Dancing to a Different Beat

I like to think I have a good sense of humour and that I can see the joke and laugh along with the best of them. Even after a few dried frog pills, my sense of humour remains intact and I can guffaw with the crowd. Occasionally, I find myself ploughing my own lone furrow when it comes to comedy. Sometimes I find the joke just too sad and tragic to join in.

A classic example is one of the running jokes in Dad’s Army. Whenever the platoon were called to attention, you get the crunch of the assembled Home Guard’s boots hitting the church hall floor in unison, followed, exactly half beat later, by the boots of Corporal Jack Jones. This got a laugh every time – except from me.

I always felt that the audience were laughing at the afflicted and that the humour was cruel and heartless. This isn’t because I have a particularly strong Political Correctness streak or that I never laugh at cruel and heartless jokes. It is because I felt for Corporal Jones and in a small way even envied him. Here was a guy that was always exactly half a beat late on the song score of life.

You see, my defoliated yeomen, I would kill to be exactly on a beat, be it half a beat late or not. I cannot carry a beat in a bucket, which makes me a hazard when it comes to dancing.

At junior school, when the playing fields were deemed unfit for outside games, the teachers decided that we would do Scottish Country Dancing. Out would come the school gramophone, on would go some Scottish music and the entire class would form up into sets and dance with grace, beauty and above all, timing - the entire class that is except for me. I would be blundering around to my own, totally random beat. I may not have had timing, but I tried to make up for it with enthusiasm. That, my syncopated yeomen, was a big mistake.

It didn’t take long for the sympathetic teachers to bandage up my classmates broken feet, retrieve lost teeth and stem the bleeding from numerous noses. Very sympathetically, they took me to one side and told me that I was ‘special’. That dancing was not for me. I was destined for higher things I should look after the record player, carve my name with a compass on the school piano – ANYTHING except try to dance. And so it began

In my youth, when disco was in full swing, I was banned from clubs from Minehead to Newbury. From Bournemouth to Oxford, bouncers were told on no account was I to be granted access to the dance floor.

I soon learned that if I wished to impress a young lady, I never asked them to dance. When I forgot myself and tried to strut my stuff the date usually ended up at the local casualty department with me applying a bag of frozen peas to some part of my soon to be ex-girlfriends anatomy while waiting for the X-ray machine to come free.

My wife is wise to my shortcomings in the gyratory arts. She knows not to drag me onto the dance floor until late in the night when I have consumed enough alcohol to temper my shortcomings. I must be the only person in the country whose dancing improves after copious amounts of the falling down juice. Even with alcohol dampening my natural instincts, when we take to the floor I am under strict instructions not to lift my feet more than half an inch from the floor and to keep my elbows welded to my sides at all times.

Of course, my wife has been known to abuse this knowledge to her own advantage. Some years ago, at some charity fundraiser, I was approached by a lady who I will call ‘A’ to avoid her any embarrassment. My wife and ‘A’ didn’t get on. Some weeks previously, ‘A’ had beaten my wife in the Mother’s Egg and Spoon race at the school sports day amid some claims cheating and the inappropriate use of Blu-Tac.

‘A’ asked me to dance. I politely declined.

“It’s OK, Simon.” My wife oozed. “Why don’t you and ‘A’ enjoy a quick Jive?”

“What?” I spluttered as visions of the headline ‘Bloodbath at charity event’ in the News of the World flashed before me eyes.

“Yes, dance with ‘A’!” My wife commanded with a set jaw and gritted teeth.

The steely determination in her eyes made me realise that I was stuck between a rock and several nights on the sofa. As I took the arm of ‘A’ and led her to the dance floor, I watched my wife leading those present who were dear to her to the safety of the bar.

It turned out that ‘A’ and her fellow dancers were lucky. Casualties were surprisingly light, probably due to the wine flowing freely during dinner and ‘A’ still being in good physical shape due to her training regime employed for the blue ribbon Egg and Spoon race.

As ‘A’ was loaded into the ambulance and the paramedics treated those who had failed to escape the floor in time, my wife looked on with a look of triumph and I vowed never to let her use me as an offensive weapon again.

At the weekend, I went to visit the location for my talk at Oundle Festival of Literature on the joy of blogs (See Note 1). During the post-reconnoitre pleasantries, Paula brought up the topic of salsa.

