The Tweet Before Christmas
Posted by Simon in Mere Blogging on December 25th, 2009
I wrote and tweeted this, verse by verse, lying in bed on Christmas Eve night. Like all tweets, it’s ephemera, but I kind of worried it would get lost forever, so decided to put it here in a more permanent form. Happy Christmas!
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the net
Not a tweeter was stirring
(Well, some were, I bet)
The avatars and profiles
Were sprinkled with glitter
And hastags of #Xmas
Were all over Twitter
And ma on her laptop,
And me tapping touch screen
Had just settled down
To check on our tweet streams
I looked down my followers
At the top of the “new” pile
Was someone that made me
Quickly click on “view profile”
His jolly account page
had the “Verified” tick
So I knew in a moment
It must be Saint Nick!
I checked out his followers
He had quite a few!
And in no time at all
I was following too
And who was he following?
Well perhaps you can guess!
Just eight other tweeters
I can list each address:
@dasher, @dancer,
@prancer, @vixen,
@comet, @cupid,
@donder and @blitzen
The last thing he tweeted
Which I’d like to recite:
“Happy Christmas to all
And to all a good night!”
How to cook sprouts
Posted by Simon in Mere Blogging on December 24th, 2009
There’s a lot of debate at this time every year over how long sprouts should be cooked for. Put them on the boil on Guy Fawkes Night? Or steam them for a few seconds just before you serve the turkey?
The wrangling has gone on long enough, I’ve got my own fool-proof solution for sprouts, and I’m willing to share it with you.
How to Cook Sprouts
1. Bring a very large pan of slightly salted water to the boil.
2. Cut the sprouts from the stalk using a very sharp knife, removing the outer layer of leaves. Wash them in cold water.
3. Put the sprouts in a sturdy metal tin (if you’re anything like me, you’ll already have several empty tins of Quality Street available).
4. Drive the tin to your nearest building site.
5. Place the tin at the bottom of a pit and cover it with at least 2 metres of concrete.
6. Return home.
7. If anyone asks where the sprouts are, threaten them with a very large pan of slightly salted boiling water.
I’ve followed this recipe every year and never failed to have a completely delicious Christmas dinner. Bon appetit!
Sorry, you were in
Posted by Simon in Mere Opinion on December 23rd, 2009
The other day whilst sitting at home, I watched the postman draw up outside the house, post an item through our letterbox, and drive off.
I got up to see to see what he’d delivered. It was a small red card, entited “Sorry, you were out”, directing me to pick up a undeliverable parcel from the delivery office.
Oh, how strange, I thought. Despite being here all day I was apparently, by Royal Mail standards, “out”. Annoying too, because our local delivery office is a bugger to get to. I also wondered vaguely how he’d managed to decide we were out and write that card in the few seconds he’d been parked outside.
I’ve since learned that it’s fairly common practice these days for posties, when collecting the mail they have to deliver in the mornings, to make an “executive decision” not pick up bulky items that in all likelyhood they’re going to end up bringing back to the depot undelivered due to the recipients being at work.
Which is fair enough, I suppose. But with the Royal Mail increasingly under pressure from falling amounts of “snail mail” and parcels being one of the few areas still booming (due to the increasing amount of internet shopping) you’d think they’d make a special effort to try and deliver them, wouldn’t you?
They even write the little red cards while still at the post office. Saves even more time, and avoids that tricky situation of having someone open the the door while you’re busy writing the card saying that they’re out.
My wife has been at home (mostly) for more than half a year now, caring for a bump and then caring for the baby that it turned into. More than enough time, you would have thought, for the postie to begin to realise that there was a car with a baby seat parked out the front of our house for a reason, and save us the effort of going to collect parcels someone has paid to have delivered to the door.
But, these are hard times, and posties are stretched to do more with less time just like the rest of us. I think what annoys me most is that the existing card that the Royal Mail provide doesn’t cover the actual eventualities faced by it’s post-people, thus forcing them to effectively tell big fat porkies.
We got another “while you were out card” this morning, despite Jane being there all day. Perhaps it should have looked more like this:
Freak Weather Conditions Bring Internet to a Standstill
Posted by Simon in Mere Fakery on December 18th, 2009
The UK Internet was brought to a standstill last night by a heavy snowfall.
A spokesman for the Internet said “we have contigency plans for these situations, and our web gritters were out in force on all the major internet trunk routes, but when you have 5 million people tweeting that it’s snowing, all within the space of a few minutes, there’s very little we can do”.
Problems also spread to the most popular web destinations. The BBC email server is being dug out from under a huge drift of snow pictures and videos being sent in by members of the public with nothing better to do. The major cables in and out of London were blocked, and several TCP-IP packets were forced to sleep in their cars overnight.
Police were advising people to stay off the internet apart from essential surfing. The Chief Constable of the Internet Police said “you have to ask yourself: is posting your opinion about whether we’re going to have a white Christmas or not on ‘Have Your Say’ worth the danger to yourself and your family?”
