Welcome to a monthly series of exclusive articles by Welsh Valleys Humour author David Jandrell. In it he explores frustrations with modern life, all recounted through his unique humour and Valleys dialiect...
May 2019: Cause of Death
Murder is a funny thing isn’t it? Not comical- strange. Very popular these days as well. Just watch the news. I am not going to explore ‘murder’ here as if I have some morbid fascination for it, but I am going to discuss the way that it is reported in the news and on cop shows.
I have been intrigued by some of the ‘stories’ that I have read or heard regarding suspicious deaths and I will share them with you here. Perhaps you can offer some rational explanations to some of the theories offered by the authorities as to the causes of death or some of the detection techniques that are used.
One of the most used methods of establishing ‘time of death’ is to look at the victim’s watch. Almost in every episode of Midsomer Murders, the pathologist says to Tom Barnarby:
“Time of death was 3:45pm, because that’s what time his watch stopped.”
Jack Frost’s pathologist says it as well.
In reality, there’s some huge assumptions going on here:
- Did the method of killing the victim cause the watch to stop, or was he killed last week and it stopped because it hadn’t been wound for a few days?
- Was the victim’s watch showing the correct time when it stopped? – I just glanced at my watch and it’s three minutes fast!
- Had the battery run out?
- Was the watch working at all? Even a stopped watch shows the correct time twice in a 24 hour period?
If I was a policeman, I’d need a little more substantial evidence than the time showing on a deceased’s watch to build my case on.
And what if they find a body and the watch is still going? What does that mean?
Another one that has puzzled me is the one where they can’t identify a body, so they resort to dental records. If they don’t know who has been killed, how on earth do they know who his dentist is?
I’d love to know how this works – if anybody out there knows, please get in touch.
I have this picture in my mind of a young bobby going round all the dentists in the town with a plaster cast of a set of teeth in his pocket and asking:
It’s a nice picture, but I don’t for one minute think it’s a true one.
One of the most intriguing ones I saw was on my internet home page news section.
The headline said: HEADLESS CORPSE FOUND. It was accompanied by a picture of a police car with copious quantities of the blue and white striped sellotape they use to cordon off areas, draped over the bonnet. You know the one I mean.
So, I clicked on the link and the story ‘opened up’.
Apparently, the headless body of a man had been found amongst some boxes and other wrapping materials near a market somewhere in London!
Here’s the interesting bit. According to a police autopsy report, they were unable to establish the cause of death.
Now I’m not Hercule Poirot, but I think that maybe the answer was so obvious that they may have missed it. If they examined the rest of the body and found no obvious causes of death in or on it – poisoning, drug overdose, bullet holes, stab wounds, Ebola, then they must be looking at the head … and there wasn’t one.
Neither am I a medical historian, but I am quite sure that it has not been recorded anywhere that a head or body had ever survived after having become detached from one another. If you know of an instance, please get in touch.
I don’t think that it is unreasonable to assume, after all other possible causes had been ruled out, that the lack of head was a pretty strong contender for ‘most likely culprit’.
Further down the article, they tackled the issue of ‘why’ the head had been removed and concluded that it may have been an attempt by the killers to conceal the victim’s identity – and within the same paragraph, went on to say that they had managed to identify the victim from the credit cards in his wallet which was found in his jacket pocket.
Let’s be fair, if you are going to kill someone and then become involved in one of the most extreme ‘hiding the identity of your victim’ exercises I can think of – removing the head, then perhaps you’d take the extra precaution of checking his pockets to make sure they didn’t contain a plethora of identity giveaways such as a chequebook, utility bills, passport, driving licence or checked the back of his collar to make sure his mother hadn’t sewn a name tag into it like my mother used to do to mine when I was in school to make sure that I came home wearing the same clothes that I left the house with on days when we had PE.
I think that is the longest sentence that has appeared in any of my ‘thoughts’ so far.
And what about Dennis Nilsen? You know, the civil servant who used to ‘kill for company’. When he was approached by the law, he openly admitted his crimes without any prompting from the officers involved. So you’d think the trial would last about 5 minutes wouldn’t you:
“Are you guilty of these crimes.”
“Right, take him down and chuck the key away.”
Wrong! The trial went on for weeks. Why? Because the legal wranglers were trying to establish whether Nilsen was sane or not!
On yet another hand, people have questioned my sanity on the grounds that: I don’t like Christmas, parties, weddings, have 33 guitars, 29,000 albums, eat After Eights at half past seven, have the audacity to go out with a shirt and tie that don’t match, own a rabbit called Malcolm and a cockatiel called Blin, get annoyed when people ask me if I ‘understand what they mean’ three times in every sentence, hate soap, don’t like the Beatles, started to write unbelievably long sentences, miss appointments as a result of having a vocabulary good enough to understand what the term ‘next Friday’ means and being able to spell palaeontologist.
So if I’m insane and Nilsen is sane, then pass me a straightjacket and I’ll gladly wear it.
Er … what colour tie would go with that?
April 2019: Matching Shirt and Tie
Years ago the nature of my job meant that I had to wear a shirt and tie. This caused massive problems for a number of people– me being one of them.
By far, the most difficult thing I did on any working day was put a shirt on. This was due solely to my fingernails. They are very long- well on my right hand anyway. Rose, my partner calls them ‘talons’. I use them for playing my guitar.
Some people have asked me why I don’t use a plectrum – this is because I grow my own and I very rarely lose them. I was always losing plectra when I used them – usually by dropping them in the sound-hole in acoustic guitars. Have you ever tried getting a plectrum out of an acoustic guitar? Or even worse – a Gibson 335!
I also find it impossible to pick coins up from flat surfaces for the same reason – but that’s another story.
Anyway, back to shirts. The problem is doing the buttons up. I reckon I could have an extra hour in bed in the mornings if I didn’t have to put a shirt on. And the worst shirts are those that have buttons on the ‘point’ of the collar. A nightmare!
So I’ve got the shirt on, fully buttoned. I add the tie. Job done. Problem solved for me. This is where the problems for the other people started.
These problems are all about colours and patterns. I don’t understand anything about colours and patterns- not when it comes to shirts and ties anyway.
The technique I use when selecting my shirt was to grab one from the wardrobe – usually when I am looking somewhere else, maybe to locate my shoes or at the clock to see exactly how much time I had to get ready. My ‘tie selection’ was remarkably similar – a random ‘grab’ from the tie rack.
It is this ‘hit and miss’ selection method that caused the problems for the other people.
The trouble is they very rarely ‘matched’. These people were never shy in coming forward with their comments on my ‘colour scheme’ of the day. My reactions to these outbursts are pretty much the same.
In July 1986, I bought a box of Tic-Tacs (mint flavour). When I was getting near the end of the box, I poured some into the palm of my hand to eat and realised that the box was now empty, so I decided to put one back to eat later on. I ate the remaining Tic-Tacs safe in the knowledge that I had one left.
When ‘later-on’ finally arrived, I decided to eat my last Tic-Tac, and I discovered that something had happened when I put the last one back into the box. I don’t know what had actually happened, but I know that I hadn’t put it back in the box as it was empty. Maybe I dropped it. Maybe it had slipped through my fingers and was lurking somewhere in the lining of my pocket. Whatever had happened, the true fate of my last Tic-Tac was going to be a mystery for ever.
Quite frankly, I have worried more about that Tic-Tac than I have ever or ever will worry about my shirt/tie colour scheme!
Nevertheless, despite my attempts to explain to my critics how little this meant to me I still got barracked as soon as I arrived at work.
“Get dressed in the dark this morning Dai?”
This is the most common greeting. Of course, I needed an explanation and we had a little conversation. It went like this:
“Problem with my colour scheme?”
“That tie doesn’t go with that shirt!”
“Because they clash!”
Let’s analyse that. When I ask my critics the exact nature of the complaint, I am told that the colours don’t ‘go’! When I ask why, I am told that they ‘clash’.
Neither of my questions had been answered.
When I ask ‘why’ the colours don’t go together, ‘because they clash’ is not an answer. It’s merely saying that they don’t go together in a different way. I want to know why they clash. There must be a reason.
