A Short Story About a Short Story (Part One)

I'm not a writer. I don't have the discipline to give an idea enough oomph to end up as a thing with a beginning, middle and satisfying end. 

Reece Shearsmith while talking to Richard Herring (RHLSTP episode 406) about 'Inside No.9' last year, bemoaned fans giving him ideas for episodes. 

"Do one on a bus! A No.9 bus!" "Okay, what happens then?"

Eventually they did a fake build up to an 'On The Buses' episode, only to replace it with a "quiz show" hosted by Lee Mack.

I travel on buses a lot during the week, so have plenty of time to think of plots for short stories set on a No.9 (actually 295, 70, 452, 52, 28, 228...) bus. So here goes...

On a double decker (let's say a 295 from Clapham Junction to the big Sainsbury's at the end of Ladbroke Grove) and sat downstairs, our character (let's say 'Bill') has a good view of the screen showing CCTV pictures of the interior. Bill is a bit zany (I know, but perhaps we shouldn't like him - haven't decided yet) so waves at himself when he appears on the screen. The idiot. Bill notices he's the only passenger...

We're now at a crossroads; not a literal one in the story, but in the writing of the story. We could now find there's not even a driver of the bus. We could have a menacing character appear upstairs, and every time the camera finds him he's getting closer to Bill. Bill could also appear upstairs: his double, or Bill from a different time in his life, or a Jekyll/Hyde-type situation...

So that's three possible plots, or we use all three to pad out the half hour needed for an 'Inside No.9'. There's minimal dialogue whichever way it goes, although I reckon Bill might talk us through it with an internal monologue or the odd "WTF" or similar. 

If you have any thoughts on what should happen, let me know. These blogs don't get a lot of views, so chances are I'll just pick this up when another window arrives. If you've read this, thanks. Ed

Restaurant Review: McDonald's Raspberry & White Chocolate Pie

"Limited Time Only" "Caution HOT!" "Scan for nutrition and allergen information." "A red short crust pastry pie with a raspberry and white chocolate filling." "Served hot." 

Not my words, but those of the McDonald's Corporation. 

Do you like McDonald's hot apple pies? Well, there's a new kid on the block (Limited Time Only) with all the potential for molten fruitish-filling shenanigans as its more sensible, workaday brother. But wait, this guy's packing white chocolate too? What is white chocolate? Seems to be chocolate without the colour you normally associate with chocolate i.e. chocolate. Let's agree it's probably cooked sugar diluted with milk. Best not to delve too deeply, imo. The raspberry bit? I'm guessing that's jam minus time. I'm no expert, but am expecting sweet.

To give the crunch-enveloped, fruit-based dessert its best chance I went for controlled conditions. Nothing else was eaten beforehand, and I tried to act as quickly as possible for the hottest of results. 

*consumes pie*

The Verdict: If you don't like McDonald's hot apple pies, this babe isn't going to change your mind about big Ron's dessert offerings. I've got a sweet tooth (and some right bastard ones too lol) but was fearing this would be off the charts. Not so. About the same as the apple one. Because of gravity (perhaps a complete control experiment would involve eating one in a vacuum or space - if anyone wants to set that up I'm game) there was an uneven spread of filling (therefore flavour) throughout the six inches or so (careful) of food. As a result there was a definite hit of raspberry halfway down. Further experiments may ascertain whether this was due to "white chocolate" diluting the raspberry flavour elsewhere, or just a big old dollop of the red stuff lurking halfway down. 

Overall, three stars out of five: not for everyone, but in its field a potentially compelling effort (much like Underworld's 'Beaucoup Fish' album of 1999).

I'm not made of money, so limited myself to one experimental pie this time. I think I'd prefer a raspberry one without the so-called white chocolate interference. It seemed to only muddy the waters, ironically. I had a latte afterwards, which was leng.

The Smyths (sic), 13/1/24, Shepherd's Bush Empire

 "There is an obvious media shift to delete me from being the central essence of The Smiths, but this cannot work because I invented the group, the name, the song titles, the album titles..."

So moans Morrissey. In the words of Father Ted (when found with a stash of nazi memorabilia), you do get a bit more right wing as you get older. I'm not going to discuss or defend 'Bengali in Platforms' here, but from that first solo L.P. 'Viva Hate' the journalists were wondering... and now it's widely accepted that The Moz (to give him his full name) has gone nuts. Not quite Neil Oliver/Russell Brand/Right Said Fred nuts, but enough to worry anyone with an allergy.  

The Smyths: banter lads obviously.
(Sorry Jon, didn't make it in time to see you.)

Parking that, what about The Smyths? First I'd heard/seen of them was last night's show at The Shepherd's Bush Empire, a 2,000-seat venue that was 90% full. Apparently they've been going since 2003, gaining the confidence to become their own Smiths/Moz-solo hybrid. They were witty, efficient and put on a splendid show. Take their mock Morrissey (Mockrissey?) Graham Sampson away however, and you could've been in The Bell & Compasses watching Any (very good) Pub Band. The Smyths prove Morrissey right: The Smiths were mostly frontman, and the other guys Johnny, "Bruce and Rick"* were great musicians rightly loved, but come on...

From last night's show, and The Smyths' Facebook.
Photo: Steve Millgate

Back to The Smyths. Last night they were introduced by longtime fan and heralder of the cause, Jeremy Vine. You'll be pleased to read he was greeted with boos, and shouts of "bike nonce!" Frankly, the whole enterprise was worth its two-decade gestation for this moment alone. Would recommend. The star of the show was frontman (see!) Graham Sampson (Grammossy? Needs work). He certainly has the haut. The walk to the microphone stand, rehearsed endlessly no doubt, told me (as it would you) they were going to have a proper go at it. He's got the voice to around 86-92%, only a reediness in the higher registers letting him down (he chooses to go low at some telling points, and just about gets away with it). His dancing was less fluid than the real thing and tailed off as the night went on, but this was their biggest night so some slack cutting is in order I reckon. He was dressed incidentally as 'Vauxhall and I'-era Mozzer [citation needed], before the hair went grey, and when suits became his costume du jour. Earlier photos on their website show the paisley-shirt-open-at-the-navel, flower-throwing days have also been covered. 

They were supported by their own bootleg Billy Bragg, 'Billy Blagg' (Jon Hunt, also enjoying the biggest night of his musical life). Lovely stuff. 

Jeremy Vine (bike nonce) and Graham Sampson (the voice)

The high point for me was 'That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore,' faultlessly done. They also excel at the 'Panic' and 'Sheila Take A Bow'-type thumpers. Criticisms? They lack swing. 'Girlfriend in a Coma' and 'Ask' definitely have a bit of swing about them, but here they were rendered motorik four-to-the-floor rock numbers. Again, this could be their evolution over 20 years and none of my business, but it was a musical minus point. This heavy-handed approach, which I have to blame on the drummer (Myke Joice?), marred the inevitable encore 'How Soon is Now.' Less the throbbing, sprawling joy of the original, it became a military two-step down the nape of my neck. A shame, because the different versions of 'How Soon...' show how encoreable it can be. Their Johhnny-come-lately Marr Andy Munro (Anndy Murr? Munnrossey? Again, needs work) played all the right notes in the right order, but he has the wrong guitars. Johnny Marr uses a Fender Jaguar, in fact he has a signature model built to his own specification. He discovered that he could get "the Jag" (to give it its full name) sound like any other guitar. I wouldn't begrudge Andy Munro having three guitars on stage, but visually they'd have to be a cherry red Gibson ES-335, A cherry red or gold-top Gibson Les Paul** and a Fender Jaguar. Crowdfund it lads, it'll be worth it.

