Early Alliteration

When I was around 13 or 14 I made the schoolboy error of referring to my Grandmother as Grannyguts. Worse, I did it in front of my father.

After asking me to repeat myself to be sure he hadn't misheard, he proceeded to berate me before giving me a smart tap or two to the top of my head.

Naturally I tried to explain myself, rather feebly as it happens, by saying that it "just sort of slipped out like that". That was true. It was in fact totally unrehearsed and I had absolutely no idea what made me say it.

Now I know better. Over the years, I have developed more than a fondness for alliteration. My rude reference to my Grandmother was simply the start.

Poor old Gran. I quite often gave her a hard time, bringing her to the edge of apoplexy. "Tea is more addictive than cannabis" I once told her, urging her to see if she could do without a cuppa for a few days.

It is entirely possible that I was a young pain in the arse.

Not the News

I watch the news on tv most days. The BBC is still the best although increasingly I am beginning to wonder.

The quality of the reporting is still as good as ever. But this need to involve the viewer is what I don't like.

We are regularly invited to post our comments on the Facebook wall or comment via Twitter.

Totally unnecessary in my book. I am not interested in listening to what a few faceless people have to say.

I'm there for the news. Not for the views.

Laugh? Not me.

Every time I see Ricky Gervais on the television he is laughing.

Not just a teeny weeny chuckle. Or even a modest titter.

Instead good old Ricky opens his shoulders and shakes hysterically as he emits a high pitched and excessively lengthy whining guffaw.

It is quite horrible to watch. It annoys me intensely. I can't bear it.

Just thought I would share that with you.

Neoptism is alive and well...

Just noted today that Gillingham's reserve team had one Jake Hessenthaler named as a substitute this week.

Unusual name Hessenthaler. Just happens to be the manager's surname as well.

Last season, the incumbent (or should that be incompetent) manager Mark Stimpson had a young Charlie Stimpson on the books.

Across the Thames Estuary at Southend F.C. Blair Sturrock is in the team. His father Paul is the manager.

I doubt nepotism is confined to this part of south east England. After all, this is football. Should we be surprised?

The 23 Hour Day

I try to live a full and varied life. But things are conspiring against me. At best, each day is 23 hours long.

The lost 60 minutes is taken up by a variety of things that serve no enjoyable purpose whatsoever.

First it's the various operations that involve oral hygiene. My dental hygienist has me flossing, interdenting, brushing and more. It adds up to a good 10 minutes each morning.

Next comes the telephone wittering. Have you noticed how as we get older, people we speak to on the phone take forever to come to the point, they throw in random irrelevances and then start to repeat themselves for emphasis? A good 15 minutes if you are unlucky, which I frequently am.

Of course, no day is complete without having to make a telephone call to a machine spouting options before having to wait, wait and wait longer still before you are connected to a real voice. A charitable 20 minutes.

That leaves 15 minutes which can be taken up by sifting through spam emails offering me viagra, lasting friendships with Russian prostitutes, a win on the lottery and the opportunity to become a millionaire by transferring the illgotten gains of an African Prince or Diplomat through my bank account.

Should I be lucky enough to have saved a few moments of my lost hour, I can always repel doorstep sales people who ignore the large "bugger off" sign on the front door, I can join the queue at the Post Office or I can sit at some temporary traffic lights which blight the roads of South Oxfordshire.

Alternatively I could lighten up a bit, but where's the fun in that?

X-Ray Vision

If you phone the x-ray department of the local hospital for an appointment at the moment, one of two things happen. The line is engaged or an answerphone tells you that there is no-one available to take your call, you can't leave a message so please try later.

I did try later. Around 40 times over 2 days. Judging by the fact that the phone was engaged around 50% of the time, I was not alone in doing this.

Finally I rang the main switchboard only to be told by a harassed and unhelpful lady that the department was a bit hectic and the people who answer the phone also do the x-rays and if I wanted to make a complaint I should write in.

I've got my "what good will that do" hat on at the moment. However I remain decidedly grouchy that I have paid for numerous phone calls to hear the same answerphone message.