I think that the main reason is because people believe what they hear without ever thinking it through. They have been told that these colours ‘don’t go’ and they stick with that for the rest of their lives.
If someone can give me a rational explanation as to why they clashed and I can understand that there is a physical reason why I should not wear a striped shirt with a paisley tie, I would be a little more selective about my attire. Until then, I would continue to dress in the way that I did.
Some of the more articulate of my critics, tried to explain my lack of fashion sense by quoting a little poem. It went like this:
“Blue and green should never be seen,
Unless there’s another colour in between.”
Well, if this is true, what about bluebells? If they feel strongly about this little poem and they want to take it up seriously, then they should be prepared to cross swords with God! I mean, you can’t criticise his or her fashion sense can you?
I reckon my shirt and tie combination is the new black anyway.
March 2019: Eating Out
We eat out a lot. Every Saturday we eat out- we have no option.
Because we both work Monday to Friday, we have to do our shopping on a Saturday and this involves going out. As a result, we eat out. This is a part of the shopping process and it generally means eating in the restaurant part of whichever superstore we’re in or a pub or café in whichever town we find ourselves in when we are doing our shopping.
The thing is, there are those that say that we don’t ‘eat out’ at all. There’s ‘eating out’ and ‘eating out’ and in their eyes, we don’t ‘eat out’.
Let’s examine that last statement and try to work out exactly what it means – at first it may not make sense, but it’s really quite simple.
We are eating out because we are out of the house and we’re eating, that’s ‘eating out’. I may have mentioned my vocabulary before- I know what the words mean. The other form of ‘eating out’ is the ‘going out for a meal’ philosophy when the reason for going out is for the meal. That’s considered ‘proper eating out’, not the way we do it.
So, ‘going out for a meal’ is an entirely different kettle of fish and doesn’t mean the same as ‘eating out’ the way we do it. ‘Going out for a meal’ has become a social occasion in itself, and involves a large degree of snobbery to boot.
I find eating a chore, it’s a necessity. We have to do it or we’ll die. Eating interrupts my daily routine. I have to stop what I’m doing to eat, and as a result, I make the ‘eating’ process as quick and painless as possible. One of the things that I associate with ‘going out for a meal’ is that it takes a long time – a helluva long time and is by no means a ‘social occasion’.
Only once have my partner and I been ‘out for a meal’ – this was an onslaught! We sat down at noon and we were still awaiting the sweet at 4:20pm! I guess you could call that a once in a lifetime experience because when we left the premises, we both looked at each other and said in unison, “Never again.”
So it’s fair to say that meals are not social occasions for us and although we do eat out, this is as a consequence of being out and not why we go out.
I mentioned the word ‘snobbery’ earlier on. “Why did you use the word, ‘snobbery’ Dai?” I hear you say. Well ‘snobbery’ is the best way to describe the way in which the meal is reported.
I am absolutely astounded by the sheer small mindedness of people, who for some reason, think that I may be interested in what they had to eat the previous night. So, despite being told, they still bore me out of all proportion with a 25 minute barrage of drivel when they relate what they had for starters, main course, sweet, cheese and biscuits, coffee and liqueurs etc. I hate that.
Of course this is just a prequel to the real reason why they are telling you this. This is a big build up to the punch-line. And the reason is - to tell you how much it cost.
“Oh yes, it was marvellous, and you know what, it only came to £450. Mind you, we did have two bottles of wine as well.”
Oh, well that makes it an absolute bargain then doesn’t it…
My partner and I went to Cornwall a few years ago and stumbled across a place called Padstow. Whilst wandering around this quaint little village we encountered a large queue which went two thirds of the way around a building. We didn’t join the queue, but we did walk alongside it until we got to the front and saw why these people were queuing. They were queuing to get into Rick Stein’s restaurant. I managed to catch one comment from one of the punters as we passed, “Oh yes, we always eat at Rick’s when we come to Cornwall”. I wouldn’t like to be in his office in the morning to have to listen to his commentary on the meal at Rick’s, and the price. Oh, and the price!
Just out of interest, I looked at the price list in the window. I only saw the first item on the Starters menu and stopped reading. It said:
Tomato Soup - £10
What can you do to tomato soup to make it worth £10? I’d insist on seeing Rick opening the tin himself – with his teeth before I’d pay £10 for a bowl of tomato soup.
No, I take that back. I wouldn’t pay £10 for a bowl of tomato soup under any circumstances. Tomato soup is not worth £10. Well it is if you have 15 gallons of the stuff, but you don’t get 15 gallons of soup in posh restaurants do you – more like, you’d be lucky to get enough soup to cover a slice of bread with an evenly-spread 25 micron thick coating.
Going back, for a moment, to the infamous once in a lifetime meal that I spoke of earlier – the starter came to me on a saucer. A saucer! Yes, this is not a typo, it was a saucer. Not only did it come to me on a saucer, the only part of the receptacle that contained any food was the little circular depression in the middle that the cup rests on!
And it looked like a piece of art. I didn’t know whether to eat it or hang it in Tate Modern. But at least it had a drizzle of olive oil.
According to the menu, this starter was worth £17.50!
Restaurateurs have been taking the mick out of restaurant-goers for years. It’s a licence to print money! The portions are tiny and the prices are extortionate. And people will flock to eat in these restaurants and pay the prices because they think that if they do it ‘says something about them’. I won’t put here what I say about them – I have said it to them though.
And another thing. The more horrible something is, the more expensive it is.
I have had the misfortune of eating Beluga caviar. Google tells me that currently it costs £225 for 50g. It is absolutely vile. It is beyond my comprehension that anyone with fully functioning taste buds can put their hand on their heart and honestly say that it is nice. But the Brownie points you score when you add that you’ve spooned a few portions of that down your crop during your latest sojourn to the local bistro is absolutely staggering.
One last mention of the once in a lifetime meal – on the way home we stopped off at the chippy and had pasty and chips because we were starving. People who have just had a five course meal shouldn’t really be doing that, but that sums up the ‘going out for a meal’ ethic for me.
I think that my response to the waiter to his question:
“How did you find your steak sir?”
“I just moved a pea and there it was.”
was perfectly justified, even though it was not graciously received.
Incidentally, pasty and chips twice, cost less than one starter – it’s absurd.
So, we don’t go out for meals, and I’m glad.
When we do eat out, as opposed to ‘going out for a meal’, I object very strongly to the token ‘enjoy your meal’ throwaway comment that waiters/waitresses make as they dump your brunch on the table in front of you. It sounds like an instruction! I hope that this phrase will be taken out of the ‘table waiting training manual’ very soon because if anything is going to make me not enjoy my meal is the thought that it is compulsory and I can get myself into some sort of trouble if I don’t.
Next Saturday I’m going to Lidl to buy a bottle of olive oil and I’m going to carry it around with me at all times. Why? I hear you say.
So I can give the head of next person who decides to tell me what they’ve had to eat the night before a severe drizzle.
I bet Rick would be proud of me.
February 2019: The Safe Humour of modern TV Comedy
Well, what can I say? TV comedy ….dear, dear, dear. It’s a shame really because there are some really funny people out there. The problem is that they’ve all followed a very similar pattern when producing their shows – they’re very popular, but aren’t they pulling a really big scam? Am I the only person to have noticed? I hope not.
Let me explain.
Back in the 1960s, there was a chap called Dick Emery. He did sketch shows and he had lots of characters. I want to concentrate on two characters in particular – one was a very flamboyant middle-aged woman, I guess modelled on Diana Dors, and the other was a very camp chap who minced around in very bright colours!
The scenario was that a ‘street interviewer’ approached one or t’other of these characters to ask a topical question. At some point during the ‘interview’ the interviewer would ask a question that would be a double entendre. Naturally, the Emery character would assume that the interviewer was being smutty and punch him on the shoulder and follow it with the line:
“Oooh you are awful …………………..but I like you.”
And that was the end of the sketch.
I suppose it was moderately funny at the time, or perhaps the first time, but it happened show after show, series after series.
What was actually happening here was Emery had created a successful character, penned a funny sketch, and then decided to bombard his audience with it every week. He actually took away the audience’s right to laugh until the “Oooh you are awful.” bit had come.