The Smyths then; very, very good. What next? They can keep touring indefinitely I presume, not having to wait for the next album as an excuse. Perhaps follow them on Instagram and Facebook, to see if they're in the provincial town you jut round soon.

The Smyths, quite literally at a crossroads.

*Talking to Stuart Maconie, when asked about his old band mates... "I love and have loved Johnny Marr, but I haven't heard from Bruce or Rick." A reference to Bruce Foxton and Rick Buttler of The Jam, discarded by Paul Weller when he morphed into The Style Council.

**Johnny Marr has a big guitar collection and would've used many different ones over the years, but those three are his most recognisable imvho.

 

A Short Story

This is a short story about aliens and Michael Bendell.

Michael (never 'Mike') Bendell is a swimmer. Not a professional swimmer, it's not his job to swim, and although you could argue he's been paid to swim before, that was for charity so doesn't count.

Michael is swimming. He was swimming some time before, and he's swimming now. But between the "then" and the "now" something happened. Either Micheal had one of those existential moments when he was somehow outside his own body and had time to consider his own being from a distance, or he was abducted by aliens, experimented on (why else would they do it?) and placed back in the water without realising what had happened. Between strokes (he was doing the 'front crawl' - he'd often lay on his back and just drift, but today's swim had an indeterminate time pressure, so the fastest of strokes it was), fractions of a second after the out-of-body experience, he was back in the real world. Swimming not as quick as he used to, but maintaining a very respectable pace for a man of 43 years, nine months and thirteen days. His age was/is not important to the aliens.

When we hear stories of alien abductions they're usually from remote areas of the planet. The collection of stories montaged during 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind' are typical: deserts, people who probably worship the sun or similar, not Reading town centre or 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. Thing is, Aliens look down on The Earth and most of it is water. They calculate that whatever inhabits The Earth is likely to be in the blue bits, not on the green and brown bits. It's just maths. So the vast majority of alien abductions have been fish and sea mammals. Whales and dolphins usually, although they tried great plankton shoals too (in case the shoal was one great organism, which of course it is). These abductions have to date been so lacking in worthwhile information, that the aliens had all but given up. Fish and sea mammals are great, don't get them wrong, but they're better to eat than to talk to.

Imagine the aliens' joy at stumbling across Michael Bendell 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. He wasn't a fish, he seemed to actually realise what was happening to him, and was happy to tell all about the invention of the wheel, the internal combustion engine, and computers. His insides were much the same as the sea mammals, except some small but vital differences in breathing apparatus. On the whole a very worthwhile catch: quick, and informative. They dropped him back exactly where they'd found him, and of course erased any memory he'd had of the abduction. Textbook. Luckily he was immediately conscious enough to continue swimming, rather than drown.

The news today is full of stories of raw sewage being pumped into our seas and rivers because the current government aren't very good. Sad to think that this short-sighted approach to waste disposal will stop people like Michael Bendell from swimming in our natural waters, and prevent aliens from picking him out of the water to experiment on him. Perhaps the aliens will think we enjoy swimming in our own waste, turn their noses up (they have several noses) and decide to try a more civilised planet. It makes you think.

Trevor Chappell's Butterfly Effect

 First, The Butterfly Effect. From Wiki...

"In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state."

Also...

"In The Vocation of Man (1800), Johann Gottlieb Fichte says 'you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby ... changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole'."

And...

"The idea that the death of one butterfly could eventually have a far-reaching ripple effect on subsequent historical events made its earliest known appearance in 'A Sound of Thunder', a 1952 short story by Ray Bradbury. 'A Sound of Thunder' features time travel."

Go back in time, accidentally tread on a butterfly, travel back, everything you understood before could now be different.

Now, Trevor Chappell. From Wiki...

"Trevor Martin Chappell (born 12 October 1952) is a former Australian cricketer, a member of the South Australian Chappell family which excelled at cricket. He played three tests and 20 One-Day Internationals for Australia. He won the Sheffield Shield with New South Wales twice, and scored a century for Australia against India in the 1983 World Cup." 

"His career was overshadowed, however, by an incident in 1981 when he bowled underarm to New Zealand cricketer Brian McKechnie to stop the batsman hitting a six."

"On 1st February 1981, Australia played New Zealand in a ODI, the third in the best-of-five final, 1980-81 World Series Cup, at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

With one ball of the final over remaining, New Zealand required a six to tie. Australian captain Greg Chappell instructed his bowler (and younger brother) Trevor Chappell, to deliver the last ball underarm, along the ground. Trevor Chappell did so, forcing McKechnie to play the ball defensively, meaning Australia won. This action, although legal at the time, was nevertheless widely perceived as being wholly against the traditional spirit of cricketing fair play."

Okay. If you could travel back in time (and space) to 1st February 1981 and persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm, what would the Butterfly Effect of that action be?

I think you could persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm because a) I don't think he wanted to do it, b) his captain was also his brother - so he could plead to him on a different level to other teammates, c) his teammates (especially Rod Marsh the experienced wicket keeper) also didn't want him to do it, and d) the worst that could have happened had he bowled a normal delivery was McKechnie hitting a six for a tie.

"The outrage caused by the incident eventually led to an official amendment to the international laws of cricket to prevent it from occurring again."

This is the legacy of the incident, the underarm delivery wasn't against the laws of the game, but those laws were subsequently changed so it wouldn't happen again. If we assume Trevor Chappell ignores his brother and bowls a standard delivery, McKechnie hits it for one, two, three, four but not six, and Australia win, the world carries on turning regardless. However, underarm bowling remains legal to this day (*evil chuckle*).

How many more games of cricket take place before another captain thinks bowling underarm is the only option? It could happen tomorrow. It could decide an Ashes test series. It could decide a World Cup Final between India and Pakistan. 

P.S. Only the 'Mankad' has come close to causing the same controversy as Trevor Chappell's action...

"Mulvantrai Himmatlal 'Vinoo' Mankad (12 April 1917 – 21 August 1978) was an Indian cricketer who appeared in 44 Test matches for India between 1946 and 1959. He was best known for his world record setting opening partnership of 413 runs with Pankaj Roy in 1956, a record that stood for 52 years, and for running out a batsman "backing up" at the non-striker's end. Mankading in cricket is named after him."

My Last Assembly

Hello.

Following a tweet from journalist Andrew Male, which lamented having to sing 'Lily The Pink' by The Scaffold at school assembly, I've been thinking about my last school assembly...

First of all, we sang 'Ghost Town' by The Specials (they used to be The Special AKA but decided they should also be known as The Specials because it's easier to say, so "The Specials, also known as 'The Special AKA" is a great joke, and it's what everyone sees when they Google the band), and we sang it bloody well, but that's not the best bit of my final assembly.

I was in "the sixth form" - for any youngsters reading, this was where you got your 'A' Levels for college/university or dossed for anything up to two years to avoid going to work. I was somewhere in the middle: I took Art and English Literature with a view to dossing for two years to avoid going to work. I could've painted the same thing I did for Art 'O' Level and probably passed the 'A' Level hours after completing the 'O' Level exam. This isn't a boast, it's an illustration (no pun intended, nor taken) of how silly exams can be. I still had to do at least a year of life drawing (mostly still, any "models" were fully-clothed attention-seekers from other classes) before being allowed to sit the 'A' Level exam. So I was there a year.

(Back to the assembly bit: sixth formers sat in the balcony, not for them the mosh pit of twelve-year-olds where anything goes, oh no. The fact we had the best view might be important later.)

