrie, and it was his daughter Margaret Henley's description of Barrie as her 'friendy-wendy' that inspired at least the name of Wendy in Peter Pan.

So, Wendy Darling's father was Long John Silver. No wonder she took Captain Hook in her stride.

Bonus facts: William Earnest Henley wrote the poem Invictus, which Nelson Mandela found so inspiring, and which gave its name to the film last year.

Captain Hook is described in Peter Pan as 'the only man Long John Silver ever feared' Also, he went to Eton; as did Bertie Wooster, Peter Wimsey, and James Bond.

Throughout 'Treasure Island', Long John Silver is referred to by his fellow mutineers by his nickname... 'Barbecue'. Which, for me, slightly detracted from his menace.

Mad Men. No, actually mad.

Advertising has got very sophisticated these days, very subtle; but sometimes a good advertising executive has got to know when to go back to basics, to the old reliable methods that always have sold product, and always will. 

Sometimes, in other words, it's time to wheel out a cartoon of a little girl shouting into a dog's arsehole. 

Now just sit back, and watch them fly off the shelves.

And leading away from it... Woozle tracks.

Do you have a child? Or know a child? Has that child done something to displease you? Would you like to make that child cry? Indeed, do you wish to disturb that child's dreams and psychologically scar it for years to come? No problem! Just show it this picture of something I came across this afternoon.

Job done.

...And the Dutch, who are probably high, may or may not have something to say about our pepper.

Quote from the blurb on the back of a packet of sea salt:

"The French, as fussy about health as they are about food, make great claims for the rare salts contained in Sea Salt."

This may be the most arm's-length recommendation of one's own product I've ever read.

"The French..." (Not us, you understand, we're not French. And not any particular French. Just, you know, the nation in general)

"...as fussy about health as they are about food..." (Silly faddy Frenchies. I wouldn't listen to any claims they might happen to make, the big Gallic fuss-pots.)

"...make great claims..." (We're not saying what the claims are. And we're certainly not saying whether or not they're true. In fact, with the adjective 'great', we're rather hinting they're not.)

"...for the rare salts contained in Sea Salt." (So, just so we're clear, these unspecified and unsubstantiated claims made by unidentified people are not, in fact, for our product, but for trace elements found within it. So, no suing, Ok? But, yeah, basically, salt is good for you.)

Another box of soap.

Review of a downloadable audiobook: "Reader is good, very old school British accent". Praise that I'm sure will delight the reader, one Alec Guinness.

Talking of things you can download, the first in a new series of  David Mitchell's Soapbox, which I co-write with the titular box-owner, is available at the link above, or from iTunes. Free, in either case. And coincidentally, the reader is good, with an old school British accent.

Things Change With Time And Circumstances Shock! Read All About It!

Strapline on BBC News website story about Cameron and Clegg's press conference:

"Election clashes? Apparently that is all behind them."

Well, yes. I imagine that will be to do with the election being behind them as well. Honestly, whatever you may think of Cameron or Clegg or both, I don't see that you can blame two professional politicians for adjusting their behaviour towards each other in the contexts of a pre-election debate and a post-election co-alition. I think what really annoys me, though, is the smirkily insinuating style of the strapline, as if the perceptive writer has rather devilishly noticed something that seems to have passed everyone else by. I look forward to his or her sports interviews:  'So, I can't help but notice that now you're both on the podium, neither of you is trying to punch the other one at all...'

The liver, though, stubbornly refuses to talk.

Meanwhile, exciting news from the world of medical science:

Ah, so that's what those are. I thought the neighbours had left the TV on. 

'Excuse me, do you sell eggs?'

I thought I'd seen the ultimate in up-front salesmanship with We Sell Paint. But of course I should have realised that for true no-frills plain-speaking, I needed to visit Yorkshire. I mean, it could be argued that the vendor here could have got his message across in fewer words. But my God, he makes every one count.

In other news, I'm doing the Vote Now Show again tonight - broadcast at 11pm on Radio 4. I also did the one last Wednesday, which will still be available on iPlayer for a bit.

...I think. Or possibly just a middle-aged man in shades.

Sorry for the hiatus - been cycling. From London to York so far, via Cambridge, King's Lynn, Boston and Hull. But at the moment, bike is in intensive care where a team of brilliant bicycle surgeons are trying to save it from this:

... and I can do nothing but pace up and down outside and hope the little guy pulls through. 

