Beware: Tree!

I thought I’d best post this as a warning to others:

Yesterday, whilst happily minding my own business, innocently sawing through the trunk of a nearby apple tree, I was attacked.

Without provocation, or the slightest warning, an apple tree fell on me...

If trees are starting to attack the hapless and innocent then everyone should be warned.
And, to that end, I call upon you now to go forth and:

• Write to your MP/MEP/MSP
• Leaflet shopping centres/malls
• Make public appeals on television
• Sellotape messages onto frogs
• Paint poems onto snails
• Trail banners from the legs of hawks
• Accost grannies in the supermarket whilst they’re ogling tins of peas
• Distribute pamphlets amongst lecterns across the country
  - be sure to write “The Lesson According to Cantus” across the top or else religious types might get suspicious
• Slip a coded message into the theme at the start of Inspector Morse episodes
  - you may find it useful to travel back to the mid 90s to achieve this one
• Tattoo the message with a rusty needle onto the faces of small children

Spread the word - let the people know.

Ghoulies and ghosties

A few days ago, upon hearing a light tippity-tap-tapping, I opened the front door to reveal a Jehovah’s Witness. Long winter coat buttoned to the neck, briefcase filled with “Good News” clutched in one hand and an overly friendly, self-asserted grin on his face. But, oh that face, pleasant enough in countenance, but there was something unsettling about him. Something around the eyes. I spent a lot of the conversation wondering how many eyes he had (as one eyelid was closed for the majority of the time he was talking to me – a fact that I found detracted a great deal from the message he was trying to deliver). So I’m already off-guard in the encounter and I don’t seem to have the resolve these any more to tell them to go away. The days, it seems, of being able to say “Well I believe in a God, but not necessarily your God” or “have I heard the Good News about Jesus? Well I heard he was dead...” are long gone.

Though I did manage to get some jokes in, he fazed them out or just pretended he hadn’t heard them (either by dint of simple misunderstanding or, conversely, he was a genius and deflected them with skill and grace – I couldn’t decide which), but in joking I did go some way to brightening my mood in what was otherwise a long and pointless conversation.

He said “do you think you have room for God in your life?”
I replied, “well I’d have to tidy...” not a flicker, except from the disturbing, permanently closed eyelid. And, with a deft change in tack and conversation, he wrong-footed me by telling me a story about washing machines. So I was off guard again, thinking:

1. How the Heck did we get onto this?
2. How on earth is he going to crowbar god into this?

But I was mistaken. The washing machine chat, it seems, was just a sideline and, like the last series of Reaper, failed to have a satisfactory ending and left me feeling bewildered.
Quick as a flash he’s back on topic. Do I believe in God? I thought if I tell him that I don’t then that’ll give him an angle and he can be with reasons why I should think about it. So I said that I’m an agnostic – thinking that that would at least look like I’d put some thought into it and done some research. Maybe he’d leave me alone... Nope. He doesn’t actually know what agnostic means. Presumably that wasn’t covered on his 3 day course “So You’re Going to Start Preaching Door-To-Door? 101”.
He launches into a story about how he was the same as me 15 years ago – that threw me. He looked about 65. What was he trying to say? – when one day, two people came to his door with some literature – aye aye, here we go... – and they made him “think differently about life”. An idea that set my mind wandering to how crappy his life must have been that some cheery souls proffering pamphlets about god were an enlightenment. I was shaken from my reverie by him saying “and here I am, 15 years later, doing this. Going door to door...” he paused for an age, “does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

Now, much as the concept of going from house to house, telling people about my imaginary friend only to have them shut the door in my face, appeals to me, I couldn’t help thinking that there are other things I’d far rather being doing. Not going door to door and staying in the warm drinking a mug of tea chief amongst them... “Can I give you some literature? Then maybe you could be doing something like this in the future...”
Aha, I get it now, he’s just lonely. All the other Witnesses shun him (I expect it’s that freaky eye thing) I’ve met them before. They travel in packs. I’ve never seen one on its own before. Cut off from the pack like this. This one is the runt. Lucky for him it’s not lion season.
I must’ve paused for an overly long time because he said “or not...? How about if I just give you...”
I didn’t let him finish, “no it’s ok. If I take that I can’t help thinking it’s like saying to a vampire ‘be my guest, come in, come in. Help yourself to dip ... Don’t be stranger now...’” he looked appalled. Evidently not watched enough episodes of Buffy/True Blood. I try again “erm no, it doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d be interested in. Have you tried next door? They’re very big...”- it’s true. Four of them are huge.