But what, I pretend to hear, about English Literature? Funny you should ask. My teacher was brilliant, and we were supposed to read loads of really great books, but my laziness was so manifest and evident that Mrs C (I'll save her blushes [if she's still alive]) eventually asked if I'd "rather sit in the corner with a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast?" I would've. 

Anyway, the Art 'A' Level was a piece of piss, and I didn't need English Literature 'A' Level to get into a technical college that did OND/HND courses. So there. (Note: lots of my friends went away to The North to do degree courses [even longer periods of laziness?], but I had a dog I'd have missed terribly, and mum & dad started to see through the 'period of laziness' scam.)

Alright, the assembly...

What I didn't know was that my final assembly coincided with the retirement of our headmaster (I'll call him 'Mr H' to save his blushes [he must be dead]). Mr H, going against every stereotype of a mid-to-late-last-century headmaster you may (or may not) have heard, was a lovely man. Thing is, he wore a wig. 

When I rolled up as a 12-year-old I knew nothing of periwigs, syrups, rugs, hair-hats and the like. Because Mr H was such a great bloke, and hardly any of us got close to him, it was only when I made the sixth form that I was observant enough to offer a "hang on..." or a "is that...?" The first time the piece-in-the-room was openly discussed was a week before the final assembly, when Mr S (another absolutely top bloke: taught Maths, was so loved that I can only remember him raising his voice above Library Whisper once. "Why is there talking?" he said, and not a sound was heard ever again) announced the news that Mr H was leaving. 

Someone much braver/stupider/ than me offered: "Ha, is he going to take his wig off?"

Simon and/or Garfunkel would've been proud of the sound of silence that followed. Mr S stood up (another first), and we knew this would be big. I'll paraphrase Mr S's following speech because a) I didn't have a Dictaphone (they still make them!), and b) memory is a very strange thing: you may think you remember what happened in 1981, but you're probably remembering what your brain told you the last time you tried to remember what happened in 1981 (It's a bit like Chinese Whispers)...

"You'll all agree, I'm sure, that Mr H has been a brilliant headmaster for this school. Hands up anyone who thinks otherwise... (nothing, of course) ... yes, he wears a wig." 

*actual gasps* (even from RS, the questioner [and there were two RSs in the room, lawyers.])

"But consider this: why would a man wear a wig? Yes, your mums and dads might suggest it's vanity - 'he wants to look younger than he is' - but what if there's another reason. What, for instance, if his head is unsightly."

Fucking hell. Those words still ring today. I still haven't been able to watch 'The Elephant Man' all the way through: he was potentially unsightly.

*cut to the assembly*

We sang our songs, we signed our little notebooks, vowing to keep in touch (*looks to camera*), and finally Mr H rocks up to give his final address. Again I'll paraphrase for brevity, and the Chinese Whispers memory thing... 

"Good luck everyone!"

*REMOVES WIG, WAVES IT ABOUT*

*prolonged cheers*

Lovely stuff.

Spotify: Robot or Philosophy?

 Hello.

I started doing a thing on Twitter this year called ‘#1of365in22’. I did a similar thing in 2016, which was simply a way of having something to do on Twitter except trolling Piers Morgan. That in turn was inspired by John Aizlewood (renowned music journalist and all-round brilliant egg), who does his ‘A Song A Day For A Year’.

The difference this time is there’s a philosophical element to it. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Let me explain.

Here’s the system (and you’ve got to have a system): I choose an artist on Spotify, I wait for ‘[that artist] Artist’ to appear, and I press ‘Play’.

The idea is that the resulting track is either the average or mean track by that artist. This could be the only philosophical question here: which of the two is it?

To be the mean track, I think everyone pressing ‘Play’, anywhere in the world would have to get the same result.

To be the average track (which is what I’m expecting to be a more obtainable result), everyone pressing ‘Play’ gets a different result but the track isn’t that artist’s biggest hit.

I assumed that any artist chosen needed a large catalogue to increase the ‘sample’, to avoid any “one-hit wonders”.

So for instance, if I press ‘Play’ for New Order (who have a sizeable back catalogue, but for a casual Spotifier might only be known for ‘Blue Monday’) and ‘Blue Monday’ is the first result, the experiment (and it is an experiment) is over.

I haven’t done New Order yet. The ones I’ve done so far have not brought up the ‘Blue Monday constant/variable’: they’ve kinda been album tracks that are still strong, or surprising tracks I hadn’t heard before. (Talking of sample sizes, I’m not a big sample myself as many of the artists I’ll choose will be unfamiliar to me despite their renown. This is a sort of disclaimer I suppose.)

A second element of jeopardy was added: once I knew the track I Googled said track, and the first YouTube result for that track would be the one I posted to Twitter. (The first time this skewed things was for AC/DC: ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ came up on Spotify; a song recorded when the deceased Bon Scott was lead singer. The first YouTube result was a live version of the song recorded much later, when Brian Johnson had taken over.)

As we “speak”, I’ve done 22 of these searches and had one interaction as a result. That one interaction was a comment on the artist I searched on January 1st: The Fall. Unfortunately for this blog, it had absolutely nothing to do with the experiment. Never mind. The Fall do however bring in an extra cubist fourth dimension to the experiment (as well as life itself)...

The Fall existed in a different world to us. They definitely exist beyond this experiment. The song that ‘Play’ called up on January 1st was ‘No Bulbs’ from their ‘The Wonderful and Frightening World of The Fall’ L.P. I think this is not only an “average/mean” track by The Fall, it may be an average/mean title too. Fans of The Fall love the titles as much as the music, it’s their fourth dimension. I’m digressing here, but if for instance ‘To Nk Roachment: Yarbles’ is the MOST The Fall title (please feel free to correct me The Fall fans, I know you can), and say ‘Lost In Music’ (a cover version I know, but throw me a bone here) is the dullest... ‘No Bulbs’ definitely (in my mind) sits in the middle. Why? Because in itself it’s not a particularly weird title by The Fall’s standards, but when you know Mark E Smith is going to rant on about having no BELTS in his “trash-mount” of a flat, before moving on to bulbs, it’s funnier (and The Fall are funny, apart from all the other fantastic things they were).

I said “are” and “were” above, because unless you saw every concert by The Fall, or you are a surviving molecule of Mark E Smith or his grandmother (bongos), there’s always more to learn.

So to conclude we have ‘Spotify Search’ + ‘YouTube Search’ (Where The Fall titles are variable Yarbles) for the math(s) fans. And I’m willing to admit this is simply someone (let’s face it me) wrestling with a robot (Spotify) because I can’t be bothered to upgrade to ‘Prime’ and lose the adverts.

No pressure, but if you join in on any day, I would love to hear your results.

Why I Can’t Wordle

Wordle is the current big thing. Your Twitter feed will be splattered with grids of squares, signifying that someone has guessed a five-letter word through a process of elimination. Twitter being Twitter, you’re almost as likely to see accounts claiming that they’ve muted the word “Wordle”, so players’ results don’t litter their precious timelines. 

I won’t Wordle, but I won’t hate Wordle. I’m not one of the second group mentioned above because I’m jealous Wordlers (for that must be their name) have found a wholesome way to exercise their minds, and share the experience with others. My problem is with puzzles, and to a lesser extent quizzes, in general.

Taking Wordle specifically, my brain refuses to enjoy trying to work out an answer that someone else already knows. The five-letter word already exists, and whether I can work it out or not is irrelevant. This, as you can imagine, makes all puzzles a problem...

Jigsaws: give me a 5,000-piece jigsaw of a Jackson Pollock and I’ll point to the picture on the box and tell you it’s already finished.