Here's what I've seen so far: 

Lots and lots of pubs called The Chequers. Any idea why? A quick googling reveals it's one of the oldest pub names, and the sign of a chequered board was used in ancient Rome to indicate that a tavern also provided banking services, for which the board was used - this being the origin of the word 'exchequer', and indeed 'cheque'. Doesn't explain why there seem to be so many of them in South East England, though.

Plenty of posters and boards out for the Tories (but then, I have been cycling through the shires.) Quite a lot for the Lib-Dems, mostly in the towns, especially Cambridge. Not a single solitary one for Labour so far. Not even in Highgate, or Humberside. 

A really astonishing number and variety of squished animals. It's carnage out there. 

A life size metal giraffe.

Bono.

Exciting opportunity to do my work for me.

I'm appearing on the Now Show again next Tuesday, or rather the new Vote Now Show that will be on 11pm Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays until the election.

I have a favour to ask you connected with it. If you have the means, time, and inclination, I would be ever so grateful if you could send me a scan or photo of an election campaign leaflet you've had through the door recently. Any party will do. You can either post it on facebook or flickr, or indeed anywhere else of your choice, and send me the link; or send the picture directly to me at cabinpressure@johnfinnemore.com.

Thank you very much!

Their Lordships and the mice.

I tell you who's a funny man. Lord Brabazon of Tara, he's a funny man. This is him:

He is the Chairman of Committees in the House of Lords, and was a Tory whip under Margaret Thatcher. I sense this does not help convince you of his comic talent. But then, you have not heard him on the subject of mice.

There was a short but terrific debate in the Lords this month, basically about whether or not the House of Lords should get a cat.  If you have two minutes, please do read all of it, but here are the bits where Lord Brabazon particularly shines:

The Chairman of Committees: My Lords, I am well aware that there are still mice around. I saw one in the Bishops' Bar only yesterday evening. I do not know whether it was the same one that I saw the day before or a different one; it is always difficult to tell the difference between the various mice that one sees.

Already, you can see this guy has got something. 'The various mice that one sees.' Your Lordship, you have my attention. He's also excellent on the subject of the Westminster 'mouse helpline' that it turns out exists. When asked what other helplines there are:

The Chairman of Committees: I rather hope that we do not have too many other ones. I was not going to advertise the existence of the mouse helpline, although it was advertised some time ago. Indeed, I invited Members of the House to telephone when they saw mice. The trouble is that when the person at the other end of the helpline goes to check this out, very often the mouse has gone elsewhere.

That 'very often' is superb. As is 'elsewhere'. But, I admit, at this stage it is still possible that his Lordship is not being deliberately funny; that this is not dry humour, but just the way he talks. However, all doubt is removed with this brilliantly self-depricating put-down to some smartarse making the dreariest imaginable sixth-form-debate style non-joke:

Lord Pilkington of Oxenford: Why should I and noble Lords trust the Executive to deal with mice when they cannot deal with the economy?

The Chairman of Committees: My Lords, I do not actually deal with the economy. I am glad to say that that would be above my pay grade, whereas trying to deal with the mice is probably just about right for me.

I beg to differ. Lord Brabazon of Tara, your country needs you. You have about two weeks to renounce your title and seize the leadership of your party. If we're going to have a Conservative Prime Minister, I want it to be you.  

At least his was wireless.

Last year, I wrote a sketch about a brilliant Renaissance inventor whose curse was that he was so far ahead of his time he invented the computer mouse before anyone had invented the computer.

Today, I came across this picture in the catalogue of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was made by the ancient Egyptians. Poor old Barbieri - five hundred years ahead of his time; three thousand years behind it.

When I am dead and opened, you will find Penelope Keith written on my heart.

A couple of good new graffiti seen this week. Intriguing, rather than funny. One, in a pub near Oxford Circus:

'I am a Turkish Man.'

Now, obviously I realise that there's an unsavoury explanation for why someone might write that in a pub loo - but this was the whole message. No phone number, no date or time. Which is what makes me hope this wasn't an advertisement, it was simply an act of self-expression. Maybe even self-affirmation. 'Whatever else they say, Hasim, they can't take away who you are. Yeah, write it on the wall. Write it big, write it proud. Let the whole world know. I... am a Turkish Man.'