They waited for him to say it, then laughed. They knew it was coming, but they sat through it until the “Oooh you are awful.” cue came, and …….they laughed.
Turn the TV on now, and we have the same thing. Since the mid-eighties we have watched blockbuster comedy, awarding winning comedy – and we’ve been watching the same show over and over again.
Here’s my advice – watch the first-ever episode of a new comedy show, and go out and play pool or something for the rest, and all subsequent series and repeats – ‘cos if you’ve seen the first, you’ve seen ‘em all.
Safe humour that’s what it is – they know it’ll be a hit, so they give the audience what they want. They don’t want to have to analyse the ‘joke’ or work on complicated plots, they want it on a plate.
Write a cracking first episode, set your stall out, develop the characters and let the punters know what’s going to happen, then give them the same episode, only tweaked a little, for the rest of their lives.
I mean if you are a producer of a comedy programme, you wouldn’t want to do that would you? I mean, I really don’t think you meant to do that did you?
But if it suits the audience, well, it suits you sir, and you sir and it suits you as well madam. The trouble is, if people don’t want this, they have to be vocal about it. Because if they don’t, the writers will think that’s what you want. And if that’s what you want mate, that’s what you’ll get, I said that’s what you’ll get mate.
And you’ll get two old codgers sitting in big chairs saying things like:
“See that heap of garbage over there, that’s our act that is.”
So, let’s do a little survey:
A chap is pushing a wheelchair down the street. The wheelchair is occupied by his friend. The ‘pusher’ notices that one of the wheels has a puncture, so he puts the brake on the chair and tells his friend he’s going to the shop to buy a pump.
During the time that the ‘pusher’ is away buying the pump, does the wheelchair occupier:
- Sit patiently for his friend to return?
- Chat politely to passers by?
- Read a newspaper?
- Go hang-gliding?
An old woman is sitting in a front room with her grandson. A visitor calls round with some home made cake and some flowers for the old woman – a nice gesture. The old woman is moved to tears and tells the visitor how thoughtful she is and how much she appreciates the gifts. The visitor says she has to go. The old woman sees her to the door. When the visitor has left, the old woman:
- Makes a nice cup of tea
- Watches Eastenders
- Puts the flowers in a vase
- Swears uncontrollably and subjects her grandson to a tirade of abuse aimed at the visitor suggesting that she is not nice. (Severely watered down description).
A bland looking corner shop. Very little stock in sight. A customer comes in and asks for something really obscure – like a saddle for a five humped camel.
The shop owner shuffles backwards until he is near an open door which leads to the living quarters. He turns his head towards the door and;
- Informs the customer that they don’t sell five humped camel saddles
- Shouts “MARGARET!!!!!”
People come into work the morning after a broadcast and re-enact one of the ‘sketches’ from last night’s show. You know, two people who sit face to face across a desk and spend the morning saying:
- “Am I bovvered?”
- “Am I bovvered – look at my face, am I BOVVERED.”
Enough of scenarios - I mean, yeah but no but, the thing is I was meant to go down the shop for an Argus, like, and I seen Josh and Katie, right, and he reckon I was with Casey last night, and I wasn’t, I was down the tunnel wi’ Rob and Mercedes and ‘er baby and anyway, Casey stayed in, I know ‘cos her mam wouldn’t let her out ‘cos of what ‘appened Friday. Then the Police come and said I’d trashed Mrs Jenkins’ garden an I said yeah but no but ……. Yes this is what we laugh at!
Anyway, if you answered 4 to scenario one, 4 to scenario two, 2 to scenario three and scenario four made you feel sick, you now have no reason to watch any more new series of TV comedy. Why? Because you’ve already seen ‘em. Even the ones that haven’t been written …. sorry, modified yet.
Let’s go back to the sixties and imagine an alternative Monty Python ‘setlist’
- Dead Parrot Sketch
- Spam Sketch
- Lumberjack Song
- Ministry of Silly Walks
- Cheese Shop
- Climbing the two peaks of Kilimanjaro
- Dead Panamanian tree frog sketch
- Plumrose chopped ham with pork sketch
- Steeplejack Song
- Ministry of Speech Impediments
- Fruit Shop
- Climbing the four peaks of Mt Fuji
- Dead Staffordshire bull terrier sketch
- Corned Beef Sketch
- Civil Engineer Song
- Ministry of Arm Defects
- Grocers Shop
- Climbing the eight peaks of Ben Nevis
It wouldn’t happen – these guys had imagination. They wrote show after show of completely unique material. And they were all ‘something completely different’.
The TV companies don’t seem to want this any more. Nowadays they want to insult the viewers’ intelligence by pre-programming them so that they laugh ‘on cue’. The audience know the gags before they see the show and wait for the punch-line before laughing. That is what I call ‘safe humour’ in the extreme.
And am I bovvered ……………….. not arf! (sorry Fluff)
January 2019: The over-use of science terms
It would have been the mid to late 1970s when I heard it first. It may have happened before that- I just noticed it then. By the mid 1970s, my vocabulary had increased exponentially since the last time I mentioned it – and I could spell palaeontologist!
Most of the words that I had added to my vocabulary were scientific ones as I have become a scientist by this time – which is probably why I noticed it.
“What did you notice, Dai?” I hear you say.
I noticed that advertisers had started to use scientific words and terms in their spiel.
I suspect that this was because advertisers thought that introducing these terms into their ‘jingles’ added credibility to the products they were hawking. I guess it worked because adverts today are peppered with ‘scientific words’ that give the consumer very little information about the product, yet make it sound good.
Probably the most used at the time, and still in use is the word ‘aerobic’.
People did everything aerobically – they went to work aerobically, climbed the stairs aerobically, exercised aerobically. They even had classes where people danced around to music. This was called aerobics.
Aerobics classes were, basically, a disco in the day without booze and no scrap in the car park. And someone led the dancing. You didn’t get that in proper night-time discos.
At the moment I am actually writing this in an aerobic environment – I’m not Hercule Poirot but I am 100% certain that you are reading this in an aerobic environment as well. Unless you are currently residing in a vacuum.
The thing is you see, aerobic used to mean ‘in the presence of air’. Well, it still does. The only thing is it now means lots of other things as well.
I have never been in a vacuum so I can state categorically that everything I have done so far (and I’m 63) has been done aerobically. I guess you are the same.
One of my favourites is polyunsaturates. What a fantastic word! What a word to ‘chuck’ into advertising spiel – genius! Who knows what it means?
But, there it was, right in the middle of a margarine commercial. Suddenly everyone ‘knew’ that if something didn’t have polyunsaturates in it, it wasn’t worth eating and people spent hours scouring the small print on the packaging to weed out the products that didn’t have polyunsaturates in them.
“I only have stuff these days that have so many polyunsaturates in that you need to be Tyson Fury to push lid on.”
Personally I prefer monosaturates, but I’m a bit funny like that. And these ‘free radicals’ that everyone talks about – I’ve always had to pay for mine!
So the scientific boom took off and advertisers clambered over themselves in order to find a more complicated sounding word. And then suddenly ... they found it ...
Monosodium Glutamate – Wow! What a corker! Where can I get some from?
Shoppers now had a new word to discuss at checkouts. If you were really lucky you could find ‘stuff’ that was packed with polyunsaturates and had monosodium glutamate in it as well. Once you had identified products containing both, you rang all your friends and you bought only those until the next word came along.
And, these words came along – too many to mention here. That’s because I have to concentrate on the best, most profitable scientific term to be exploited to date.
I doubt whether they’ll ever beat organic as a misleading licence to print money.
Everything you can eat is organic. If it wasn’t, you couldn’t eat it.
There are things that are organic that you can’t eat, but you can’t eat anything that isn’t. At least, I can’t think of any at the moment.
The word organic simply means that suppliers can stick an extra fiver a pound onto something that they ‘claim’ is organic – even though the product is organic anyway!
“Can I have a pound of carrots please?”
“Certainly madam, would you like these organic ones?”
“No, I think I’ll try the stainless steel ones over there …..oh and I’ll have two pounds of granite tomatoes while I’m at it. Didn’t like the garnet mica-schist ones I had last week, they were a bit gritty.”