Crosswords: the same problem as Wordle, but multiplied. Someone has already put all the words in the grid; hell, they even give you the answers via a link or in the back of the book. What’s the point? Why not just save time and read the answers first? 

“You’re exercising your brain, and learning new words” is the answer, I know... but a) I’m no good at crosswords (don’t even mention cryptic ones), b) I prefer questions where there is no right answer, and c) the idea that the puzzle-setter is sitting somewhere giggling away at my incompetence makes me unhappy.

Quizzes: Only Connect. The Wall on Only Connect. Not only are there four groups of four random things to arrange, but while you watch the teams try and do it the three members of the team are shouting at each other and smashing buttons... *screams* ... and all along some smug git is rubbing their hands together because no one spotted the “red herrings”. And Lord of The Rings. There are always questions on Lord of The fucking Rings.

Hateful.

University Challenge: the only good thing about University Challenge is that none of the students are old enough to know the cool music you grew up with, so when they hear Sex Pistols or Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and look at each other nonplussed, it’s our turn to be smug.

Enjoy Wordle. 

'Line of Duty' Series 7 (as written by Paddy McAloon in 1984)

"An outlaw stand in a peasant land, in every face see Judas."

Superintendent Hastings is the "stubborn beast", the "whiskey priest" but definately (sic) not 'H'. He's officially retired from AC-12, but because of his financial difficulties still has a "job" at Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories. He's actually still in charge of AC-12, but working undercover. He's hiding from the captains who've made his position at AC-12 HQ impossible to carry out in public view. Who can he trust? Still with the threat of prison for earlier misconduct charges, the Chief Constable has a hold on Hastings. He wants Hastings to carry out one more job: find H's boss, 'GI'. 

"They ask for more than you bargained for and then they ask for more."

Hastings is convinced his new target is being controlled by the Russians. Having made contact with GI, Hastings has set up a meeting at Jodrell Bank, under the pretence of scientific findings (possibly space-related, who knows) being shared. Under his pseudonym 'Robert Fischer', he's already been to Moscow to win GI's trust. Now AC-12 are waiting for Hastings to arrive with GI. 

"When Bobby Fischer's plane touches the ground, he'll take those Russian boys and play them out of town."

Isaac Green, AKA 'Green Isaac', or GI, arrives with Hastings.

How did Hastings work out GI was H's boss? Well, when the dying DI Matthew 'Dot' Cottan was apparently spelling out "H" in morse code, he was simply counting "12345/12345" to suggest there were in fact five bent coppers ranking above Hastings. Hastings worked out that Isaac Green (nicknamed 'Green Isaac' because he bumbled his way through police college), somehow gained promotion to DCI only by selling old rope, and telling bad jokes. Corrupt, in short. 

The interview:

"Isaac Green, why did you defect to the Russians?"

"They're much more beguiling, than children at play. What was I going to say? I have limited talent, but impossible wealth. I had a schoolboy crush on Che Guevara. I had a choice: either face yourself or give it away. Don't start pretending you've feelings of anguish. You'd have done the same in my position."

"I'm no bent copper, sunshine! *fumes* ... GI, we know all about you sharing secrets with the Russians."

"Please stop talking of things you know nothing. The truth well will make you ill. We played you for fools, giving you rubbish in return for gold! So chew on the safest, the blandest of food. And avoid the specifics, that might ruin the mood."

"Isaac Green. 'Green Isaac'. GI: the letters either side of, and controlling 'H'. We've got you bang to rights, son."

"But we've also got you, Hastings. And your friends, your loved ones, your colleagues. Other lives stay neatly curtained, iron curtained you could say. Don't turn tearful, I'm not your seventh son. This star crossed lovers business, astrologeewhizzness. It doesn't scare me."

"You bastard, you leave my friends out of this. This is between you and me!"

"You better ask your wife about that. I like to think of my affair with her, and the subsequent effect on you, as my contribution to urban blues."

*Flashback to Ted and Roisin's last meeting; Hastings' last attempt to win her back.*

"Cruel is the gospel that sets us all free, then takes you away from me. We made vows, Roisin!"

"I became fed up that the days went from perfect to just okay, Ted.'

"So, these stardust memories fail to please? If you confuse this dinner dance with elegance, I'll take comfort from the guessing game aspect, that you are least where I expect. If you need to swan one-to-one, I suppose you don't need the pond. I'm a liberal guy Roisin, but what would I do? Don't call me possessive, but holy mother of God if he's smoochin' with you! The world should be free, but don't you go following suit. Our hearts are aligned, I couldn't be neutral, I couldn't be that way inclined! I'm going to be tougher than tough, and prouder than proud. I'll find him, and I'll put him away."

*Cut back to the interview.*

Hastings, looking down, close to tears: "Did you mean to humble me?'

"Don't expect so much of me, I'm just an also-ran. There's a mile between the way you see me, and the way I am. I couldn't bear to be special."

"So you did it unsuspectingly! Are you telling us you're not the highest ranking bent copper in the police force?!"

DI Arnott breaks his silence; to Hastings: "I'm not looking to disturb you, just a little to unnerve you. After that last unholy row (referring to the spinal injuries suffered in series 4) - I never, ever play basketball now. It joins the list of things I'll miss, like fencing foils and lovely girls I'll never kiss."

Hastings: "Holy Christ on a bike son, will you get to the point?!"

"Sorry, sir. I left this case behind, on an overcrowded desk where the 'IN'-tray is higher than the 'OUT'- will ever be."

Hastings looks at his watch pointedly.

"Before the tea rooms fill with flirting couples..."

*everyone in the room looks around the Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories canteen, commandeered for the interview*

"Remember to call."

"Remember to call" is code for "URGENT EXIT REQUIRED". DI Arnott is in cahoots with GI, and there now follows a gunfight between seemingly allied "policemen" and Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories "tea ladies". There's claret everywhere. Luckily for Hastings, DI Kate Fleming is disguised as one such "tea lady", and she's shit hot at shooting bent coppers. It was impossible to see through her disguise because a) she had let her hair grow down to her ankles (despite the fire risk) and b) she was in vertical stripes.

"Her husband works at Jodrell Bank, he's home late in the morning. Had he been a lawyer, he wouldn't work for pennies."

Roisin sits by Hastings' hospital bed. He might make it, but it's going to be a long, long road to recovery. She remembers their first days together... 

*Montage: Her parents tried but it's not much use. Her boyfriend left home, it was late summertime, life was good, they were young, but glory is purblind. She knows, and still loves the Superintendent of this hysterical town, he worked his way up from the dirt on the ground. Now everyone asks him questions, they consider they've a right to be told. People naturally wonder what it's all leading to...*

"Ted, can you hear me?"

Doctor: "It's way, way to early to talk to him. You can't call this heartbeat a man. But don't cry too soon, you might as well fall in love with the moon. For now, the anguish of love is long range."

"Are you telling me Death is neatly spruced for his honeymoon?"

"Find an answer while I leave the room. Perhaps I should learn to shut my mouth."

A year later...

Hastings to GI: "In the morning I go walking, it helps the hurting soften. I've seen a lot of places, 'cos I miss her very often. So long ago I buried something I should know... 

When they interviewed me about you GI, verse and chapter they unfurled. I used every technique, so their eyes don't fill with wonder when I speak. I loathe the stilted way they made me speak. Without recourse to lying, distortion or "cheating", they were making such a fool of me. Now, I worship the silence that sings like a bird, I long for the Moon as it looks from the Earth. Take one step, Green Isaac; one step away. The light is fading, it's making such a fool of thee, when you'd love to be someone."