The other, in a pub near Old Street. (No, I'm not always in the pub. Yes, I am sometimes in the pub.)

'Routledge till I die.'

Well, this one isn't really intriguing any more, because spoilsport Google informs me that the author was probably swearing a solemn oath of eternal allegiance to Wayne...

... and not, as I originally assumed, Patricia.

Me not on The Now Show

...Not on the Saturday repeat, anyway, because the BBC accidentally played last week's instead. Sigh.

Instead, it's here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00r7rg4

Me on The Now Show

This week, I have mainly been being a guest.

Today, I am the guest on this week's Now Show, on BBC Radio 4, talking about what happened when I woofed in a scottie dog's face; the role of the turquoise bowler hat in the sport of kitten-stamping; and somehow getting from there to a genuine attempt to persuade you to go on holiday to Barcelona rather than Madrid. For this, plus great stuff from all the regulars, including a show-stopping Chuckle Brothers gag - and how often can you say that? - listen at 6:30 today; 12:30 on Saturday, or for the next week on the iPlayer.

And earlier in the week, I was the guest of the fine people (and staunch Now Show fans) at Rum Doings who were kind enough to supply me with orange-flavoured rhum, and allow me to bang on about sitcoms for the best part of an hour. For that, go here.

Well? What then?

Well, I can definitely see how that would be awkward. For both of us, probably. But I'm not sure I'd find it the insoluble dilemma this strapline writer seems to think I would. 'Oh' I'd probably think to myself 'It's that betraying guy. Well, this is very bad luck. I certainly hope I can rely on him to save me this time, and not betray me. Although of course experience tells me I can't.'

 And yes, I'd probably try and peek behind him to make sure there definitely wasn't another man who could save me, possibly obscured by the betraying man, or maybe just coming round the corner.  But the point is, if there wasn't, I imagine I'd try and make the best of it. I mean, if he absolutely is the only man who can save me, then, well, I'll probably let him save me.  It might even go some way to making up for the betrayal incident. 

I assume that for some reason it does have to be a man who saves me, by the way; because personally I have no silly macho prejudice against being saved by a woman, or indeed by either of those two running children and/or their charming dog. But assuming it does, then, yes, I'll take the saving, please.  In fact, I  think the only real dilemma is whether or not I'll bring up the betraying during the saving. I mean, it's obviously going to be the elephant in the room - maybe it would be best to acknowledge it, perhaps with a jokey: 'I certainly hope you've got all the betraying out of your system now!' No, that sounds too pointed. How about: 'I expect you're glad it's this way round, aren't you? I bet you'd be a bit nervous if you needed me to save you! You know, because of that betraying thing.' No, maybe I'll just leave it. He knows what he did. And I don't want to distract him from the saving. 

Anyway, my point is, I would definitely let him save me. And I'd come to that the decision fairly quickly and easily too - I wouldn't make a huge, rich, ambitious tapestry out of it. But maybe that's just me - I'm  a forgiving person. And I like being saved. 

And anyone who says we don't is a dirty liar.

I do love it when you can tell someone really loves their job. 

Hard to say what the uppermost emotion is here. Excitement? Pride? Or simple joie de vivre? In any case, it's clearly a sign made by someone who just can't contain their delight any longer. 'Look at us, Ma! We sell paint! They said we could never sell paint; that the paint market was stitched up by the big paint barons; that two fresh-faced kids from the sticks would never get anything out of the paint biz but a punch in the snoot and a hatful of broken dreams... but we stuck to it, Ma, and we showed 'em all! We sell paint! We're King of the Worrrrrld!' 

One to remember for 'I Have Never...'

You know how sometimes when you're asked whether or not you've done something, it can be hard to be sure one way or the other?

'Have I ever been to Shropshire... Hmm, don't think so, but I might have been, maybe on a family holiday...' 

'Have I ever eaten sashimi... possibly... is that the sliced salmon one, or the one that's wrapped in seaweed?'

And then, other times, you can be fairly certain. 

Do you know what, I never have. 

Things I know are true, but can't quite bring myself to believe.

That the word 'draught' is pronounced 'draft' and not 'drought'. I must have confused the two words early on, and then read 'draught' as 'drought' to myself so many times that, even now, the sentence 'There's a drought coming in under the door' doesn't sound wrong to me. I know it is wrong. But it doesn't sound wrong.