“Anything else madam.”
“Yes please anything that has polyunsaturates, monosodium glutamate and pro-V vitamins in it. Gotta be careful these days innit. Global warming see. Oh aye!”
Where will it end?
“Don’t miss Ed Sheeran’s new album. It’s marvellous. Lots of great songs, great flute, singing, harp and packed full of trioxydiphenolpolysynthacetyldistratalamine!”
And monosodium glutamate.
It’s organic ‘an all.
December 2018: Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly
'Tis the season to be jolly
Tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la- whoa!
No, no, no!
“Oh surely not Christmas, Dai?” I hear you say.
Christmas is a time of great ambivalence in the vicinity of ‘me’. Can’t really decide which way the needle on the swingometer would go on this one.
On the one hand, I get time off work. Which is good.
On the other hand, the rest of it is bad. Very bad.
I work ‘office hours’ which means that everything is closed when I leave to go to work, and closed when I come home. That means that if I want to go to the bank, the dentist, the post office, ring the tax office, renew my TV licence etc., I have to book a day off. Quite a lot of these things I can do on a Saturday, so Saturdays are written off trudging around all the places that I can’t visit through the week. Even then, there are things that I can only do on weekdays, so they don’t get done unless I use valuable annual leave days in order to do them.
So, when Christmas comes, I find I have weekdays off – marvellous. And then I find everywhere is closed …….. because it’s Christmas.
That’s not the worst thing about Christmas. There are lots of worse things about Christmas- the trouble is I can’t decide which of the worse things is the worst.
Perhaps it’s the relentless barrage of back-to-back ‘family films’ where American children save the world over and over again. Plot: their parents will be separated at the start of the film and they will have a little dog that goes missing after five minutes.
An hour and a half later, just after they've saved the world, their parents will fall in love again and as the ‘lovey-dovey’ strings come in to herald the start of the end titles, the dog suddenly appears from a manhole, safe and sound. “Aw, there’s lovely”.
Just time for a quick break dominated by Ker-Plunk, Mousetrap and My Little Pony ads, before another remarkably similar ‘American children save the world again’ film starts. These are interjected occasionally by British films such as The Great Escape and the Wizard of Oz – sorry that’s about an American child saving something. And there’s a dog in it.
So it’s just one British film then. But it’s always those two.
Perhaps it’s the Slade song. Everywhere you go it’s blasting through tannoys and piped into lifts and public toilets- it normally comes as a package with classics such as the Wizzard song, and the plethora of other Christmas ditties that are supposed to ‘get us in the mood’. Gets me in a mood!
Perhaps it’s the droves of frantic shoppers who swarm into Newport and Cardiff like herds of stampeding buffalo so that they can buy ……….. anything. And they’ll be yelling into mobile phones:
“Where are you now? I’m in Smiths, I’ve got the ‘X Station Play Box from Hell’ and the DVD and the 139 inch flat screen, the entire Simpsons episodes box set, the Wii, the Fender Stratocaster, the iPod and the MP3 player for Jamie. Shall I get Amy’s Wii here? They’ve got two left? Oh you’ve got one. Great. Did you get her laptop and the digi-cam? And the new mobile with the video and built-in DVD player, you know the one that cooks your tea for you when you get home? Good. I’ll just pop over the jewellers for their main presents, then all we have to do is get something for their stockings. Oh, and they haven’t got the Ed Sheeran CD, perhaps we can nip over to Bristol, they’re bound to have it over there. Yeah, see you back at the car.”
Or perhaps it’s the woman who can see that the shop she wants to enter is crammed solid to the front door with people. The aisles are full, people are queuing to get out, it’s worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta – and she is trying to force her way in, with a pushchair! She will probably have three squealing kids hanging off each arm as well. She will be ‘empathising’ with their obvious distress by saying something like;
“If you don’t shut up, you can stay at nannies tonight, and you won’t have no Christmas dinner neither!”
If I decided to walk into an empty shop with a wheelbarrow full of pigeon droppings, they’d probably ask me to leave. Why? I’d cause less fewer problems and wouldn’t smell as bad.
If there’s anyone out there who can explain the mentality of someone who does that, please get in touch. By that I mean ‘try to get into an already crowded shop with a pushchair’ – not a barrow full of pigeon droppings, although both actions throw serious doubts on the perpetrators’ sanity.
Maybe it’s the parties – I won’t dwell much on this topic as I have mentioned these before, but it’s ‘party time plus VAT’ at Christmas!
The first, and for many the last over the Christmas period, is the works ‘do’. This is where a whole conglomeration of people, who have nothing whatsoever in common apart from the fact that they work together, are thrown together for a ‘social event’. So you’ll have seasoned drinkers and people who rarely bother, guzzling beer together as if it’s going out of fashion.
The end result – the whole payroll are howling drunk, usually before the meal is served, and the garbled conversations throughout will be about work – because that’s the only thing they know about each other.
This is an ideal opportunity for drunken members of staff to tell their line managers what they really think of them, and for the ‘aggression gene’ to be triggered into action – owned those who think that they turn into Mike Tyson after three and a half pints of lager, and attack the first person who they think are ‘looking at them funny!’
It will also be an opportunity for the office lothario to use the office ‘do’ as a hunting ground to ‘add a few notches’ to his well hacked bedpost – usually on the photocopier. And of course, it’s easy to press the ‘start’ button to record the event for posterior. Sorry, posterity.
On the other hand, it might be the daft things people say – one of my favourites is:
“Oh we love Christmas morning, watching the kids opening their presents.”
Watching the kids opening their presents! What on earth does that mean?
Well I actually do know what it means, (my vocabulary has increased exponentially and as such I can now spell micropalaeontologist), I just can’t understand the fascination of it.
I haven’t got kids myself but I don’t think I could see how much of a big deal this is. Perhaps someone who has kids may like to invite me round to their house on a Christmas morning to watch their children opening their presents and maybe I can see if there’s anything in it. And what’s the protocol? – would I return the invitation by asking them to pop round my house to watch me opening my mail, or maybe observe me putting our shopping away when we come back from Morrisons?
According to most parents, kids have more fun out of the boxes that these presents came in that they ever did from their contents!
Or perhaps it’s the carol singers. These are really irritating. Nobody does it properly – they think they can arrive on your doorstep, sing three quarters of the first line of a well known carol and then you are obliged to shower them with money and platefuls of hot mince-pies covered in clotted cream.
They do it backwards these days, and that really annoys me – they knock the door and start singing when you answer it, and never a great rendition either:
“Good King Wencelas looked out
Dum de doo de da da” …………………………gradually fizzles out, accompanied by a ‘give us some money’ gesture.
Perhaps it’s the 14-17 year old hoodies who don’t even bother to learn the first line of the carols they ‘hum’ when you answer the door – they are too busy trying to hold themselves up whilst trying to get you to fund their next flagon of White Lightning or whatever is the most popular ‘yoof’ tipple of the day, nowadays.
Another really irritating thing about it all is the way that the media controls people. Christmas is a prime example.
Poor old Joe Public, apart from having to find the cash to pay for the mortgage, gas, electricity, car, water, TV, insurances, food and everything else his family use throughout the year, has two BIG things to set his sights on. Woes betide him if he fails on either of these, well, on any of the others as well, but these are the ones everyone notices, the main ones. They’re the summer holidays and Christmas.
So, he’s been saving hand over fist for (revisit paragraph recounting the person in Smith’s on the mobile), to ensure that he has ‘met his requirements’ for the occasion and earned his Christmas dinner. He’s done it. All the family are happy, he’s had his dinner – found a 10p in the pudding! The queen’s speech has finished …and ....the first advert after the Queen's speech is …….for Thomson holidays!
Poor old Joe gets about 18 seconds of respite before the media give him just a little nudge, as if to say:
“Well Christmas is gone now mate and if you haven’t got everything by now it’s too late. Put it behind you – hey, don’t forget your holidays, that’s the next thing you have to strive for. Christmas has been a success, now don’t let them down – make sure they have a goodun this summer!”
Yes, I think it would be fair to say that I’m not a huge fan of Christmas.