*GI is led away*

Disclaimer: I haven't seen series 6, so if they all die in a freak gardening accident, I'm sorry.

I thought of putting all the lyrics from 'swoon' (yes, it's lower case on the sleeve) in italics, but it looked weird. If you don't know 'swoon' this might not make much sense. Buy 'swoon'.

PUBS (pubs)

Hello! I'm 55!

(That's how I started the last blog post, and I'm going with it again.)

This time, the fact that I'm 55 has had me thinking about pubs, and cricket. Cricket and pubs, if you'd prefer. Why I'm specifically thinking about pubs now is a) there's a vague rumour that they'll be opening again soon; b) I just got to the end of Mortimer & Whitehouse's 'Gone Fishing' book (which accompanies their lovely tv series), where they start talking about pubs, and c) the cricket season is nearly upon us, and pubs play a BIG part in that.

In 'Gone Fishing', Bob Mortimer recalls how he and Paul Whitehouse both start to think about "The Pub" around five o'clock. They've been fishing for hours and hours by now, and the promise of a few pints and a pie are looming large. Here's the rub though: get in the pub at five o'clock and all might not go well. They may not be serving pies yet. You fancy-dans in your London gastropubs might expect food "all day", but out in the sticks this is not always economically viable. No, best to wait until 7-7:30. By then the kitchen will be on full alert. Also, atmosphere. A country pub (I'm judging this by Norfolk standards, having lived there for a decade or so) will have a very specific clientele at five o'clock: the guy who was in at 11 and intends to stay all night, the guy who was in at 11 and can't remember his name, and the local postman. You need more than these guys for atmosphere, just ask Russ Abbot. 

(Aside: the local postman lives "The Best Life". Sure he has to get up early, but he's finished by 11:30, which coincides nicely with opening time. He can drink and pie himself stupid, safe in the knowledge that he'll be asleep by 8. Be more postie.)

So Bob & Paul kid themselves they're trying really hard to catch one more tench (insert fish of your own choice here; I didn't read the book to learn about fish or fishing, so it could be Flipper the friendly dolphin for all I know), but they're really thinking about that first pint. (Aside: Paul prefers wine, which kinda ruins everything.)

Which brings us on to cricket. 

It snowed today. Every cricketer will tell you they played in snow. The poor sods who actually do it for a living may well have been out there today. Mine was Central Park, Dagenham, Craven CC (dissolved after their treasurer ran off with the float), won by nine wickets, ran out my cousin Dave, I finished 54 not out. Craven weren't much cop then. Anyway, we went to Hornchurch to find a pub suitable for humans to interact afterwards. Let's not get too bogged down with where is and where is not a good place to drink after a cricket match (Dagenham, for a fucking start) (or Hornchurch, if you're being picky), but like Bob & Paul, it's definitely part of the day.

I started playing grown-up cricket at 17. I'd never been in a pub. Never ordered a pint. After my first game I was pissed after two pints, and went into the ladies for a pee because my cousin Dave pointed at the door and I was too pissed to read the sign on it. Fiona was in there; Fiona is Scottish, she simply said "och Edward, you'll be in the wrong toilet." We're still friends to this day. 

In fact, apart from all the ones who've died (and there's a depressingly large number of those), we're all still friends. We're still friends despite the dropped catches off my cousin Dave's bowling, despite taking my cousin Dave off after four overs because he keeps bowling bouncers when the ball is swinging like a top and we've got three slips and a gully, despite telling my cousin Dave he can't bat at three because he bowled 21 overs and it really is time to give someone else a chance... We really, really loved playing cricket together. And by and large, the pubs and clubhouses we went to afterwards were absolutely brilliant.

And that's why even at 55, knowing my eyes are shot, knowing my knees are shot, knowing I couldn't bat in a helmet because I never did, I'd love to have another go.

Memories of the post-match pub/clubhouse;

Gary. Gary would often be late for matches. Trouble with Gary was that he had no sense of time. Not just hours and minutes, but weeks and months. Gary turned up for a holiday a month early, only to be told his tickets weren't valid for another month. He had to break it to his wife that she had to go back to work and book the time off again a month later. Then he had to do the same himself. Gary loved the tea part of cricket the most. I remember Gary eating a gherkin from one hand and Mars bar from the other, after going through the usual sandwich/cake/tea cycle. He was the urban fox of teas. One week Gary went to the wrong ground. Thankfully the ground he went to was at least in the same county as the one we were playing at. He finally arrived at (yes, you've guessed it) tea time. And we'd already fielded. So Gary (honestly if you met him you'd love him, wish he was right here now, I'd hug the tardy bastard) managed a head start on the tea, didn't have to field at point (he was always wandering behind square, looking at the clouds, the trees ("GARY, IN FRONT OF SQUARE FFS!!"), and could waltz in at 4 or 5 to tonk the winning runs. Oh, and there's what Gary used to wear. Gary used to forget his spikes. Gary was convinced he should bowl regularly, but he had what even his dear old mum would describe as a "dodgy" action. He was quick, but if we chucked it we'd all be quick. Anyway, he only wore bowling boots, in the hope (against hope) that he'd be called upon. Every now and then, if we were playing teams who knew Gary since he was yay high, he'd get a bowl. Luckily, no one died. When he forgot his spikes (often), he'd wear his proper Sunday Best shoes to play cricket. Advantages: the ability to slide across the turf. Disadvantages: to Gary? None, actually. The best thing about Gary though, and the thing that will mark him down in the annals of cricketing history, is that before him no batsman had ever shouted "there's two there, his trousers have fallen down."

Okay, most of my memories of post-match pubs and clubhouses involve Gary. If I can remember anymore, I'll add them. 

'Retirement, as a thing'

Hello! I'm 55!

Don't worry, you haven't missed my birthday. You have missed when it was, but you won't have missed it. I could've piped up on Twitter and told everyone when it was, in the hope that ALL my followers would wish me well. But then I'd have to thank them all, and before that I'd realise no one on Twitter gives much of a toss about when my birthday is, which is worse. Anyway, I got loads of birthday notifications on Facebook, which I ignored because I don't do Facebook anymore.

Let's not get too bogged down in who's birthday it is, when it is, or if anyone cares. This "piece" (and it is a piece) is about retirement. 

I can remember when things were all Thatcher, and working people seriously thought about retiring at 55. This was before Robert Maxwell screwed everyone over, and several recessions coshed the idea on the head. I think it's safe to say that many of us think of the retirement age to be "in your 60s" or "Christ-know's-when". But, because I can remember those days, and I'm 55, the thought of retirement has popped into my head, rent-free.

At school it took me ages to get the hang of being at school. I pretty much hated the whole thing, until just before it was time to leave. Then (and only then) did I realise the next step was work. Perhaps I was lazy (aside: I was lazy), perhaps I was not that bright, but it hadn't crossed my mind that I could ever hold down a job. I had no idea what I could actually do, and the thought of trying things (only to find out I was rubbish at them) meant the whole plan was out of the question.

So I went to art college for four years and ended up being a very successful kitchen porter.

Now to the present day, and the transition from 'Working Me' to 'Retired Me' is similar to the transition from 'School Me' to 'Earning Me': I have no idea what I need to be able to retire, I don't know if I want to, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to. 

First of all, what is retirement? One problem here is that retirement can mean different things to different people...

1) You work for a firm for a long time, and when your time comes (55, 60, 65 etc.) you (in the words of Alan Partridge) get given a big picture of a Spitfire and "off you go!"