Has your internet connection been affected by the snow? Send your telegrams, etchings and watercolours to “Brr It’s Chilly Isn’t It”, Mere Bagatelle House, Norfolk, NR1 FFS.
A post positively dripping with xmas spirit
You know those “bear factory” shops you get in malls? In this age of sensitivity to green issues, I think there should also be “bear recyling centres”.
Someone with a bear that’s reached the end of it’s useful life, or maybe just someone with a naughty child who doesn’t deserve a bear, could take it along and watch it being carefully rendered back into it’s constituent parts.
“Look Johnny, this is the machine where they remove Mr. Fluffles ears!”
I’m certain it would be popular, especially just after Christmas.
I’m being selfishly manipulated, and I love it
Posted by Simon in Mere Fatherhood on September 28th, 2009
One of the many things you can never be adequately prepared for as a father is just how much unfeasibly cute behaviour your sprog comes pre-programmed with. To describe the recent assault that Tom has mounted on my Victorian Fatherly Reserve as a “charm offensive” would be like describing the D-Day landings as “a bit of a scuffle”.
Jane’s been reading a Proper Science Book about it. Apparently researchers have found that babies “flirt” just like adults. Before you start imagining any unpleasantness, it’s not that kind of flirting, it just uses the same techniques. Tom will catch my eye, flash me a huge grin, and then shyly look away. If he had a fan to hide behind he’d no-doubt flap it coquettishly, but he doesn’t need it. I’m already lolloping over like Pavlov’s dog at a campanology demonstation to give him the extra attention he requires, and maybe get rewarded a few more big smiles.
Oh the smiles! Nothing prepares you for the smiles! Recently he’s decided that the simple broad grin isn’t sufficently cheery, so he’s moved on to a huge open-mouthed raptuous happy-face. In fact, he’s the only person I know who can truly do the :D smiley justice.
Something about that smile zaps straight into the pleasure centres of your brain. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you blurt out a laugh without even realising it. Positive feedback ensues, each participant feeding off the other’s unalloyed pleasure. Baby gets rewarded with five minutes of undivided attention and you get rewarded with a milky-sick-stained shirt… but a freshly laundered soul.
Dad Things
Posted by Simon in Mere Fatherhood, humour on September 3rd, 2009
When you become a dad, it seems, you start doing Dad Things.
I’m not sure what triggers it. It’s not related to age; I didn’t become a dad until my late thirties, so the Dad Things didn’t kick in until fairly recently, but guys who become fathers in their twenties or earlier start displaying dad traits much sooner.
It’s also not related to the presence of the child itself. I’m not talking about building go-karts or oiling bike chains, I’m talking about things that dads do that don’t require the presence of a child at all. You can do all these things without being a dad, it just that people tend not to.
Some examples:
Eating dull cereal
I used to enjoy a crunchy nut cornflake or two, a hearty bowl of fruit and fibre, maybe some Cheerios when I was feeling extravagant.
These are not Dad Cereals. Dads take perverse pleasure in eating as dull and worthy a breakfast cereal as possible. The moment I became a father I began to shun the frivilous end of the cereal aisle and hanker for good old cornflakes with a bit of milk. Even All Bran is looking a bit la-di-dah for me these days. By next year I think I’ll be eating a cereal that looks and tastes somewhat like the wood chips you buy in garden centres.
Sucking on lemons
Jane pointed this one out to me. I’d reached the bottom of a glass of coke, fished out the slice of lemon and began sucking on it and pulling faces.
“My dad used to do that!” she said, and we realised it was another Dad Thing. Actually, the proper Dad Thing is sucking on a lemon slice and pretending to like it, but I’m not quite at that stage yet. Perhaps this dad gene is expressed early to give the father time to master the skill by the time their offspring is old enough to appreciate it.
(This is another important aspect of all Dad Things, although they don’t require the presence of your progeny, they’re only really satisfying when performed in front of them.)
Making stuff up
It’s a dad’s duty to fill his children’s brains with endless misinformation, to prepare them for a lifetime of being lied to by everyone else. When they reach an age where they triumphantly cry “no it isn’t Daddy!” to some patent nonsense you’ve just spouted, you can feel satisfied of a job well done.
Actually Jane will probably argue that I’ve always been good at making stuff up, but the presence of Tom has kicked this part of my personality into overdrive. I spent a good half hour last night telling my son how cushions like the one he was propped up on were hunted and culled in glacial Iceland.
I can’t wait until he actually understands what I’m saying so I can start telling him some real whoppers.
The Alternative British Citizenship Test
Posted by Simon in Mere Blogging, Mere Opinion on August 5th, 2009
The trouble with the official British Citizenship Test is it’s a bit like testing if someone can drive by just quizzing them on the Highway Code, rather than putting them in a car and seeing if they can avoid hitting things. It’s too much about boring legislation and regulations and not at all about the stuff that you really need to know to survive in British society.