That if today is a Sunday, you can find the date of next Sunday by adding seven to today's date. I mean, of course you can. There are seven days in a week. I know that; that is definitely one of the things I know. But still, when people casually do that calculation - 'let's see, it's the fourteenth today, so next Sunday's the twenty first' - I'm amazed at their confidence. Don't they want to check? For instance, after writing that sentence just now, I checked it.

That if you're in the vanguard, you are at the front of something, not the rear. I know exactly whose fault this misconception is, too: Thomas the Tank Engine's. Because if Thomas taught me anything - and he definitely did - it was that the guard's van is at the back of the train. And clearly being 'in the vanguard' and 'in the guard's van' got fatally confused in my brain at some early stage, and have never been entirely disentangled.

That eyes evolved. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite sure they did. But did they really? Yes, they did, they definitely did. (But not really.) No, seriously, they did. I know that. (But not really.) 

Not even sure I'd need seconds, plural...

You see that sign, with the picture of the fierce dog on it? It reads: 

'I can make the gate in seconds. Can you?'

]

Well... er... since you ask...  yes.

Hidden Treasures of London

Now, as everyone knows, London Town is full to the brim of the prettiest little shops, but perhaps the dearest of them all is an enchanting little green millinery tucked away like a jewel on the Gray's Inn road...

That's right. Not just HATS.  HATS slash Plus. Or possibly HATS divided by Plus. Either way, I dread to think exactly what it is the 'Plus' implies you can buy once you've bought your HAT...

Keep the British Lion Roaring! Knock Up a Batch of Wispas Today!

Robert Peston wrote today, re Kraft and Cadbury:


'Few would argue that Britain's economic future depends on whether we make our own chocolates.'


Which is fine if you read it as: 'Few would make the ridiculous argument that...'; but which is a rather startling statement if you originally read it, as I did, as: 'Few would argue with the self-evident truth that...' And even more alarming once you notice the ambiguous nature of 'we'. 


After all... he is the BBC's Economics Editor. Presumably he knows what he's talking about. I'd better nip out and buy some cocoa solids.

Cabin Pressure News

Alright chaps, listen up, here's the briefing.

Series One is (I have only just discovered) being repeated on BBC7 at the moment, which means each episode will be available on iPlayer for the following week. At the moment, for instance, you can hear Boston.

Series Two is now available to buy from iTunes here (as indeed is Series One). Series Two is also nominated for a comedy.co.uk award, though don't get too excited, because so is every British comedy broadcast in 2009. However, if you did want to vote for it, then who am I to stop you?

Finally, Series Three is still not available anywhere, due to a persistent 'not existing' problem. However, I'm pleased to say that this week the BBC have asked me to fix this, and I've said I'll see what I can do. I don't know yet when it will be broadcast, but probably not for a while. For one thing, I have to write it first.

Speaking of which, as I gear up again for the fun 'research' stage, before the pesky but apparently non-negotiable 'actually writing it' stage, it seems like a good time to ask: if anyone reading this is in any way associated with the aviation industry, whether as flight crew, cabin crew, ground staff or management, and would be willing to talk to me about it, I'd love to hear from you. I have some excellent sources already (and if any of them are reading this, they should take it as a warning I shall be nagging them for more help very soon), but I can always do with more.  If you can help, or you know someone who might, please email me at cabinpressure@johnfinnemore.com, and we can arrange to talk on the phone, or in person, as convenient.

Ok, briefing over. The cheese tray will be up shortly.

Six films from Halliwell's Film Guide which, for various reasons, I am fairly sure I will never see.

Woman Doctor

1939

Her career prospers, her marriage suffers.

It Lives Again 

1978

Three mutant killer babies are protected by a scientist from a cop determined to kill them. 

La Femme du Boulanger

1938

Villagers put a stop to the infidelity of the baker’s wife because her husband no longer has the heart to make good bread.

The Deadly Bees

1967

A pop singer goes on holiday to a remote farm and is menaced by killer bees.

Confessions of a Sex Maniac

1974

An architect searches for the perfect breast so that he can use it as the design for a new building.

Everything’s Ducky

1961

Two naval ratings adopt a talking duck.

But I'm really behind on my Hallowe'en preparations.

Happy New Year!

And, like most of us, I celebrated January 1st in the traditional manner, by rushing out and buying...

...Easter eggs.

I'm beginning to think they don't even have any good tidings for me. Or my kin.