As Paula is a long standing resident of the town and the night of the fundraiser is still a subject of local gossip, I naturally took her to mean the spicy tomato dish and my thoughts started to wander to tortilla chips and chocolate chili.

Yet, she wasn’t. Despite everything, Paula was hoping that I would attend the Grevel Lindop event at the festival (See Note 2). Visions of my past misadventures flashed before my eyes. I imagined the headlines, remembered my restraining order and declined the invitation.

The poor woman must have thought me mad. I probably went a very strange colour and made my excuses and left. Forgive me Paula, I’m sorry that I rushed off like that. I hope that this blog entry goes a small way to make recompense for knocking the door off the hinges as I ran off.

Note 1 : For those of you who have somehow missed this earth shuddering event, it is on March 7^th in the Sir Peter Scott Building, Oundle School at 1:00pm. I promise I will not be dancing.

Note 2 : Grevel Lindop will be at the Festival on Friday 13 March, 7.30pm - 11.00pm at the 2 Acre Club in Oundle. Included in the event is a Salsa dancing lesson so bring along the partner of your choice and loosen those limbs.

Saving you from the hernia

Coming downstairs this morning, my immediate thought was, 'I wonder if I can play the organ today?' This is an oft reoccurring thought I have and occasionally get the chance to ask a sympathetic cleric. You will be amazed at the understanding and patience of these people. When I ask them if I can have the opportunity to have a blow through their pipes, they allow me into their parish church, lock the door and fire up the bellows.

I have to report that so far, on every occasion that I have had the opportunity to validate the question, the answer has been a resounding 'No'.

Still, by asking questions of myself like this and by following through on them, I hope I am showing myself as a proper role model for my children. As they approach the point where (I hope) they are about to cut loose and make their own way in the world without further financial help, I'm sure that they have picked up the little life lesson, never give up on your dreams.

I'm quite proud of my two children (See Note 1). They have taken a number of my little life lessons to heart. In particular ~

"Never run when you can jog. Never jog when you can walk. Never walk when you can stand. Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie."

Both my children have reached Olympic standard at this and it wasn't for the fact that actually entering the Olympics require them walking to the postbox at the end of the street to post the entry form, both would be a certainty for 2012.

So it was that neither was forced into work involving hard manual labour. Work that involves hours in the elements, suffering the very worst the British weather can throw at you. Work that requires you to strap heavy loads to your back and drag them for miles through dark and foreboding streets. Work that requires you to confront viscous dogs. Work that requires you to take evasive action from rabid joggers. Yes, my perfunctified yeomen, I am talking about a paper round. (See Note 2)

On Sundays, the lot of the poor paperboy / papergirl / paperperson is all the worse as the various papers slip in additional supplements to try and lure in a few extra readers and to wring out a little extra value from the poor wretch forced to deliver them to our homes.

The arrival of the Internet means that this shameful situation could soon be a thing of the past. Society could well come to see us forcing children to deliver papers the same way we now view the practice of sending small children up chimneys to sweep them (see Note 3).

With the internet, you do not need to purchase those cumbersome lumps of pulped forest. Most of the newspapers are now available on-line.

So it is that I can save you, my lithe yeomen, from a hernia. I know you are all waiting for part two of the Sunday Times Top 100 Blogs, but you do not have to heave half of Norway home with you! For yah, the article can be found on-line here.

Note 1 : I would be grateful if you don't tell them this as one of my greatest fears is that it is statements like this that put off the time when, for the very first time in my life I hear the words, "No, no, Dad, put your money away, I'll get these!"

Note 2 : My daughter did once forget the life lesson once and sign up for a paper route. This lasted about half a paper route when totally unable to find the houses to which she was supposed to be delivering she returned her sack to the shop vowing never to return.

Note 3 : We did try sending my son up the chimney once. It was a complete failure, he found a ledge half way up and just curled up and went to sleep. It was three days before he ran out of snacks secreted about his person and realised that nobody was bringing him food and drink. It was only then that he wandered out - a lot cleaner and fragrant than normal.

Back to School

The date for my foray into presenting at the Oundle Festival of Literature is getting ever closer. As you know, I am doing a session on the blog on the 7th March at the St Peter Scott maths building at Oundle School.