Undeterred he fired on. Telling me about how God would show me “direction” (I decide against mentioning maps) “bring light” (I have a switch for that) and make my world “comfortable” (evidently God has a sideline in soft furnishings. They’ve kept that quiet.)

Now I’d like to, at this point in the story, say that I thought of some sharp and insightful quip to end the conversation and get this chap off the front step, but sadly the best I could come up with was “erm, no I’m really not interested in that sort of thing. But thank you for your time.”
He in turn thanked me for my time and shook my hand, then was away into the world like a deluded beagle (I have no idea where that came from). Leaving me feeling slightly sorry for him with only his imaginary mate to keep him company and wondering whether the rest of the Jehovah pack were watching nearby, checking on his progress.

Right now I’m off in search of comfort. I wonder if they do God’s Soft Furnishings in Argos...

Father Figure

When I think of it now it all seems so clear.
Dad’s hidden persona lain hidden for years.
The clues were all there if I’d only just thought,
Using reasoned deductions Conan Doyle might have sought…
Pieced together the clues, like an old jigsaw puzzle,
of an old family trait that they all tried to muzzle;

1. My father’s strange pallor, his non-human hue,
(it’s strange to admit but he’s really quite blue)
2. His colourful language that leaves me aghast
3. That clumps of blue whiskers clog the drain in the bath.
4. A little white hat on the hook on the door
5. A dozen white trousers laying strewn on the floor…

It fills me with dread (it may fill you with mirth).
There’s a very good chance my dad is a smurf…

James Martin - "Cock"

So it would seem that James Martin, celebrity chef, has ruffled a few feathers with his latest column in the Daily Mail. Claiming that he does more than most to help the environment;

I recycle all my rubbish and sort it into three different bins. I turn all my kitchen waste into compost. Even my washing powder is twice-the-price organic stuff that doesn't give worms tummy-aches when it returns to the earth.

Yet begrudging the choice of city cyclists who, wishing to escape the grim grime and grey of London, have broken out onto the leafy lanes of the capital's environs, labelling them all as "herbal tea-drinking, Harriet Harman-voters". An action, I can only assume, done to ingratiate himself with readership of the Daily mail and guarantee his musings are accepted into their pages. But an action that has fully and resolutely backfired.

The backlash began in earnest yesterday with the set up of several Anti-James Martin facebook pages, people publishing links to (and phone numbers for) his agent and management (limelight.management@virgin.net) on various forums and the adaptation of his Wikipedia page.

Now, unfortunately in the time it's taken me to write this blog, the wikipedia Revisions Police-Chimps have been in and fixed all the alterations. But suffice to say that all instances of him being referred to as a cook had a vowel removed and consonant added, and there was a particularly mirthful paragraph about his early life working on a canal barge that was quite funny (though, I should think, not anatomically possible).

All in all I don't think the piece may have been quite as well received as he might have hoped.
I await, with horrified anticipation, the next instalment in the unfolding saga;
James Martin - Can Cook, Is Cock...

The day the music, sadly, survived

My heart leapt today when I heard on the radio, the headline "Texas singer in critical condition in hospital" Unfortunately it seems that it isn't, in fact, Sharleen Spiteri, but rather guitarist, Alistair McErlaine - otherwise known as the one that doesn't currently inflict his "talents" on the unsuspecting world.

And so the news item just serves to highlight the inadequacies of the attention grabbing headline – now admittedly, this did work on me and I was seen by all and sundry grabbing fistfuls of air and doing a happy little dance, then tuning in intrigued only to be dashed... So the headline worked on the surface. But I can’t help noticing that it’s based on two basic premises, both wrong.

1. That Texas are currently a band

2. That the guitarist, who doesn’t actually sing, can be listed as a singer

A dark day for music indeed.