2) You give up the 9 to 5 (or 10 to 5 if you're Mark E Smith), but "keep your hand in". (I remember Jeremy Vine having a phone-in on retirement, pensions and the then-current recession. This architect rang in basically to boast that despite retiring, he still earned shit-loads of cash by doing a few hours work a week. JV told him his call had little relevance to the discussion, because he wanted views from people affected by the recession, but the guy didn't seem bothered. The bastard.)

3) You use your new-found spare time to try selling those pottery ashtrays you like making, or cakes, or thimbles, whatever.

4) Like that ballet dancer in the government ad, you retrain in cyber. For whatever reason.

I've been told my current job (I'm a dog walker) kind of doesn't count as a job, because I enjoy it. In the words of Bertie Wooster, there's "something in that". In fact, what I do seems the sort of thing someone might do if they'd retired from doing a proper job. We' could be talking somewhere between 2) and 3) on the above scale. So why would I want to retire? The lovely idea of working somewhere you hate for 40 years, then on your retirement day turning up late, shouting "SO LONG, SUCKERS!" and kicking the photocopier on the way out is not available, sadly. I don't hate any of the dogs, or their owners, and none of them have photocopiers. To me, retirement (in its purest form) means "I have enough money to not have to walk the dogs, or I'm too knackered to walk dogs anymore." More likely the latter. 

All well and good, but it's not just about me (although it has mostly been about me). 

Thoughts on retirement, as a thing: Lord Sir Alan Sugar OBE MBE Whatever has billions, BILLIONS of pounds. He's proud of it, and not shy of telling people about it. Why doesn't he retire? How much more can he need? "But Ed," pipes-up Sir Al, "it's the need to carry on making money which keeps me going. If I'd ever settled for what I had, I might've still made millions, but it's that drive for more that turns it into billions. And I want a solid gold horse, and a fleet of aircraft carriers for my planes, and truffle sandwiches every half-hour..." You get his drift *twirls index finger around temple*.

Less extreme example: that guy who rang Jeremy Vine. Yeah, he was hateful.  

Some people won't stop working because they're afraid of what retirement might do to them. Afraid of boredom. Afraid of stagnating. Etc. Or there's my dad, he couldn't wait to retire. He'd worked for the same people for ever, and knew there were decades of prospective television to enjoy. I remember being that arsehole son who questioned the path he'd chosen, but thankfully a good friend put me right: "Don't be an arsehole Ed, he's earned the right to do exactly what he wants." 

Some won't stop working because they can't. I worked with a chef who was planning to do a "my dad" at 55, but was scammed out of his retirement pot, and couldn't see retiring before 65 (or later) as a result. Big Sir Al Shuggs could find enough down the back of his sofa to help out, but his drive to make mo' money would stop him doing so. There's no sentiment in business, and so on. Seriously Al, get a grip.

Another friend retired when he reached 60. He had little or no money left after some bad luck (and bad decisions), but he started getting his pension and that was enough for him. Despite getting into financial difficulties (caused by living as if still earning his working wage), he refused to consider employment again. "I'm retired!" was the answer to any advice on how to get back on financial track. It didn't end well.

I think retirement could be an abstract concept. There, I said it. Could the chef announce at 55, "I am retired" despite having to carry on working? That architect pill was still "employed" despite being retired, so it definitely works the other way. Perhaps retirement is a philosophy. Yes, I said that as well. Imagine starting your first job and announcing "I'm retired" on the first day. "Then kicking the photocopier on the way out?" No silly, just going through your adult life as if retired.

Hopefully we're all at least semi-retired: not afraid of simply existing without purpose, nor doffing our caps to some dreadful boss. Whatever your lot, I hope you're happy with it.

Laws of Physics, Schmaws of Schmysics

Tonight Matthew, we're going to talk about trees, fences (specifically iron ones) and walls. How come when a tree grows near a wall/fence/combination of the two, it can deform the structure? The answer must lie in the laws of physics; otherwise ghosts exist, and Mercury Retrograde is a thing to be scared of. 

The last time I was sent out of class was in 1984. It was physics with Mr Taylor, and Mr Taylor's teaching method was thus:

"Read pages 67-72 of your text book, and write out what you think it all means. I'll be watching the girls play hockey out of the window."

Okay, he didn't actually say the last bit, but it's what happened every lesson. There were 25-30 budding scientists in that "lab" my friends, and who knows how many of them would've turned out the finished genius if the "lab" hadn't looked out onto the girl's hockey pitch (or Operation Yewtree had been about).

Anyway, one bit in the text book said that if you lean against a wall, then according to Newton's Third Law (which states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction), the wall is pushing you back with equal force. This, of course, is bollocks. 

Yes, blah blah blah Newton, indeed blah blah blah Third Law, but the wall is just a structure. It's there, it was built, it's been left, it doesn't fight back.

I argued this with Mr Taylor, but the girls must have been playing a particularly vigorous game of hockey that afternoon, so he was in no mood to argue and sent me out. If he'd at any point said that the laws of physics are unarguable I might've shut up, but he just pointed at the bit in the book saying the wall was pushing me back as hard as I was pushing it. Which, of course, was bollocks.

On my walks around the streets of cinema's own London town, there are a few examples of trees that have, over their hundred or so years of growth, deformed walls and fences that once contained them. When I see this I think: "wow that's weird, a plant made of living and dead cells is able to knock a wall down." But I also think: "that seems about right, a plant made of living and dead cells is able to knock a wall down." I don't have a problem with it happening, but I'm not sure if Newton's Third Law can explain why it happens.

First, some other things that happen with trees and walls (which are more explainable):

Sometimes trees fall onto walls. I've seen the aftermath of this, and it's pretty one-sided. A mature London Plane tree is too heavy for just about any wall to resist. Where's the equal and opposite reaction here? I'm guessing the answer is that if the wall was of equal size/weight/strength to the tree, it would be able to push back said tree. The speed of the tree falling must also multiply its weight, I assume. But this still assumes the wall wants to push back the tree. 

Back to a tree slowly growing towards a wall...

The tree is made up of living cells in its middle, dead cells on the outside, and can grow roughly an inch wider every year. When the tree reaches the wall, why doesn't nature 'tell' it the wall is too hard to grow through? Every year another inch of live cells have been produced inside the tree, but these cells are not tougher than a brick wall. Neither are the dead cells on the outside. It's possible to remove bark from the outside of trees with your hands, for instance. Yet together, this minute movement of living and dead cells is somehow able to completely destroy a wall over time.

My one attempt at an explanation: imagine a tube of toothpaste (it isn't hard to do). When the tube is full the toothpaste comes out with force, but with minimal effort from you. When the tube is half full, the toothpaste comes out less forcibly, or you have to put more effort in. However, if you curl up the bottom of the tube to half-way, you can recreate the original force of a full tube, because it's "full' where the toothpaste comes out. Imagine a tree is a tube of toothpaste (it isn't hard to do). The live cells are constantly growing, and adding "toothpaste" to the tube, but there's no cap to remove and let the toothpaste out. So the tube gets bigger, is always full, and is always at full strength. Strong enough to knock down a wall, anyway.

I asked Robin Ince of 'The Infinite Monkey Cage' if he or science dreamboat Brian Cox could help shed some light on this. Perhaps there is a sub-law of physics that explains this phenomenon. Perhaps no explanation is needed. Perhaps it's all down to ghosts. 

He 'liked' my tweet, but no reply has come. I put this down to the following possible reasons:

It's a stupid question; if I'm sensible and adapt the laws of physics properly, it can easily be explained.

He asked big Bri C the question, and because Coxy couldn't come up with an answer, they've fallen out and BC has joined a religious cult.

