Not as funny as it used to be

Apparently, it's winter, or at least it was once.  Now, we can't just have 'winter': we have to have 'The Beast from the East' (cold weather from Siberia) or 'Snowmageddon' (a bit of snow).  My favourite is 'Thundersnow', a brilliant name for snow with, er, thunder. So, that's cold, wind, snow, gloom. Winter, then. Now, there is no doubt that things have improved for most of us with better information and warnings available - not that anyopne heeds them.  People often have more understanding employers, there are better road clearances and preparations are usually made to deal with extreme weather.  The trains are all up the Swanney but that's normal: a spot of rain stops them on their tracks. What is depressing is how each winter - for that is what it is - gets more and more apocalyptic in tone, with blood-curdling threats issued by weather people and police - DO NOT TRAVEL!  This is generally good advice and things would be signifi...

The need to wear a suit after a fair while once again arose this morning so I dutifully unloaded the old stager from the wardrobe and put it on.  I'll be honest, it was a bit of a struggle.  This is odd because all my other very ancient clothes fit fine.  I persevered with the waist hooks (it's a formal trouser thing, ladies) until they snapped into place, leaving me gasping for breath, feeling like I was enacting a period drama and for some reason had been sent to the female costume department for the most 'Keira Knightley' of corsets.  Mercifully, the jacket was a little more forgiving - it seems my neglect of those pecs and abs has paid off - so I ended up suited and booted. I trooped off to meet with people whom I sought to convince that I was the absolute fulcrum around which their operation should turn, we chatted for some time and eventually we all parted as friends. Whether 'friends' will translate into 'colleagues' I could not say but there we...

The boy was bemoaning the fact that he can never be a rock star. His mother pointed out gently that, at 16, he still had time. His perfect teen response - shouted in truculent exasperation, naturally: "I can't because you have to start learning to play the guitar at three! You lot decided I should do musical theatre instead!" His mother noted that he never said he wanted to play the guitar, to which the now beetroot-faced boy retorted: "There was no point in my life at which I said I wanted to sing and dance!" He has a point.

Our local radio has started to play 'Always look on the bright side of life' quite regularly. This is very definitely A Good Thing. Hearing it played so often - and joining in with gusto every time, naturally - has made me reflect that it would make a truly brilliant national anthem, replacing the dirge we have. Imagine our Olympians standing on the podium, whistling away with a grin, or our footballers lining up before the start of a match, waiting for the end of some grand South American 'we-are-absolutely-brilliant-and-we-won-a-war-in-1857' anthem, then being able to sing along with Eric Idle in a jolly, self-deprecatory way. Schoolchildren would have no problem at all with the words.  They'd love it!  There's even a tiny sweary bit which they could all giggle over as they didn't sing it. And (with a nod to Billy Connolly, who suggested the Archers' Theme for similar reasons) imagine if you were an immigrant and you became British? Yo...

The swimming pool was eerily quiet today as I went in to try to fend off my inevitable end for a few more minutes. Before getting the usual third degree burns in the shower, I decided to put my head round the changing room wall to see what was occuring. The pool was indeed closed, I discovered. Turns out someone had done a poo in it. Amusement quickly turned to revulsion and then appreciation as the leisure centre team undertook the full ET - scrubbing, sluicing, rinsing and testing. The supervisor was clearly in his element, proudly telling me that they had added the right amount of chlorine and tested the water to check it was okay and that the pool would be open in two minutes. I responded frivolously that he wasn't really selling the experience, to which I got the full jobsworth response, "I am merely giving you the facts, sir". And so he was. I bet he's been on a course. They clearly did a good job because I survived...

As I took the bins out today, I felt something land on my head. I looked up and there above me on the telephone wire was a tiny bird doing that cute stuff they do when Countryfile is in the area. Naturally, I shared some of my best Anglo-Saxon with it - and, unfortunately, with the neighbours - before trooping in to the house to clean myself up. The bird flew off, doubtless very pleased with itself. 'How is this good?', you ask, 'A bird has crapped on your head!' Well, here's the thing: when I checked in the mirror, it turns out the little sprite had not shared the processed remains of yesterday's fatball curry with me: it had merely shaken off some water. So having thought that I had been s**t on from a great height, it turns out to have been nothing of the sort. The other part of this fortuitous turn of events is that only the other evening on QI they had mentioned that birds don't have bladders so they don't wee (the wei...

I try not to be political on this outlet for my inner angst but news received this week quite literally takes the biscuit.  It was announced this week that, as a consequence of the collective national psychosis that is Brexit and the resultant economic shock the country has experienced, from now on there will be seven fewer Digestive biscuits in a pack.  Seven. Seven daggers to the heart, more like. The Digestive is an icon of Britain. Together with its slightly more austere cousin, the straightforward yet magisterial Rich Tea, the Digestive represents our country and our culture in a way that no mere flag, anthem, mildly aggravated tut or curry (still the national dish of choice) could.   It could very easily be asserted that the Digestive IS Britain. If you strip away all the vestiges of a state such as the government, the army, the Royal Family or any number of ‘top down’ impositions, what makes a country is what people do, what they eat, where they b...