Help! Am trapped in the house by a gang of strangers, demanding something called 'figgy pudding'. Have told them I have no pudding of any sort, 'figgy' or otherwise; but they are deaf to reason, and simply keep repeating that they won't leave until they get some. Did my best to improvise with what I could find in the kitchen, and offered them tinned rice pudding with dried prunes in it; but they threw it angrily back in my face, and went back to chanting 'bring some out here', despite the fact that they are inside with me. The siege is now in its third day. Please send help. Or figs.  

Sibling rivalry.

Christoph Dassler, a worker in a German shoe factory in the early twentieth century, had two sons, Adolf and Rudolf. Adolf trained as a cobbler, and the brothers decided to set up a shoe factory of their own - the Gebruder Dassler Schuhfabrik -  in their mother's laundry, in their home town of Herzogenaurach. As time went on, a rift grew between the brothers; according to one account because Rudolf was the more enthusiastic Nazi; according to another because of an occasion during an air raid when Adolf and his wife got into his air raid shelter to find Rudolf and his family already there, and Adolf said ‘The dirty bastards are back again’ - referring, he later claimed, to the Allied planes. Rudolf wasn't convinced that’s what he was referring to.

Whatever the reason, in 1948 the partnership broke up for good, and Rudolf moved to new premises on the other side of the river, and set up his own shoe factory, which he originally named Ruda (RUdolf DAssler), but then changed, to Puma.

Meanwhile, Adolf renamed the original company, also after himself. Adolf wasn’t generally known as Adolf, though (especially not by 1948, I imagine) - he was known as Adi. Adi Dassler.

The international headquarters of both companies are still located across the river from one another in the small town of Herzogenaurach. Rudolf and Adolf, who never reconciled, are both buried there too, in the same cemetery... as far away from each another as possible. 

Also, given that there's snow on the ground, aren't shorts a rather adventurous choice, Gramps?

Whilst picking over the carcass of Borders this weekend, I came across this little work of literature:

Well, given that there is only one person in that picture who could possibly be old enough to be a grandparent of the giraffe-legged girl, I assume one of the Things that the anorexic Paul Newman is advised to do now he is a grandparent is to waste no time in finding himself a pencil-hipped twenty-something brunette mistress to go roller-skating with, whilst Grandma stays at home and massages her cellulite.

It did occur to me that the woman might be supposed to be Paul's daughter and giraffe girl's mother, but evidently not: when I looked up the book to find a picture to post here, I find most editions have made this small but significant change to the colourisation:

In which, for the sake of appearances, Paul Newman has at least persuaded his mistress to wear an Honor Blackman wig. Though she's fooling no-one. The minx.

Grant, Marx and Victoria: Same hairstyle all their lives. Gandhi - not so much.

I'm so impressed. I certainly wouldn't have got more than two. Anyway, in case you haven't seen the answers compiled by the Brains Trust in the comments box, here they are.

Sorry about the wonky layout, I spent too much time trying to sort it out, failed; and have decided not to spend the way too much time it would presumably take to succeed.

A few unsorted thoughts: Marx is my favourite. At first, it's inconceivable that Marx ever looked like that - but put the pictures side by side, and suddenly old Marx is just young Marx in a Father Christmas costume. Look at his eyes and nose - they haven't aged at all.

All these people lived relatively long lives, and yet, even with the evidence before me, it doesn't really change the way I feel - that the unfamiliar pictures are an interesting curiosity, but that Queen Victoria was basically always an old woman, Chaplin was always a young man, and Cary Grant was always about 45.

Alice Hargreaves, nee Liddell, was still alive in 1934! There will be people alive today who remember her. Crikey.

It's encouraging for those of us who plan to become old men that whilst handsome young men (Chaplin, Grant) turn into handsome old men; plain young men (Darwin) can do the same.

Talking of Darwin as an old man, can it be entirely coincidence that whilst his rather simian brow and deep set eyes make him look more like an ape than most men; his white hair and flowing beard make him look considerably more like God? And if it's not a coincidence, whose joke is it?

And speaking of God liking a joke, let's hope he does, because conversation in the comments somehow lead me to promise the following in return for a completed quiz sheet:

Halleluja.

It's quiz time again! Hooray! Oh, don't roll your eyes like that. You don't HAVE to play.