With every passing day I am becoming more nervous, but today the nerves were that little bit worse because I had to go back to school. It is totally irrational, but whenever I walk into a school for whatever reason, I get nerves. Today was no exception.

Still, I steeled myself and approached the venue for the first time to sort out a few of the logistics.

It was probably a good idea to have had this little scouting raid as we did find a few issues with the access rights on the computers. According to the school's firewall, Multiply is a dating and relationships site and is therefore blocked. Hopefully we can get that sorted out, otherwise it will be a very short talk!

As Oundle School is not your average comprehensive, the facilities look good. There are certainly enough computers to go round and the room is light and airy. So, everything looks good - although I hope that I can rearrange the furniture a bit!

For those of you who may not know where the Sir Peter Scott building is, it is on the corner of Glapthorn Road and Milton road. I took the photograph above to help you get your bearings and because it enabled me to get a photograph from an angle I wouldn't normally get to see.

Suddenly, with Welder's Grace, It's Saturday

As soon as I awoke this morning I vowed that the first thing I would do is write an entry for this blog today. Well. as it turned out I was wrong, it wasn't the first thing. So, as I sat there wondering who has been using my hair care products and wondering if I should re-model the shower in the style of a gypsy fortune teller's tent, I searched for a title.

It had to be something, pithy, brief and in tune with what I wanted to write about.

Around about this point, I realised that it was early and my brain wasn't quite firing on all cylinders. There I was, getting full value for money for my water taxes and on a quest for a title, when I hadn't a clue what I was going to write about.

Disaster struck soon after. I'd washed my hands very carefully, adjusted my dress (See Note 1) and, at the third attempt, disposed of the earlier business. I was drying my hands and trying to decide if I liked the new fabric softener used on the towels when 'it' hit me.

By 'it', I mean the title. "Suddenly, with welder's grace, it's Saturday".

Looking at 'it' on the page like that just doesn't do justice to the arrival.

In my mind, without warning, the bouncy puppies and the woman of the Fabric Softener ad faded to black (See Note 2)....

In the far distance, cones of light from a pair of headlights pierce through the dark and the drizzle. With full Dolby Suround-sound, the theme to Dick Barton, Secret Agent starts to drive the BBC Light Orchestra to a frenzy. (See Note 3).

A second pair of headlights appeared, weaving behind the first. My minds eye panned in closer along a winding country road across a moor. Two black, 1950's cars fought for position on the tarmac as a gravelly voice over man cut in over the soundtrack.

"Previously, our hero, Chief Inspector McCrindle Barleymow Honeydew-Fforbes of New Scotland Yard, had retrieved the truss of Arabian Prince Abdullah El-Ghianni from the gang of international greetings card counterfieters in their hideout in a small toffee refinery just outside York.

"As he started his race against time to get the prized artifact back to London before the start of the International Summit on the Manila envelope trade, he realised that he was being followed..."

A hand clutching a World War II service revolver appears from the passenger side of the following sudan . Three shots are fired. The minds eye focuses on the Good Inspector, his battered trilby hat pulled down over his eyes, hunches over his steering wheel and presses the accelerator to the floor.

The scene cuts from the moor and to a crowded, smoky basement, somewhere in Lambeth and the title scrolls in "Suddenly, with welder's grace, it's Saturday."

Then nothing.

Distracted by the cat trying to climb my left leg to check out the Amsterdam coffee shop scents of the fabric softener for herself, the imagination switches off.

I'm left with a title, a damned good title, but nothing to write about.

I'm really sorry everybody everyone, but there will be no blog entry today. You will just have to content yourself with trying to work out the synaptic link between the title and the picture. (See Note 4 if you need further clues).

Note 1 : This is dress as in my clothing not dress as in female fashion apparel. At the weekend a dress is strictly evening wear.

Note 2 : I never have understood why all of the women in adverts for laundry products look so happy doing laundry. At best it is a boring task, repetitive task and how the woman can then burst into laughter when some dirty a***d puppy climbs into the washing basket full of her clean washing is beyond me.

Note 3 : It was at this point I was going to try and do something really clever like embed the tune into the blog entry so that it plays automatically when you open the blog, but I decided that against it. If you want to hear it, then it is here.

