Runny Thoughts

Spoilt brat.

I am reading a book.

Why thank you. I’m proud of myself too.

Not any old book though - a murder-mystery-detective-type-thing. It’s very good.

As is normal in these situations, there is a blurb on the back, which, effectively, gives you three Crucial Pieces of Information:

CPI 1: there is a murder. So far, so normal.

CPI 2: there is another murder. Again, only to be expected.

CPI 3: one of the main characters disappears. Aha! An interesting twist. Wonder where it will lead?

There is also the usual bit of guff about the main detective. Fair enough - they have to tell you something.

There is, however, a problem.

The problem is not CPI 1 - the book starts with the first murder, and, let’s face it, it wouldn’t be much of a m-m-d-t-t without one of those.

CPI 2, coming as it did at page 100 (of a 320-page book), was only to be expected - we had, after all, spent about ten pages inside the murderer’s head (MWAHAHAHA!!) as he planned it, so it would have been a little bit of a let-down if he had decided to stay in and watch reruns of Quincy instead. Plus, to be honest, if the body count stops at one in a book of this type, you feel a little short-changed.

I keep reading. And I keep reading. And keep reading. It’s all terrific stuff, but I can’t help thinking: “when do we get to the bit where this character, the one I’m reading about right now, the one whose internal machinations I am currently privy and in thrall to, the one who is quite clearly a pivoty central-type-person in the plot, because it says on the back cover that she disappears, when do we get to the bit where she actually, you know, disappears? You know, THE BIT YOU’VE ALREADY TOLD ME ABOUT”.

Page 200, that’s when.

Page 200. That’s about two thirds of the way through the book.

WT, as the saying goes, F?

It’s as if I was watching a film, and as the opening credits roll, someone stands up and announces to the assembled throngette: “you see him? He gets killed eighty minutes in, he does.” (In fact, don’t get me started on cinema trailers).

Charlie Brown would have known what to say.

Aaaaauuuuggggghhhhh!!!!

Who does these things? What blithering, lobotomised, candy-floss-brained son of a mongoose thinks: “I know, as it’s a murder mystery, let’s unravel the writer’s carefully-crafted, finely-wrought, clever-twisty-plot-type-stuff by telling the reader what’s going to happen in the book before they’ve even started reading it”?

And I thought spoilers were the things on the back of naff cars.

Gah.

That’s all.

Gah.

It's a mad world. No, really.

I don’t get political very often on this blog. But here’s a brief rant. I’m afraid those of you who have come to expect writing of a comedic and trivial nature here will have to wait a bit longer (those who think my writing is more laughable than funny should, on the other hand, feel right at home).

The papers, blogs and social media were abuzz yesterday with the story of the cat and the wheelie bin.

If you missed it, a lady in Coventry was caught on CCTV stopping to stroke a cat before whipping open a handy wheelie bin and popping the benighted moggie into it.

It’s ok. The cat (Lola) survived. It is possible that the lady (Mary) won’t, given the level of vitriol that has been spat her way. The inevitable Hatebook pages have been started up etc etc.

Disclaimer: I love cats. There is one sitting next to me as I write. It is slightly damp from an ill-advised jaunt into the rain, but I love it still. And along with many people I was disgusted and fascinated by the thing wot that lady done. It weren’t right, were it?
But people, please. If we’re talking animal welfare, let’s turn our attention towards battery farms, shall we? Organised cruelty on a massive scale, not just a random and slightly mad act of temporary incarceration.

And if we want real perspective, how about going here and giving all you can afford to the flood victims of Pakistan?

The world has gone mad. Mad, I tell you.

Ok, rant over. I promise I’ll be trivial again soon.

Collective Useless Numpty Transference Syndrome

It is about 10pm on Sunday 27th June, 2010. At about 6.00 this afternoon, I had the beginning of this post all worked out.

This is what I was going to write:
"Today saw a dismal performance from an over-rated team full of their own self-regard, crowning one of the most inept sporting displays on foreign soil since the passing of the Inept Sporting Displays Act of 1853.

But that's enough about the Australian cricket team."

I hope you see what I was trying to do with that.

If you don't, you are clearly not an English sports fan.

Congratulations on both counts.

Anyway, regardless of whether you are a sports fan or not, I'm sure you'll be interested to know that this afternoon saw the first known occurrence of a phenomenon I am choosing to call Collective Useless Numpty Transference Syndrome (you can work out the acronym yourselves, I'm sure).

I invented it, so I get to name it, OK?

Briefly, what happened was this:

England (football) were, to quote the magnificent Malcolm Tucker, about as much use as a marzipan dildo in their footballing contest with Germany.

England (cricket) on the other hand, were, as is their recent wont, progressing quite nicely against another 'old enemy', Australia, who have performed as disappointingly in the last week as the perennially under-achieving Rain Gods of Wimbledon.

They then contrived to turn a facile victory into a cushion-munching, finger-slicing-while-chopping-onions, beer-all-over-the-kitchen-throwing near-defeat that had me, well, you know, munching cushions and so forth.