He couldn't be arsed.

Listen and read Proff C prove ghosts don't exist here:

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/ghosts-brian-cox-large-hadron-collider-cern-real-truth-standard-model-physics-a7598026.html

Captains log, star date: supplementary... 

We have an answer: THE WIND. The tree gets close enough to the fence for its movement in the wind to act on the fence. Tall buildings move in the wind, which is a bit scary but happens nonetheless, and so do trees once they're tall enough. So it's as if the tree has fallen onto the fence, but very slowly. 

• 
  

In Reply To "The Kinks were better than the Stones."

Hello.

Instead of a tiresome thread, which would've made me look all upset, I'm replying to a tweet by @VaunEarl, which went: "The Kinks were better than The Stones"
I'm doing it on this thing, because it's even easier for you to ignore.

Let's get one thing straight, I love the next man as much as I love The Kinks, and so on. This is one guy's opinion, and everyone on Twitter is allowed at least one of those.

Where we would perhaps agree is on 'Waterloo Sunset.'
It was released on May 5th 1967. Now I know for a fact that on this day The Stones were collectively shopping at M&S (Charlie bought a throw), then they all went back to Bill's for a curry. Therefore, on this particular day The Kinks absolutely knocked The Stones out the park (or to labour the point, threw The Stones through a glass house window they were living in.)

We may also dovetail when it comes to 'You Really Got Me.'
It was released on August 4th 1964. Now I know for a fact that The Stones were pony-trekking across the South Downs on this day (Charlie fell off.) Again it's in the back of the net for our sibling-rivalrous, accidental Britpop-inventing boys from *checks notes* Muswell Hill.

Where there may be, as Jimmy Tarbuck used to say on 'Winner Takes All' a difference of opinion, is when we consider 'Mick snorts gak off Marianne Faithful's cistern, Charlie drums at Ronnie Scott's before going round Mick's to punch him in the face, Bill being problematic (again!) and Keith is still awake after eight days.'
Now I know for a fact that while this was all going on, Ray Davies, Dave Davies, and *checks notes* the other guys were listening to 'Sing Something Simple' round Ray's mum's. Bless 'em.

I don't want to get bogged down in who did or didn't make 'Let It Bleed', 'Exile on Main St.', 'Sticky Fingers', 'Black and Blue', 'Some Girls'; who released doves in Hyde Park, who had an Altamont (however horrible it was), who had a 'Rock and Roll Circus' (however poor it was), I mean I could go on...

But The Kinks were better, of course they were. VaunEarl has a cameo in the latest Vic & Bob shows, so he'd know.




Disclaimer: may not contain actual facts

A Philosophical Guide To Superdry®

Hello!

Let's start with the big question: how old is too old to wear Superdry® clothing?
I'm afraid is it almost impossible to answer this scientifically. The received wisdom is that once you reach 25, 30, 40, ... you are too old to walk around covered with logos of any kind, let alone the Superdry® ones. But we've seen middle-aged dads, grandads even, doing so. Yet these outlaws are not arrested, deported, or even given a stern verbal warning from security staff. Let's for argument's sake assume that there is no age limit (it'll make things easier).

What about Superdry® jackets? Well, perhaps a more pertinent question is how many zips is enough zips? They, as a rule, have too many zips. Last time I zipped up a jacket I found one zip was all I needed to get the job done. Yet Superdry®, inspired perhaps by the unnecessarily multi-mouthed alien in the 'Alien' films, give their outerwear upwards of thirty zips. Stop it. If you particularly crave zips, for whatever "reasons" you may have, go ahead. Some of their jackets don't have loads of zips, and in my humble opinion these would be the ones to go for.

Now let's get on to t-shirts. They're the cheapest entry into the world of The 'Dry® (as no one calls them), and as a result the most popular. Which ones should you choose? We will concentrate on the words printed on said t-shirts, because it's all about the words...

The Superdry® Logo

Which one? There appears to be loads of different ones, which is a problem for corporate identity. Their stationary must be all over the shop (no pun intended, none taken). You could argue that the smaller the logo, the smaller the issue, but Superdry® are all about the big letters on t-shirts. So instead of buying a Superdry® t-shirt with a tiny logo, you could be buying a cheaper t-shirt with no logo on it at all.

"Real"

As opposed to those virtual t-shirts you mean? I'm guessing this is to differentiate themselves from pirate versions of Superdry® garments. Of course if anyone was going to counterfeit Superdry®, the last thing they'd think of putting on them would be "Real" (*eye-roll emoji*). The word "Real" is pointless here, let's see what else they've got...

"Genuine"

See "Real" above. Otherwise touch one; if it exists, it must on some level be genuine. "I feel, therefore it is", as the man said.

"Yokohama High Flyers"

No idea really. Do you automatically become a member of this (no doubt august) body of men/women merely by buying a t-shirt? I've never had flying lessons; is it easy? Does buying one of these t-shirts get you a discount on high-flying lessons in Yokohama? Do you have to show your Yokohama High Flyers membership card before buying one of these? So many questions. Perhaps too many questions...

"Classics"

We'll be the judges of that, sunshine. If the design they refer to is a classic, why would it have "Classic" written on it? They never called Classic Coca Cola "Classic" from the start did they (*points at brain*)? Did they decide at the outset that these designs would already be classics? If so that's brave, fucking brave.

"Vintage"

First you must ask the same questions as "Classic" raised. Then, and only then, you have to spend at least eight hours getting your head round what "Vintage" might mean. Are they second-hand? You know, like, are they from a particularly good year for Superdry® and some kind soul decided to donate them to the store curator unworn? Were you supposed to buy them in the 60's and shrine them away until they matured enough to be wearable? Problematic.

The-Ones-That-Look-Like-The-Football-Strip-Of-An-Actual-Superdry®-Football-Team

Yeah, right.

"Team"

See The-Ones-That-Look-Like-The-Football-Strip-Of-An-Actual-Superdry®-Football-Team. These may be referring to members of staff of course, in which case all the questions (so many questions) aimed at "Yokohama High Flyers" apply here too.

"OSAKA"

It's a place in Japan. If you've been there and forgot to get a t-shirt to commemorate the experience, you might do worse than get one of these. Depending on font and colour preferences, this could be one of the more "fair enough" choices, because it doubles as a tourist souvenir as well as a fashion statement.

To conclude, once you've taken on board the above questions, it really depends on whether you like the look of Superdry® garments or not. I think they suit girls more than blokes, but hey, wear what you like. If anyone has suggested you're too old to wear a Superdry® t-shirt, perhaps now is the time to give them *the fingers* and take the plunge. If they do them in your size, then according to the laws of this still green and pleasant land, you're allowed to wear them.

Ricky G•rvais Comes Out as A Leicester Fan

Kevin Spooner writes:

Legendary documentary maker, and star of BBC sitcom 'Upstart Crow' Ricky Gervais, has admitted he is a Leicester City fan. When I tracked him down to his one-bedroom flat in Slough (or wherever it is he lives), I asked him what first attracted him to the role.

"Well.....(pointing both index fingers at himself) ... success, mainly. I mean, I'm successful.... won awards and shit, and they're successful. I mean, hello! Winners of THE BEST LEAGUE IN THE WORLD, the P-r-e-m-i-e-r league yeah? I mean what have your team won?"

I point out that Manchester United won the F.A. Cup a couple of weeks ago.

"Right, the F.A. Cup, well done, no really, well done on that, nice little trophy, don't get me wrong, but it's not (grimaces)... the Premier League title is it?"