November 2018: Communication Problems
I’m very good at answering questions, as they are put. I can give someone an instant answer to their question, and my answer will be logical, well thought out and accurate. The trouble is, very often when I have responded, I am aware that I may be slightly ‘out of sync’ with the questioner - it becomes clear when these responses are met with frowns and furrowed brows.
I play guitar and I am right handed. I don’t like to use plectrums because they are awkward fiddly little things and I am forever dropping them. I find it difficult enough to play guitars as it is without concentrating on having to hold on to those blinkin’ things as well! The worst bit is when you drop them inside the sound-hole of a guitar. Try getting it out! And if you drop one into a Gibson 335 through one of the ‘f’ holes you can forget it. I have a rattley 335 that I’ve had since 1978 and it’ll still be rattling when it is featured on the Antiques Roadshow in the year 2089 – if the programme is still running, of course.
To overcome my plectorial issues I have long nails on my right hand (to pluck the strings) and short nails on my left (so that I can place my fingers in the fret-board). A very common ‘communication problem’ that I experience here is when people spot my hands and say:
“Why do you grow your nails on your right hand?”, as if they think I nurture them like someone who grows tomatoes.
I don’t ‘grow’ them, they grow automatically. I have no control over their growth whatsoever. The only thing I make a conscious decision about when it comes to nail length is: when it comes to cutting or biting them, I opt out. Apart from my left hand, that is. So, when I explain to my inquisitors that I am not ‘growing’ my nails, I am simply ‘not cutting’ them, they look at me as if I am from Mars and the topic of conversation, after a pregnant pause, swiftly moves onto something else.
Another common ‘communication problem that I experience is when the term; “See you next Friday”, crops up. It doesn’t have to be Friday, it could be Sunday, Wednesday or any other day, but I will use Friday for this example.
When I agree to meet someone next Friday, about 50% of the time one of us fails to turn up. For some reason, the term next Friday means different things to different people. I know what the word ‘next’ means. I am not sure that I am in the majority of the population’s understanding of the definition of ‘next’.
The last of many 'next' incidents was when I was speaking to my boss about a problem. It was a Monday afternoon. He said, “Come and see me at 11am next Friday and we’ll discuss it fully.”
At 11am on the dot on the following Friday I’m knocking on his door. I did not expect his greeting:
“Hi Dai, what can I do for you?”
“Er, we spoke on Monday and you said to pop to see you at 11am on Friday. Did you forget?”
“Oh, erm. Actually I was expecting you next Friday.”
“Well, because next Friday is next Friday.” (In a patronising tone).
“But when you said that to me on Monday, ‘next Friday’ is today in my book.”
“Well it’s the first Friday we’ve encountered since Monday, that’s what ‘next’ means. After Monday when you said it, this is the first Friday that’s come along. That’s why I’m here now, because it is the next Friday to arrive after your invitation.”
“Ah, I can see where the confusion is now. No, today is ‘this Friday’, when I said ‘next Friday’ I meant the Friday of next week, a week today, if you’d prefer.”
“So, if we were both on a bus stop and I asked you which bus I had to catch to take me to Cardiff and you told me to catch the ‘next bus’, would you expect me to ignore the next bus to arrive at the bus stop and catch the one after that?”
“You do have some concept of the meaning of ‘next’ then?”
“So what’s the difference between Fridays and buses then? You’re spot on with buses but all over the shop when it comes to Fridays.”
“Er … well, actually I’ve got some time now, shall we, erm, do it now instead of next Friday?”
“Well, seeing as it’s next Friday now, let’s do it now then.”
I have thought long and hard about this common misnomer which has caused me great distress and inconvenience over the years and analysed, fully, the ways in which Fridays can be used and identified, correctly, in the English language:
‘Today’ – Used if you are referring to that day and on that day it is a Friday when you are doing the referring .
‘Tomorrow’ – Used on a Thursday you are referring to the following day – which will be a Friday.
‘Yesterday’ – Used on a Saturday when referring to things that happened on the previous day.
‘Last Friday’ – Used to refer to the previous Friday that occurred prior to the day that you are referring to it.
‘Next Friday’ – Used to refer to the next Friday that is due to arrive after the day that you are actually doing the referring.
And that’s it.
NB: No mention of ‘this Friday’ at all. ‘This Friday’ doesn’t exist. It is a red herring that people chuck into conversations to deliberately disrupt my social calendar. There is no ‘this Friday’. And that’s my final word on the matter.
Another ‘communication problem.’ I remember mentioning to a friend that I had been given a pirate copy of the latest Hollywood blockbuster movie that was still in the cinema and hadn’t been released on DVD yet. He asked me if it was a good copy.
When I replied; “Dunno, I haven’t seen the original”, he looked at me as if I’d grown another head! He seemed to think that I could give him a judgement on the quality of the copy without having seen the original. I didn’t. Apparently his query was all about whether the copy was watchable or not, my answer was to the question as it was put - about whether the ‘copy’ was an accurate representation of the original. Isn’t that what a copy is?
To illustrate, I was given a copy of a DVD of a concert that was shot from the audience on someone’s mobile phone – it was absolutely awful! A friend asked me if I could copy it for him, and I did. This ‘copy’ was equally as unwatchable as the original but it was an excellent copy. That’s what the word copy means, innit?
Here are some more:
When asked to check by my partner ‘how many potatoes’ we had, I was met with a severely furrowed brow, when I replied: “Seventeen”.
I made the mistake of thinking that any question that started with the words:
“How many ……?”, must contain a number in the answer.
According to my partner, what she wanted to know was ‘if we had enough’.
Enough for what? The rest of our lives? The street? ………….apparently it was if we had enough for dinner. Well the answer to that is, if we are going to eat anything under or up to seventeen we’re OK, anything over that and we’ve had it.
And to answer the question that everybody asks- how did I know there were seventeen in the ‘spud tray’- I counted them. This is why I was able to give such a precise answer to a very flimsy question.
One of my favourites was the day my partner decided to involve me in the pre-shopping ritual of preparing a shopping list. The conversation went like this:
“Dai, make a list of the things we want.”
“I don’t know what we want.”
“Then look in the cupboard and see what we haven’t got.”
“Looking in the cupboard is going to tell me nothing."
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I look in the cupboard the only information I can glean from that is what we have got – what we haven’t got won’t be in there!”
Another one that tripped me up surrounded the wrong usage of the word ‘get’. This anecdote is authentic and is reported here as it happened, but, I must be honest when it happens now I just act thick and do something similar because it is a very new and annoying misnomer that is creeping into the language.
A friend called round. I said: “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Yeah, thanks. Can I get a coffee, white no sugar?”
I put the kettle on, made myself a cup of tea and came back into the room, sat down and started chatting to him. He must’ve changed his mind because he didn’t go into the kitchen and get a coffee, white with no sugar – he just sat and chatted to me with a furrowed brow.
Another area that causes communication problems for me is trying to converse with people who use a method of responding to questions that I call, “The answer any question apart from the one that has been asked technique and leave Dai to try to guess the information he requires.” (I have never guessed right).
Some examples below. In all examples, I am the questioner.
“Nice guitar. Where did you get it from?”
“Oh, I’ve had it for ages.”
“Are you enjoying this film?”
“I’ve seen it before”
“How long are you going to be?”
“I’m just putting my boots on.”
“How far is it from here to Newport?”
“About half an hour.”
(Since when has distance been measured in hours? And time taken to reach a destination surely depends on which way you go and how fast you drive, doesn’t it?)
“When was the last time you saw Derek?”
“Oh, I haven’t been out for ages, mate.”
“How long have you been a veggie?”
“Ever since we came back from Tenerife.”
To recap, I’d like to revisit that marvellous phrase from the text and marvel in it one more time. I am referring to a phrase that Shakespeare at his best could not match. Of course, I’m thinking about:
“Then look in the cupboard and see what we haven’t got.”
Just savour that for a few moments.
And, I’m writing this on a Thursday night. If at any time today, any of you asked me to give you a ring next Friday, then expect a call from me tomorrow.