The hospital must be aware of this. Not just the cost to me and to countless others but also the time wasted and the inconvenience. Yet it does nothing.

Why can't I leave a message? Why can't they announce a good time to call?

It's another of life's little mysteries I shall almost certainly never solve.

Those Silky Soccer Skills

Go to a college reunion and meet people you haven't seen for 40 years?

I must confess to a little trepidation. Would we have anything in common? Would we have anything to talk about?

Happily it all went very well. Enormously enjoyable.

One of the bonuses has been the circulation of old photographs.

Today I received images of myself playing football against another London college. There I am, a George Best almost lookalike, demonstrating those silky skills long abandoned.

Whilst it was an enormous pleasure to look at old forgotten faces on the field of play, it also shows what a fragile thing my memory is.

I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of the event. Were it not for the fact that the photos prove otherwise, I would have confidently said that it never happened.

Makes me wonder what else I did at college!

Bonkers Train Fares

You really couldn't make this up.

If I was to catch the 13.01 train from Oxford to London Paddington on Tuesday, I could take advantage of the special fare of £4 single. However, if I caught the next train to Didcot at 13.07, going around 50 miles less will cost me 90 pence more.

That's right. Oxford to Didcot is £4.90.

It has also come to my notice that it is around 13 miles between Oxford and Didcot. However, the cost of a single train ride to London from either station during peak hours is £24.00.

Is that a fair fare? Of course it isn't. If I had a case, I would rest it.

It's a stick up!

I can't help wondering what possesses people to have one of those hangers or stickers attached to the rear screen of their car. They say something like "Tiny Person on Board" or "Baby in the Back".

If it's a safety issue warning drivers to back off, then I think it's hugely misguided.

I doubt that I am alone in driving closer to the car in question so that I can read what the sticker says.

That's got to be more dangerous hasn't it?

Surprise Surprise!

Genuine surprises are few and far between these days.

So it was an absolute pleasure to be out walking on The South Downs at the weekend to chance across an alternative to the planned pub lunch ahead.

In the village of Southease, (no pub, delightful chuch and a population of just 37) there was a small village green. On it for this Saturday only was a real ale tent, music and a chili festival.

There were bales of hay to sit on, food ranging from the wimpishly mild to the bonkers hot and a cracking relaxing atmosphere.

Naturally we stayed far too long and ended the walk much later than expected.

But it was one of those surprising marvellous moments you wouldn't miss for anything.

The Train Now Standing...

I'm old enough to remember steam train travel quite clearly. I unashamedly admit to collecting the numbers back in the fifties.

Then the engines had marvellous evocative names. Abbeys, Cathedrals, famous people, royalty, wars and battles, mountains, hills and glens.

Captions in magazines and books would always name the engine in a photograph. "The Earl of Mount Edgecumbe hauls a 10 coach passenger service up the incline from Sprodsbury Bottom." "Pendennis Castle eases out of Paddington with the 12.45 Bristolian Express."

And today? Give me strength. Trains no longer generate the same kind of excitement. Very sad. But from a names of engines point of view, it's just as well.

These days, locomotives have names like "Sir Peter Parker 1924 - 2002 Cotswold line 150", "Spalding Town", "Dartington International Summer School", "Oxfordshire 2007" and wait for it, I'm not making it up, "Helston Furry Dance".

Unbloodybelievable!

Thank you so very much...

And another thing...

I'm fed up with stopping for people at pedestrian crossings who walk across but don't have the courtesy to nod a thank you.

I'm equally hacked off with giving way to drivers who don't have the decency to acknowledge my politeness.

It seems to be happening more and more. And it makes me very cross indeed.

Phone Sex

I refer in my headline of course to the differences in phone usage by men and women.

I favour the quick call mostly to make arrangements. Say what you have to say and that's it.

Others like to talk, talk and talk more.

Whilst this is only an opinion, I believe that men tend to prefer the first route and more women the second.

I don't have a problem with this. Each to his or her own.

But one thing I have noticed and I believe it to be a "women thing" is this. Having a long conversation with someone you are about to meet. I cite Mrs. Crimper here.