I do this as a separate link because I am very aware of the embarrassment caused when web pages open up sound automatically. The other day, I was seeking out sources for the blog I wrote yesterday and I opened the The Lone Ranger link in a busy office without first turning down the sound. Yes, people did look. Oh, and another reason was I wasn't sure how to embed the file.

Note 4 : Imagine my disappointment at discovering the total lack of originality of the title. There I was doing a few Google searches and up that popped. OK, so it brought back memories and stirrings when I thought of Jennifer Beals.

Who is that masked man?

Last night I spent most of my time fighting Microsoft's PowerPoint. It meant that I didn't get the chance to do much in the way of research.

Instead, I shall respond to the deluge of the email I received.

It is highly probable that if you follow my blog here (and here and here), that you may have come across the man of mystery.

Those of you who may not have yet adjusted to my synaptic tangents, you may feel that I am about to explain exactly who was that masked man, The Lone Ranger. As a pre-Clint hero of the Old West, he was allowed access to the chain of beauty parlours around the badlands of 19th century America that ensured that he and his trusty sidekick were always impeccably manicured. Faced with such clean shaven and well moisturised good looks, the hoards of bad-guys soon saw the error of their ways and surrendered to be rehabilitated into society. A society where all women were beautiful, young and even when besieged by renegades, could always smuggle in their make bags and find time to touch up the slap.

Our hero and his sidekick could always be relied upon to remain pleasantly aromatic and spick and span thanks to the secret material used to make their outfits that always remains clean and ironed no matter how many days are spent in the saddle. Sadly, it is a material that remains secret to this day.

But as usual, I digress. No, I am talking about that legend of blog folklore, Evar.

The historical timeline of Evar remains vague in my memory, but is rooted in the early days of my first blog on Yahoo. I started this on 30th May 2006. Rather like the Old West of the Lone Ranger, they were simpler times. I wrote my entries, posted them and experimented a little.

I started to explore the blogs of other people and the other features on the site - like I would encourage any 'newbie' to do. Above all, I got into a habit of setting aside some time every day to write a bit, read a bit, post a few comments and build up my network of fellow bloggers. The comments bit being the important bit as this built up relationships with people far more experienced in the art than I.

Looking through my old blog entries, I can see how my voice and style developed. As my confidence and network grew, I spent more time on the formatting (using HTML which eventually took longer than the writing!).

Evar appears to have made his first appearance in my blog on 21st June 2006, co-inciding nicely with Wimbledon and me suffering an apparent attack of bad taste.

Evar was born out of one of the features of Yahoo which was the short messaging system. People could type in short messages on the front page of your site. Along with an appropriate little smiley face, you could choose an emotion to go with your message. Lumped in with the obvious 'smiles', 'hugs' and 'waves' was one for 'Best 360 Evar!'

Somewhere, now lost in the mists of time, lay a conversation with Marcus Jordan (Yes, another Multiply refugee from the crumbling 360 megalith) over the delights (or otherwise) of these messages and somewhere in these it was decided that ‘Evar’ referred to an over competitive Eastern European winter sports specialist

Now, I am not at all sure how all of this came about and the actual conversation is now buried in the bowels of some Yahoo post that will probably never return (tags are great for finding individual posts, but sadly never updated to reflect comments).

I have another shameful admission. I can’t even be sure that I remember Evar’s full name. Somewhere along the line he acquired a girlfriend, Yvette Munsderpiedder, with whom he competed in the 2006 Wimbledon finals until a scandal forced Evar into hiding with the famous detective, Chief Inspector McCrindle Barleymow Honeydew-Fforbes of New Scotland Yard hot on his tail.

Shortly after this, Yahoo declared that I was interesting. Something that felt like a huge honour at the time, but take it from me, you don’t want to stay interesting.

Evar continued and the legend grew. Stories wove around him and characters wandered in and out of the blog. Everything based around the simple premise of my local shifted from Reality A to Reality B where it became reborn as the ‘Rat & Ferret’ all aided by Dried Frog Pills and Dr. Ethaniel Nightswerve’s Velvet Cudgel. He still gets the occasional outing of course, but I am careful that before I let him out in public, I check that nobody has sewn a new label in my underpants.