October 2018: I Hate A Good Party
I love a good party ……… sorry, I’ll start again. I hate a good party. I also hate bad parties, mediocre parties and anything else in between. The word ‘party’ makes me shudder, especially if preceded with the term, ‘Will you come to my?’
Apart from driving cars, parties cause me more stress than anything else. “But you are supposed to enjoy parties!” I hear you say. Well, I guess people do enjoy themselves at parties, but it’s not compulsory. I think people ‘enjoy’ themselves at parties because they think it is compulsory.
They go into ‘enjoyment mode’ as soon as they arrive at the venue – ‘enforced glee’ if you like. “Yippee, here we are! So nice to see you! Let’s start enjoying ourselves!”. And they don a paper hat and bounce off into the ‘crowd’ making strange whooping sounds whilst firing party poppers at anything that moves.
I can’t seem to be able to start ‘enjoying’ myself to order – unlike most. “Right lads, enjoying yourselves, on the count of three. One ….. two …… wait for it …. wait for it, …..too soon Atkins, get to the back of the queue. Three!! Begin……. now!!”
I have spent hours staring aghast at groups of people doing the ‘Birdie Song’, ‘Agadoo’ and that one where they all sit on the floor rowing to the Hawaii 5-0 tune. Fascinating!
And then suddenly one of them will spot me and come over. “Don’t sit there on your own Dai, come over here with us and enjoy yourself.”
The sheer arrogance of it. The whole concept that I would enjoy myself if I ‘came over there with them’ is absurd. “This is a party Dai, you need to enjoy yourself. The trouble with you is you don’t know how to enjoy yourself and we’re the people to show you how.”
I’m 63 now and I’ve enjoyed myself thousands of times. The trouble is, none of those times have been at a party.
I don’t like the people who force themselves onto me in order to ‘aide’ my enjoyment. They try to drag me physically onto the dance-floor when it’s obvious I don’t want to. I object to that.
I also object to the fact that when they are trying to do it, they are so drunk that their eyeballs look as if they’re about to change places with each other at any moment whilst they’re blowing those hooter things, you know – they look like a Swiss-roll that uncurls when you blow into it. Usually has feather on the end.
Now, let’s get on to weddings. Obviously a big day for those getting wed, but for me it’s an utter nightmare.
A typical wedding itinerary is:
- Arrive at the church, hang about and exchange pleasantries with other people who are also hanging about.
- Go inside the church and hang about until the bride arrives (late by tradition)
- Participate in the service (half an hour of real activity, although contains 10 minutes of hanging about while they sign the book)
- Go outside the church and hang about while photos are taken and aunties kiss the couple.
- Go to the reception venue and hang about until the bride and groom arrive.
- Hang around inside the venue with the bride and groom, until dinner is ready.
- Participate in the reception (this is the second real activity of the day – but is interjected with several periods of hanging about, between courses, speeches etc)
- Largest period of hanging about yet – clearing away the dinner stuff and setting up the disco.
- The Party! Agadoo, Birdie Song, Hawaii 5-0 thing et al. Stopped half way through for the buffet.
- Disco continues after buffet. Scrap starts. Scrap normally heralds the end of the festivities.
A lot of hanging about. I don’t like hanging about either.
I like looking at the factions at the wedding reception. You have;
- The bride’s family - top tablers
- The groom’s family - top tablers
- The bride’s friends - all on one table
- The groom’s friends - all on one table
- The people who the bride works with - all on one table
- The people who the groom works with - all on one table
- The ‘others’ - all on one table
The others? There always seems to be a group of people at weddings that don’t fall into any of the categories 1-6 in the list above. These are the ‘nobody knows who the hell they are’ faction. They are at every wedding and don’t get involved with any of the others. In reality, the occupants of the other tables don’t mix either. They conduct their own festivities within the confines of their own table. They’re like satellites orbiting the ‘top table’. The merging of the tables’ occupants only comes when the disco starts and they venture onto the floor to jiggle around to whatever drivel the DJ decides to bombard his audience with.
All participants in this exercise must be made aware of a major Health & Safety hazard here – the children, formerly employed as page boys and bridesmaids, will be holding hands running around uncontrollably and weaving themselves around all obstacles – furniture and people alike, in some sort of ‘time’ with the music, like a great big snake, only more deadly than any encountered by the likes of Irwin and Attenborough.
It is the period after the buffet when the disco gets going for the second time that ‘bonding’ of the factions takes place with earnest. This is more generally known as ‘the scrap’ and these, previously autonomous groups merge into one and really ‘get close’ to each other. By this time, of course, the feral children will have discarded their shoes and are now sliding around the floor independently of each other. They will have realised that you can slide farther if you are not connected as a snake and will pursue their newly found skill until they are either stopped by a parent or collide with an object, such as an item of furniture or another human being.
Anyway, enough of that.
On the whole, I am always likely to decline an invitation to a party because I dislike them so much. The trouble is, when you decline an invitation there follows an inquest as to why you won’t go. I think that if people are kind enough to invite me, they should then be gracious enough to accept my ‘thanks but no thanks’ response.
So, although I am not obliged to explain my reason why, it’s never good enough.
For some reason the term “I don’t like parties.” becomes either misunderstood or misconstrued to mean something else.
Misunderstood? – perhaps by the time the term leaves my mouth and before it reaches the ears of the person I’m speaking to, it has mysteriously been translated into Latin or Klingon or something, because it is normally countered with;
“What do you mean, you don’t like parties?”
Misconstrued? – He didn’t mean that, there’s obviously some sinister reason why he won’t go and he doesn’t like to say. Perhaps he doesn’t like me!
It seems that it is acceptable to refuse some requests but unacceptable for others:
It is OK no answer ‘no’ to some of these questions. Which are they?
“Would you like to come to my house and hang from the ceiling by your toenails?”
“Could you look after my cobra while I pop down the Spar for some cornflour?”
“Can I take a few snaps of your missus in the nude to show the lads in work?”
“Do you want to come to my party?”
The first three.
D’ya know what I mean?
September 2018: Buzzwords and Youth Language- A Grumpy Old Valleys Man Rebels
Whatever happened to the language that I learned as a kid? I sat exams in those days and one of the ones I passed was a thing called an O Level which confirmed that I had learned English to a level that when I used it I could understand and be understood by those who used it alongside me.
All went well until I got a job doing admin in an office. I was introduced to the boss on my first morning, who said: “So, you must be David. Welcome aboard.”
I thought, “Welcome aboard? I wasn’t aware that I’d just joined the Navy!”
Since then I’ve taken part in ‘thought showers’ where everyone ‘touched base’ to ‘make sure we were all singing from the same hymn-sheet’ before shinning up the proverbial ‘greasy pole’. You know, ‘making sure we had all our ducks in a row’.
I thought I’d better become fluent in this language ‘PDQ’ to be honest; didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the ‘fat man in the canoe’ did I? This involved two strategies, ‘blue sky thinking’ and the sort that is done ‘outside the box’. If I was going to get ‘up to speed’ – it was a ‘big ask’ I know, but I was ‘on the case 24/7’.
Anyway, after I had ‘drilled down’ all the inappropriate standard terms, I was ‘going forward’ in my quest to avoid being the ‘Dilbert’ in the company. It nearly went ‘pear shaped’ a few times but I managed to ‘ramp up’ at the ‘eleventh hour’ It was a ‘low hanging fruit’ scenario and I thought it was time to ‘run it up the flagpole to see who saluted’.
Even though I had always been taught to avoid clichés like the plague, I had quite a ‘bumpy ride’ and when all said and done I ‘upscaled’ by listening to other speakers and I managed to ‘wash the face’ of my problem – it was a sort of ‘quid pro quo’ strategy that ‘put it to bed’ adequately.
When I thought I had the ‘bandwidth’ I decided to ‘run it by’ the ‘man in the chair’ by arranging some ‘face time’ – luckily enough he had a ‘window’ and he was able to see me. He’s a bit of a ‘crackberry’ but I decided to give it ‘my best shot’ – If my ‘arse was on the line, I didn’t want any cock-ups’.