She is perfectly capable of a 40 minute conversation with a friend she will see the following day. Occasionally she has been known to call someone whilst I am driving to say "we are on our way". And chatting for ages.

I just don't understand it.

I read with interest...

It's a small thing but it brings out the "old grump" in me.

The number of times you look at the letters page in a local newspaper and see the following opening to a letter:

"I read with interest that....

Talk about a statement of the obvious. If they weren't interested, they wouldn't have bothered to write in.

Quite.

On the Buses

People who write things for a living often make the mistake of assuming that if they understand what they are talking about, everyone else who reads it will too.

Not necessarily in my case.

The quote below comes from the back of a packet of Sainsbury's Fruit Muesli.

"If every Sainsbury's customer recycled their cereal box, 750 tonnes of cardboard would be reused every year. That's the equivalent to 101 double decker buses."

Apart from the superficial use of the word "the", try as I might I can't see the connection.

The worry is that the next bus I catch will be made of cardboard.

Advertising is Dying...

The golden age of advertising was when people used to say that the tv ads were better than the programmes.

Over the years though it has all changed. The internet has distributed the advertising pound into many interesting and varied media.

The advent of Sky Plus has meant that we increasingly record programmes rather than watch in real time and then hit the fast forward button to avoid the commercial breaks.

And with many different tv channels to choose from, a drop in viewers watching each commercial break inevitably follows.

All in all, there's less to spend on making tv commercials. And where there are low budgets there are also low standards

Yet every once in a while there's a commercial that bucks the trend. Step forward and congratulations to Magners.

There's life in the creative art yet!

You Couldn't Make It Up #3

I am sure that the Sunday Times is a reputable newspaper and doesn't need to fabricate quotes from celebrities.

So I'll take the following from Jordan (aka Katie price) as absolute gospel.

"My worst holiday was when I went to Disneyland Paris recently with the kids. That was really bad. Everything was in French....You had to queue forever to do anything and it was full of French people."

What in Paris? Really? No further comment necessary.

Poles Apart

I can be a bit bloodyminded some of the time. Alright, most of the time.

But when your local power company come and plonk a wooden pole on your grass verge and tell you there's nothing you can do about it, it's fair to say I am not happy.

All to do with new rules and regulations about raising cables higher and I don't doubt it has to happen whether I like it or not.

But when the same company bang on the door and tell you they would now like to connect a new cable and could I turn my power off, a chap can get a tad cross.

So I told the chap. When someone from your organisation has the courtesy to write to me and tell me what is going on, why it is necessary and sorry for the inconvenience, then I'll happily allow you to step onto my property and complete the job.

I feel better now.

Is farting healthy?

Call it what you will. Fart, crimp, trump, parp, poot, guff or thrapper. It's not a popular action.

But is it healthy?

According to the NHS, "The body needs to get rid of the build-up of excess gas" while the NHS24 website states "the large majority of cases of excessive flatulence are harmless".

Dietandhealth.net offer reassuring words. "Undigested food passes from the small intestine into the large intestine, where harmless and normal bacteria break down the food, producing hydrogen, carbon dioxide, and, in about one-third of all people, methane. Eventually these gases exit through the rectum."

In other words, it is entirely normal.

I only mention this in case Mrs Crimper should happen to be casting an eye over these words. She should be reassured.

Happy Birthday

Congratulations to Alice Nott of Bexhill on Sea. She's 101 today.

This fact, along with details of a couple in Ashford Kent celebrating a big wedding anniversary and other birthdays and anniversaries were featured at the end of Meridian News on ITV this evening.

Have they gone completely stark raving potty?

How can this be considered newsworthy to everyone watching the local news across South East England?

Mind you, most of the programme defies the description "local news".

What goes on in Ramsgate, Hastings, Brighton and all points west is of no interest here in Oxfordshire.

This is a programme that while calling itself local features a pair of presenters sittting in front of an image of Maidstone bridge in Kent. A modest 100+ miles from Crimper Towers.

Is it any wonder I get grumpy?