So I’ve put together a short quiz to test the more subtle things that make you British; like culture, and sport, and what to do on a Bank Holiday.
I present:
The Alternative British Citizenship Test
1) Did you see the game last night? (Pick one)
a: Yes, what were Chelsea playing at?
b: Yes, what were Arsenal playing at?
c: Yes, I really fancied the labrador but it seems it was the spaniel’s night.
d: No I was busy working and contributing to the economy.
2) What do the following have in common: The Queen, turkey, Noel Edmunds, silly hats?
a: They’re all things that Prince Phillip has shot at.
b: They’re all traditional elements of a Proper British Christmas Day.
c: They’re all things that you require a licence to transport on a public highway.
d: They’re all sacred to the Church of England.
3) Barker is to Corbett as Wise is to?
a: Morecambe
b: Whitley Bay
c: Southend
d: Lowestoft
4) Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards leaves the ski jump at a speed of S, where S is equal to the speed he is going. Where does he land?
a: At the other end of his dad’s back garden.
b: Just below the ski jump.
c: It doesn’t matter, it’s the taking part that counts.
d: Lowestoft
5) Which of the following CAN’T you do during a bank holiday?
a: Visit a garden centre.
b: Wash your car.
c: Watch “Apollo 13″ for the tenth time.
d: Visit a bank.
6) Where is the highest point in Britain?
a: Ben Nevis
b: Arthur Negus
c: Henman Hill
d: Harry Hill
7) The funniest thing ever on British television was:
a: Del Boy falling through that bar.
b: Basil Fawlty beating up that foreigner.
c: Compo crashing in that bath.
d: Princess Di hitting that pillar.
8.) Which of the following is a “joke” religion that only became official after it was given as a popular answer in the 2001 UK Census?
a: Hinduism
b: Christianity
c: Judaism
d: Islam
9) Put the following in order of line to the throne:
a: Stephen Fry
b: Delia Smith
c: Joanna Lumley
d: Jeremy Clarkson
10) Having a child under the age of 16 entitles you to:
a: Child Benefit payments.
b: Park in the good spaces at Tescos.
c: Bang on endlessly about them.
d: Five units of alcohol per day.
A boy called Anna
Posted by Simon in Mere Blogging on July 26th, 2009
My Granddad is a frustrating, absent minded old fool who tells stories that don’t go anywhere.
Most of the time.
Sometimes, out of the blue, he tells stories that do go somewhere.
He was visiting today, looking proudly over his great-grandson, wondering out loud whether he’d have any nicknames when he got older.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You can’t really shorten ‘Tom’.”
“Well, didn’t you have a nickname?”
“No, not really.”
“I did. I was called Anna.”
I laughed. “Anna?”
He smiled. “It goes back to when I was small, something that shocked me to my core.”
I glanced at him. He gave me a sheepish look. He knew this was quite an opener to a story that I’d not heard before.
He continued “When I was seven, my Dad had to move to Fring because of the General Strike, there wasn’t any work elsewhere, see. There wasn’t a school in Fring, so I went to school in Shernbourne.
“One really cold day, I was walking along and came around the corner and there was this little girl. She was all wrapped up for the cold, long straight hair, with a hat on. And we got talking and one thing and another…”
(It’s not a story by my Granddad if it doesn’t include the phrase “and one thing and another”.)
“She said her name was Diana she lived just across the road, with her aunty. And then she said, her mummy had died.
“I felt the colour drain from my face. I’d never heard of anyone who didn’t have a mummy. I didn’t even know mummies could die. I was totally shocked.
“And do you know, we became inseparable. We’d always be seen together. And one of my friends said ‘There’s Gerald behind Diana. I know, let’s call him Anna!’ and it stuck. Everyone called me Anna. Your great Uncle Peter, his wife called me Anna until she died. That was only when I moved to Thornham that people called me Gerry, but all my old school friends still called me Anna.
“But we stayed friends right through school, Diana and I. She taught me to dance, as much as she could! Then her mum said ‘you don’t want to be going around with that Gerry, he’ll never amount to nothing! She married some guy who became a shepherd. And I became an explorer!”
He grinned. My granddad married, and got out of the tied cottage owned by the farmer, became a lorry driver and then worked on big building projects around the UK and in Nigeria. An ‘explorer’, when his life should have been spent on the same farms his father and grandfather had worked.
After he left, I sat down to write this blog post, and burst into tears. Suddenly, I was seeing my granddad as that young boy who’d taken pity on that little girl with no mummy, and became friends, and grew up, and danced, and got married, and travelled. A whole life entwined with a little story about being called “Anna”. One of thousands of stories that go to make up the old man who’s a bit foolish, and sometimes annoying, and who I love to bits.