Fortunately the ‘one-to-one’ was a success and I was able to converse with my colleagues in such a way that I was understood and my language didn’t become a ‘negative value driver’ to them. In the end, I became ‘head honcho’ of the ‘whole shebang’ and ‘wore the crown’ until the owners decided to ‘draw a line under it’ and the ‘whole caboodle’ went ‘down the pan’ as a result of ‘corporate downsizing’.
Working with young people introduced me to a whole new language which, after three decades in that environment, I am still not completely au fait with the things that my learners say to me.
Apparently, Greggs’ sausage rolls are ‘peng’ when they’re hot but ‘sick' when cold. You can imagine how upset I was when someone told me that my Gibson Les Paul was ‘sick’ but apparently, in that context, ‘sick’ becomes the highest compliment you can give. Strange.
One thing that annoys me a bit is a common response, made to any comment that the recipient is not happy with – it is the dismissive and throwaway: ‘whatever!’ “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but we’re going to have to amputate your legs.” “Whatever!”
This comment normally follows the adoption of a particular pose – arm outstretched, other hand on hip, a tapping of a foot and eyes raised to the heavens.
Another one is the equally annoying, what I call the, ‘gap after like’ method of conversing.
“And he walked in, right, and I was like ……………………… (long gap accompanied by a facial gesture supposed to convey what the person was ‘like’)
“And he was like ………………. (another gap, same as above)
“And the atmosphere, it was like ………… (ditto)
“I said to him, I said ‘great to see you again’ ……………. (long pause) ……….. Not!”
“And he was like ………………….. (etc).
This method of communication is split between verbal phrases coupled with visual facial gestures in order to convey the message as it is intended. So, you have to listen to the dialogue and observe the gestures to get the meaning of the message because half of it is unspoken. It must be said though, I have witnessed someone adopting this method whilst on the telephone!
The ‘like’ usage is now slowly taking over the language – it is now unusual to hear a sentence that is not peppered with this word.
“I was, like, really disappointed.”
“My dog is, like, really naughty.”
“Your new watch is like, cool.”
Someone told me last week: “My dad said he was going to get me a car for my birthday and he got me, like, a Corsa?”
Why didn’t he tell me what his dad had actually got for him? He got a car that was ‘like a Corsa’. I’ve been trying to think of cars that are like Corsas. Why not just say what you got rather than try to describe what you got was ‘like’?
And then, of course, everything that is said displays the Australian Question Intonation, which is Latin for the rising intonation towards the end of sentences so that every sentence sounds like a question. Grrrrr.
‘Going forward’. Everyone is going forward these days – so much so that it is now commonplace for ‘going forward’ to be tagged on to the end of almost every sentence because ………………… er ……. I don’t know. Can someone, like, let me know?
I once had a boss that used to hold monthly meetings to go over what we’d achieved during the month and what was expected of us in the upcoming month. He used the term so much that no-one actually listened to what he was saying – everybody’s attention was geared towards counting up the number of times he said ‘going forward’ to compare their totals with the other people who were in the same meeting.
In more recent years I notice that a lot of people keep telling me they’ll see me later. It’s a popular parting greeting, but they never do.
I was getting into the car the other night after work and someone who I didn’t really know but saw occasionally in the lift or in a corridor was getting into his car which was parked next to mine. I winked at him and he smiled and said, “See you later,” before getting into his car and driving off. I wondered if he was going to pop round the house that evening. He didn’t. I stayed in though in case he did.
I don’t know whether people think I’m a bit thick. I’m beginning to think they do. I don’t know why, but nowadays people seem to want to confirm that I’ve understood what they’ve just said by tagging on a “D’ya know what I mean?” to the end of every sentence.
“I don’t want another drink, I’ve got work in the morning, d’ya know what I mean?”
“They’re a good band, but I wouldn’t go to see them live, d’ya know what I mean?”
When I reply: “No I didn’t understand a word of that mate, can you say it again, only in not such complicated terms”, people look at me as if I’m from Mars!
Now if someone said: “The obliquity of the ecliptic is not a fixed quantity but changing over time” in mixed company, I think that a “D’ya know what I mean?” would be an appropriate tag on. This is a complicated term.
But there’s nothing intrinsically difficult about: “I watch Emmerdale, but I prefer Coronation Street, d’ya know what I mean?”
I know what this means, my vocabulary is such that I can grasp statements like that.
I can spell palaeontologist. Going forward.
August 2018: 70s Prog Rock in Wales
As I was saying, my classical upbringing meant that the pop tunes of the 60s didn’t really mean much to me. Neither did those of the 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties for that matter- I’d go as far as to say that I went out of my way to avoid listening to it.
Sometimes you couldn’t avoid listening to the pop that was current for the day. In the 70s and early 80s, when I frequented discos, you would be bombarded with whatever was in the charts at the time, so I was present when quite a lot of this was being played. Occasionally I’d hear something that was interesting and it would spur me into asking someone ‘in the know’ what the record was. That happened lots of times but, at the time of writing I can’t recall any bands from that time that warranted a mention. The interest must have surely been short lived.
The Beatles and the Stones were the two ‘big boys’ at that time. I didn’t particularly like either, but if someone held a gun to my head and asked me to choose I’d have gone for the Stones. I would listen to the Beach Boys out of choice though; my favourite single of all time is “Good Vibrations- fantastic! The variations, tempo changes, the theramin, the way it was constructed – a masterpiece!
Even so, I was pretty much disinterested with the music of the swingin’ sixties, I was mainly still in classical mode …until …
My first real interest in the non-classical music (known as underground) at the time was when I heard a band called The Nice. They played music for music’s sake and not as a matrix to house the pointless self-indulgent lyrics like:
“Oh my baby’s left me ooooh ooooh oooh
What I am I gonna doooh ooooh ooooh
I love you so much I can’t poooh ooooh ooooh
Ooooh ooooh ooooh ooooh ooooh!”
Yes, it’s number one – it’s Top of the Pops, as it ‘appens guys and gals eurghh eurghh eurghh now then, now then. It’s “I love you so much I can’t pooh” how’s about that then? Goodness gracious!
From there I quite easily made the transition to people like Egg, King Crimson, Van der Graaf Generator, ELP, Refugee, Genesis et al. I’m still listening to ‘prog rock’ as its known these days- full of big chords, crashing symbols, swirling synths, mellotrons ….. aahh bliss!
I’d go as far as to say that if someone brought out a CD and the only lyrics were ‘That Dai Jandrell is nothing but a great big fat slob’, as long as there was plenty of guitar and synthesiser in it and it lasted for about 40 minutes, I’d probably like it. In fact, thinking about it, I might even do it myself one day unless someone like Pendragon, Spock’s Beard or Porcupine Tree beat me to it.
Of course, you had to go to watch your heroes, and when they toured you all dashed off to the Cardiff Capitol or Bristol Colston Hall to revel in the overindulgences of the likes of Pink Floyd, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Genesis, YES, etc. We all had our mullets on show, scruffy Wranglers and starry multi-coloured T-shirts on to identify with the ‘prog-rock audience’ personas.
At the end of the show, we’d proudly wear the latest ‘tour T-shirt’ over the starry T-shirt to go home in. The starry T-shirt was just for ‘going’ in. The tour T-shirt was for ‘coming home’ in. This would also mean that at the next Emerson, Lake and Palmer show you would ‘go’ in the last Pink Floyd T-shirt so that all the audience would know you’d been to the last Floyd tour!
It’s fair to say that prog audiences were exclusively male – and they stared at their shoes throughout the shows in a way to convey to the others just how ’far out’ the music was. Girlfriends generally didn’t like prog shows because, as one said to me: “They played for two and a half hours and only did four songs!” I saw Tangerine Dream back in the seventies at Cardiff Uni and they started at midnight and were still playing at 5am when I left – and they hadn’t stopped!
Nowadays, the prog audiences are still the same, and the same people. I rarely go to a show these days where I don’t know the whole audience. We still wear our ‘Pink Floyd winter tour 74’ T-shirts to let everyone else know that we were there. These T-shirts are now contoured to accommodate our beer guts and man-boobs. For osteo-arthritic reasons, we tend to not stare at our shoes anymore.
They call these veteran progging bands and their audiences dinosaurs these days. Luckily enough, I am, and can now spell, palaeontologist.