I have a theory. And it's one that makes those no-hopers at CERN look like amateurs.

The footballing no-contest in Bloemfontein, South Africa ended at approximately 4.50 our time.

England (cricket) were playing in Manchester, England and started imploding at approximately 6.00.

The distance between the two towns is 5934 miles.

Until 4.50, the England football team had possession of the Mantle Of British Sporting Ineptitude.

At the final whistle, no longer having use for it, they tossed it aside like a used up tube of toothpaste, whereupon it pricked up its ears (yes I know mantles don't have ears), sniffed the air (yes I know that even if mantles had ears they wouldn't use them to sniff the air), and hot-footed it (yes I know etc) to Manchester with all possible speed.
84 miles per minute, to be more or less precise.

Speedy buggers, these Mantles of Ineptitude.

Upon arrival in Manchester, the Mantle headed straight for the England (cricket) dressing room, where its mystical powers caused them to lose six wickets for eighteen runs.
Rumours that exceptional pace bowling from Shaun Tait and Dougie Bollinger were also involved are scurrilous and not to be believed.

Luckily for the spirit of English sportiness, Tim Bresnan, who was batting at the time, is blessed with the elusive ingredient that is crucial to any sporting over-achiever: Self-Belief. This is not to be confused with Self-Regard, for which see England (football) above.

Bresnan's Self-Belief gave the Mantle Of British Sporting Ineptitude a withering stare and told it to sod off, enabling Bresnan to hit two of the last three balls for four and secure a series-clinching victory.

The Mantle was last seen on the M1, heading South. It is expected to arrive in South-West London late tomorrow afternoon.

Come on Andy!

Make mine a slinky arty-fartay

Who would have thought a drink could change so radically in a decade or two?

You’ll be calling me a Luddite and stuck in my ways (the truth always hurts), but what the flarking doowogglers has happened to coffee?

When I were a lad, not only was it all fields around here, but coffee was coffee. You could have milk, or you could have sugar, or you could have both. Or neither. Those were the choices, like telly.

But nowadays to order a coffee is to enter a surreal and arcane world of perturbation, confusion and despair from which you will be lucky to emerge with your sanity intact. It is quite bewildering. You thought The Wire was confusing? Lost in Lost? Try keeping track of coffee in the tenties. The quest for a decent cup of coffee is increasingly becoming as lengthy and fruitless as a boa constrictor.

Let us consider this document.
Yes that’s right. A Wikihow article on How To Order At Starbucks. It has 12 basic points, 13 examples and 11 ’tips’.

Ladies and Gentlemen, there are many madnesses in our modern world. They defy analysis or reasoned thought: The Iraq War; The Continued Employment of Noel Edmonds; Farmville.

But this one really takes the almond biscotto.

Here’s how to order a coffee:

1. Go to a cafe.


2. Ask for a coffee.


3. If you like milk in it, add the words ‘with milk please’.


4. If you are in any way tempted to add any of the following words to your coffee order, seek medical help immediately: skinny, tall, quad, venti, iced, syrup, frappuccino, sham-a-lam-a-ding-u-cino.

Try not to do it in the wrong order or you might confuse your ‘barista’ (although you’d have thought with all those years studying a complex subject like law they’d be able to understand a simple coffee order).

You might want to practice it a few times with a friend before you take the plunge and do it for real. There’s a lot to remember.

Luckily, though, and thanks to some clever Antipodeans a couple of decades ago, you may not have to worry about COPS (Coffee Ordering Paranoia Syndrome) any more, because I think we can now call off the search for the perfect cup of coffee.

Make mine a Flat White.

Apparently ‘invented’ in New Zealand in the early eighties, it has taken nearly twenty years to gain leverage in this fair town, but it is now, so I’m led to believe, the beverage of choice for the discerning cafficionado.

The secret of this novelty elixir?

Less milk than in a latte.

Wow.

Crikey.

Now why didn’t I think of that?

Oh, silly me, I did. It’s the coffee I’ve been making at home FOR THE LAST TWENTY-FIVE YEARS.

Otherwise known as ‘coffee with some milk’.

I’m clearly in the wrong business.

Now obviously it’s easy for me to stand on the sidelines and hurl abuse at some of the largest and most successful corporations in the world, who have, with no help from me, mastered the art of marketing the bleedin’ obvious. And of course they have very clever and expensive coffee machines that heat the milk to just the right temperature to render your beverage undrinkably hot for forty minutes, at which point (and not before) it becomes undrinkably cold.

I am, however, English.

So it naturally behooves me, at this point, to be a bit embarrassed, shuffle from foot to foot, and offer a peace token.

In the interests, therefore, of international co-operation and compromise, and with the generosity of spirit for which we Anglo-Armenians have become renowned the world over, I offer, free, gratis, and for nothing, my new invention:

The Caffe Arty-Fartay.

Here’s how to make it:

Tinker around with different combinations of coffee and milk, thinking up ever more ludicrous names for them, until you disappear up your own bottom in a puff of finely grated chocolate powder (70% of course).

I thank you.

Next week: Dressing Emperors - A Twelve-Step Plan.