I've had this great idea for the picture round of a pub quiz, but sadly I don't run a pub quiz, so I'm going to inflict it on you instead.

Here are pictures of six very, very famous faces. I mean, really amongst the most instantly recognizable people in history. But I you bet you can't identify more than, say, two of them.

Answers on Wednesday afternoon...

...but before then also, mostly, in the comments box.

...And if Lt Colebourn had been posted to Saskatchewan, Piglet's friend would be Reggie the Pooh.

I’ve invented a good work-avoidance game, of researching what something was named after, and then what that was named after, and so on, until you reach the original source. Though it’s surprisingly hard to get more than three links. Here’s some examples:

Apple Macintosh computers are named after their inventor’s favourite type of apple, the McIntosh Red. The McIntosh Red is named after the Canadian farmer who first grew it, John McIntosh,  1777-1846. I suppose we could go back further by claiming that John was in a sense named after Shaw MacDuff, who founded the clan Mac an Toisich (son of the chieftan), but that feels like cheating.

They Might Be Giants, the band, are named after ‘They Might Be Giants’, the 1971 film starring George C Scott, which in turn is named after Don Quixote’s reason for tilting at windmills.

Winnie the Pooh  was named after a black bear at London zoo named Winnie (and a swan named Pooh, but we’ll concentrate on Winnie). Winnie the bear was donated to the zoo by Lt Harry Colebourn, who bought it from a hunter in Canada, and named it after the city of Winnipeg. Winnipeg takes its name from the Cree words meaning ‘Muddy Waters’.

The Kit Kat biscuit was first made by Rowntree’s in 1935, and named after the Kit Cat Club, an 18^th century artists’ club. The club was (probably) named after the ‘Kit Cat’, a mutton pie served at the chop house where the club originally met. And the Kit Cat pie was named after its baker, the pastrycook Christopher (or ‘Kit’) Catling.

Incidentally, Kit Kats (the biscuits, not the mutton pies) have recently become very popular in Japan, particularly at exam season, because the name sounds similar to the Japanese phrase ‘Kitto Katso’, meaning ‘ You will surely win’, and a tradition has arisen of giving them as good luck charms.

So, if a seventeenth century pastrycook had preferred the abbreviation ‘Chris’ to ‘Kit’, it’s fair to assume the Nestle corporation would have lost a significant sum of money in the twenty first century. Bet you didn’t know that this morning.  

Commercial Break

Firstly, Miranda Hart's fantastic new sitcom, in which I play a small part, starts going out tonight on BBC2. It's called 'Miranda', written by Miranda, and starring Miranda as the character 'Miranda'; and it's basically about a man named Chris who goes to a tango class. What the writer has rather cleverly done is restrict the main character's appearance to a couple of scenes in the second episode, to really maximise his impact; like Colonel Kurtz in 'Apocalypse Now'. (Or possibly, given that I haven't seen the edited version, like Rebecca in 'Rebecca'...) As I say, my bit is in the episode broadcast next week, on the 16th, but you should definitely start watching it tonight. It's really very good.

Secondly, I'm happy to say 'Cabin Pressure', that thing I do on the radio about pilots, has been nominated for a Writers' Guild Award. Hooray!

Conversation that presumably took place between the planner and the caterer of a thing I was at recently.

- So, you want six trays of sandwiches, four of hors d'oeuvre, and four of fruit.
- Yes. Oh, and let's have one of cheese and biscuits as well.
- ...Ok. Some cheese, and some biscuits.
- ....Some cheese and biscuits, yes.
- ...How do you mean?
- Well, you know. A tray of cheese and biscuits.
- ...What, all on one tray?
- ...Yes.
- Together?
- Yes!
- Ok! You're the boss!

Oh my God! The 134 from Chesham Broadway doesn't stop in Tring!

A poster I saw on a bus-stop in Hertfordshire:

Really? As shocked as that? Crikey. Just what kind of information are we talking about? Because, I can't help noticing, she doesn't seem shocked in a pleased way, like someone whose Hertfordshire travel knowledge has been expanded to hitherto undreamt of widths. Frankly, she looks as if a more honest strapline would be "You'll be horrified and appalled at how much information is available." Is some of the information about her? Does she maybe have a disgruntled ex-boyfriend who works for Hertfordshire Travel Information? Whatever's going on, I'm scared to go there now. Both to the site, and to Hertfordshire.