The overall view that the artistes must get from the stage is that they are being watched by a ‘convention of retired Captain Birdseye actors’ on a reunion jolly. This is probably why my students call me Merlin, Gandalf and Dumbledore and why I always seem to get the handing out presents and leading the festivities gig at our end of term Christmas dos.
The one drawback of dragging one’s girlfriend to prog show is that you have to repay the debt by going to see non-prog acts when their preferred bands tour. This means that, over the decades, I have had to sit through the likes of Queen, Paul McCartney, Rod Stewart, Chris Rea, Mungo Jerry, Michael Jackson etc. In my defence, I may add that I drew the line at UB40. When there is a line to be drawn, that line is well in front of UB40, and I stand firm on that.
July 2018: Music
I suppose it all started when I was about three – or when I was able to press downwards with enough pressure to depress the ivories on our piano keyboard, I’m not sure which came first. My grandmother was a piano teacher, and we had a piano; I guess it was inevitable.
I got to something like Grade 4 and the age of eleven before I managed to convince my parents that I hated playing the piano more than any of the words in my vocabulary could describe. I didn’t have that many words at the time, I mean, in those days I couldn’t even spell palaeontologist – and now I are one!
My attention had been grabbed by these things called guitars. I guess this would have been circa 1963 when I noticed these come to the front of the stage. Prior to that, I was aware of their existence – you saw them usually in the front row ‘stalls’ of ‘big bands’. They were always the very large cumbersome looking Gretch’s or Gibsons, you know, the ones with the ‘f’ holes in them.
Suddenly, on TV, you began to see three blokes standing there as bold as brass, strumming these things and singing with a drummer behind them. I believe in those days they were known as ‘popular beat combos’ and they were always in black and white.
They sang three minute ‘pop’ songs and I was never really into it much at that time. Whilst I was intrigued by my newly found instrument, I was still influenced by my classical training and my favourites in those days were the heavy Russians: Mussorgsky, Prokofiev, Mahler and Bartok – even though Mahler and Bartok were neither Russian nor heavy at that time. They still aren’t.
I never really liked the twee, pointless little ditties they sang. It was always about somebody’s baby had left them and other crises which I couldn’t really care about, no matter how much I tried. I was interested in the music though – they way it way constructed and what each person was doing in order to produce the music.
I found lyrics a barrier to my quest to analyse what was going on and tried frantically to ‘blot’ out the singing in order to listen to the music. My opinion in those days, and these days, is that singing actually ruins a good song.
My parents had a similar problem with lyrics – they hated them as well, but for a different reason. They used to say: “Blinkin’ racket! All that screaming and shouting. That’s not singing! You can’t understand a word they’re singing!”
The thing that confused me about that was the fact that my parents blasted Gregorian chants and opera out of our radiogram during this period of my life – and they couldn’t understand a word of that either!
Anyway, getting back to guitars. I decided I wanted to play a guitar and that was it. My parents told me that I should carry on with the piano because; “If you can play the piano, you can play any instrument.” That is a very popular little saying – I've heard it loads of time. Doesn’t make any sense though. But when your parents tell you things, you believe them don’t you?
I often wondered what would happen if you gave Rick Wakeman a trombone and said: “Go on son, give us a rendition of ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’ on that!”
So, I carried on with the piano. And then, and I guess I would have been about twelve by this time, I acquired my first guitar. I can’t remember where I got it from, but it was my first, and I loved it more than all the words in my vocabulary, at the time, could describe. My vocabulary was about the same as the last time I mentioned it, and I still couldn’t spell palaeontologist!
Whilst there was a plethora of piano teachers around at that time – teachers of other instruments were scarce – in fact there weren’t any. There was a paper and comb player who did impromptu sessions in Cwmcarn Club on Saturday nights, but these performances were booze related and he didn’t actively ‘teach’ people how to do it.
There was also a spoons player in the vicinity ………….er …………..that was it.
So, I had to teach myself.
I based my ‘learning plan’ on something I’d noticed when playing the piano. If you could find the first note, all you had to do was identify whether the next one was higher – in which case you’d move right on the keyboard, and if the note was lower, you’d go to the left. That was the essence of music for me – I mean if music didn’t do that, music would just be one note.
And this is the way I learned to play the guitar, by listening and moving up or down the fret-board according the individual notes that made up whatever tune I was trying to play.
And now, 53 years on I just seem to know where I have to put my fingers to enable me to produce the things I want to. People have asked me to teach them how to do it, but I can’t – not unless they have 50 years to spare.
So I guess I can play the guitar – to a fashion. The problems start when I start playing with other people. Well, initially things go very well. People say things like;
“That was good Dai, can you play that again?”
That’s my biggest nightmare, because generally I can’t! I can play something similar at a push, but the same? No chance. I’ve left bands because of this.
One band I played with gave me a tape which contained their favourite versions of the songs we did and asked me to learn the guitar solos because they wanted them played like they were on the tape every time we did them. I listened to the tape and we had a conversation. It went like this.
“Have you listened to the tape Dai?”
“What do you reckon?”
“I can’t play that!”
“What do you mean you can’t play that – it’s you playing it!”
“I know that, but I can’t play that note for note as I played it before.”
“But we want you to.”
“Well I’m not going to sit down and work out each solo as I originally played them, I’ll just do them off the cuff as I usually do.”
“But we want them to be them same every time we play.”
“Well if you want that, when we have a gig, why don’t we just send the tape to the venue and we can go to the pictures instead?”
I don’t think that’s what music is all about – what about you?
June 2018: Cold Caller
Phone rings; I pick it up.
“Is that David Jandrell?”
“Ah, hello David. I’m Nigel and I’m phoning from PCS. You used to have cover with us.”
“Can I inform you that conversations are recorded for training purposes? I was wondering if I can tell you about our new offers.”
“It’s just, we have some fantastic new …………..”
“Look, as you said, I ‘used’ to have cover with you. If I wanted to continue I’d still be with you.”
“Well, you may be interested in a new package. Can I have your date of birth?”
“What do you want that for?”
“To confirm that it is you I’m talking to.”
“Er …. you rang me! Who the Hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Your opening line was, ‘Is that David Jandrell’, yes?”
“And I said, ‘yes’, did I not?”
“So I’ll ask the question again, who the Hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Er ……. I have to ask ….er …….. for security purposes.”
“So, when you said ‘is that David Jandrell’, did I say ‘no’?
“Er…. no, you said ‘yes’.
“See, if I hadn’t been me when you asked me if I was David Jandrell, I’d have said ‘no’ wouldn’t I?”
“I suppose so.”
“So, who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Well, for security reasons ………………..”
“You rang me!”
“You see, if I rang my bank or the HMRC or someone like that, I would have to prove to them that I was who I was claiming to be in case I was involved in some sort of scam. I can understand why that is necessary, you know, that’s if I ring someone.”
“Good, now we’re seeing eye to eye. This is the same thing.”
“No it isn’t. You rang me out of the blue and less than 30 seconds into our conversation you are asking me for personal details.”
“Well I can’t continue until you give them to me.”
“Yes. I don’t want to continue talking to you.”
“But ….. er ………”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. Seeing as you rang me, I’ll give you my date of birth if you confirm to me who you are first.”
“How do I know that you are who you are claiming to be?”
“Er ….. because I told you?”
“Well anyone can do that!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well if I rang your bank and said, ‘Hello, I’m Nigel from PCS’ and they asked me to confirm your identity by giving your date of birth and asking me some security question and my response was, ‘I told you who I was’, are they going to give me full access to your account?”
“Er …. no.”
“Right. So I cannot continue with this conversation until you have convinced me that you are who you say you are.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“Well it’s going to be difficult I know but I’m really looking forward to listening to hear you try.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well there's no point in giving me your date of birth because I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what your first pet’s name was or what your mother’s maiden name was, so, you’re going to have to come up with something else. Treat it as a test of initiative.”
“Well ……. er…..”
“You can’t can you?”
“Are you going to end this call or shall I continue to deliberately run your phone bill up?”
“I’ll end it.”
I’d love to be in their training session when they play the recording of that back to the trainees...