In fact, Mr Gervais, who is roughly middle-aged, has even been approached by Nick Hornby to star as Claudio Ranieri in his Hollywood movie version of The Leicester City Story.

"They gave Clooney a screen test, but he couldn't do the accent (points at self again); range you see, some have it, some don't. I'll basically play him as a chilled-out entertainer, with a penchant for expensive leather jackets."

I asked Nick Hornby at his North London home 'The Emirates' if The Leicester City Story was really hollywood material.

"I've thought about that," he said, "if they don't like it, I'll turn it into an insufferable middle-class comedy drama with a few references to Arsenal to keep working class viewers interested. In fact it'll be all about Arsenal, it'll make things simpler. The soundtrack can be culled from my Spotify playlist, and Ricky could play Arsene Wenger, 'cause he's great at accents."

Leicester City fans not sure what to wear this Summer.

Leicester City fans, who have been clad head-to-toe in Leicester City shirts, shorts, socks, scarves and hats, while holding those things that make a noise, aren't sure what to wear this Summer.

Now that the football season is over, The Foxes' supporters will be reduced to telling everyone they meet, within 30 seconds, that during the football season they support Leicester City. The alternative is to carry on wearing Leicester City kit and chanting Leicester City songs (if they have any), throughout the closed season.

Although England have qualified for Euro 2016, they tend to play in England shirts, which aren't even blue. If Leicester fans were to walk around in white shirts they might be mistaken for Leeds fans. Leeds haven't won the Premier League in ages, compared to Leicester, who actually won the title last year (we looked it up).

A spokesman for the Leicester City Supporters Club said: "It's a dilemma: we want to live and sleep in our Leicester kit, to let everyone know we're connected to a group of well-paid sportsmen who have done what they're paid to do, but we're starting to stink, and those clapper things are getting on everyone's nerves. The kids can keep going on those bastards for up to twelve hours a day."

Superfan Ken Fravington admits he'll not be able to leave the house at all: "I'm playing it safe, I'll spend the whole Summer in the garden, trying to do an elaborate tartan pattern on the lawn."

Serious Question: Why do you watch 'I'm A Celeb'?

Hello. Let us start by assuming that 'I'm A Celebrity, Please Get Me Out Of The Jungle As I've Already Been Paid And It's Really Shit Here' is, to all intents and purposes, a torture show. Yes it is. I've seen enough clips on Gogglebox to come to that conclusion, without ever putting ITV on to form a wider view. It's okay, I'm not going to accuse anyone who watches it of enjoying people being tortured, you know, being fed horrible things, cut off from friends and loved ones, undergoing physical discomfort... no, definitely not.

You're safe from the moral dilemma of watching people suffer for your entertainment because of the distance between you and them. For a start I bet hardly anyone reading this is in Australia, which we are led to believe is where the show is made (and NOT the Eden Project place or Kew Gardens or a disused TEXAS Homecare just off the A13 near the Ripple Road roundabout). No, there is a distance between you and the infliction of discomfort on others, which is why, presumably, you can still sleep soundly at night after watching it.

And they're getting paid right? If they win they get £ALot apparently, so they've asked for anything that's thrown at them, or placed through them, or on them. And it's this bit I want to focus on. In 1961 a psychologist called Stanley Milgram ran an experiment in the U.S. to try to get to grips with one of the biggest questions of the 20th century: why do people do harm to others? At the Nuremburg trials after World War II, Adolf Eichmann claimed that he carried out atrocities against the Jews because he was simply 'following orders'. Milgram wanted to try to set up an experiment to test if ordinary folks might be capable of such acts if told to do so.

The experiment involved three people. An ad was placed in a local paper, it asked for volunteers to take part in a psychological test for a pre-paid fee of $4. Two volunteers would then draw lots to be either the 'teacher' or the 'learner'. Thing is, this bit was fixed: one of the 'volunteers' was a stooge, and they always became the 'learner'. The third person was an authority figure, a man in a white coat who oversaw proceedings. The 'teacher' and 'learner' were separated by a wall (here's your distance), and the 'teacher' then gave the 'learner' a series of memory tests which got progressively harder to repeat.

If the 'learners' got a test wrong, he (and they were ALL men) were given an electric shock.

The 'teacher' was given a very mild shock before the experiment began, enough to be uncomfortable but not to actually hurt. So, the 'teacher' knew what the 'learner' was going through. The big deal with this experiment is that the amount of shock administered was variable. As the stooge deliberately started making more and more mistakes, the man in the white coat and the clipboard advised the 'teacher' to increase the charge. Pre-recorded cries of anguish, turning to pleads to be released, were played as the charge increased.

Put yourself in the 'teacher' position. When would you stop the experiment? Will they take my $4 away if I bail straight away? Once you know there's an electric shock involved you'll get cold feet and politely call it a day right? Once the poor guy in the other room starts "ow"ing, that's the cut-off point, surely? In the actual experiment, almost all of the 40 'teachers' went beyond 330 volts! Despite recorded screams and even a faked physical episode, most went on to deliver potentially fatal shocks.

It can't have been the money. Even accounting for inflation, $4 isn't enough to risk someone's life for. No, the experiment shows that when people are told to do things by someone in (even bogus) authority, they tend to do as they are told.

Milgram's experiment was heavily criticised because of the stress it placed the 'teachers' under. Later versions had two authority figures, one saying 'stop' as well as the one saying 'you must carry on'. You'll be pleased to know that this made a difference. Although the original experiment was, for want of a better phrase, a nasty piece of work, it was the most instructive.

I think if anyone tried a similar experiment today, there would be a strong chance that the guinea pigs would know something fishy was going on. We've all seen Dom Joly's 'Trigger Happy TV', where he picked on old people or unsuspecting members of the public who don't use English as a first language, to play 'hilarious' (but also humiliating) pranks on. The distance between him and the victims was, oh hang on, there wasn't any distance! He was taking the piss out of these people and filming it and is proud to have done so. What a dick. Then there was 'Game For A Laugh', 'Fonejacker', 'Brass Eye'... all happy to humiliate in the name of entertainment. Admittedly no-one got hurt on those shows (I remember Dennis Norden commenting on 'You've Been Framed': 'It's funny, as long as they get up afterwards'). But no-one was really hurt in Stanley Milgram's experiment either, and no-one on 'Trigger Happy TV' was asked to be humiliated, or were offered a fee beforehand for the opportunity to be humiliated...

He really was a dick, wasn't he?

You would have to find people who haven't watched a lot of television, perhaps because they are always on the television. Because of inflation, you would have to increase the fee for such research. Ordinary people won't get out of bed for less than $4 today; if you want to experiment on celebrities in a controlled environment and film the results for posterity, you'll need to pay £Thousands, even £Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps it could take place in a jungle, with the public voting on who has to go through certain 'challenges'...




The proper historical bits from this are contained in:
'Investigating Psychology' edited by Nicola Brace and Jovan Byford
'Investigating Methods' edited by Jean McAvoy and Nicola Brace

Both are part of the Open University module 'Introducing Psychology'.

Witnesses

I've just read an interesting article on psychologist Alfred Binet, the man responsible for the first IQ tests. He wanted to use them to find ways to help those with learning difficulties, and not to highlight those difficulties as weaknesses. He thought it was as important how you asked a question as the question itself. A technique which highlights how the results of questioning can be warped by the questioner is 'interrogative suggestibility'. Just for fun (don't phone in), here's an example:

Case 1:

Kevin spots the actor Terrence Stamp in Oxford Street and says 'hi'

Kevin spots the actor Terrence Stamp passing in a 73 bus the day after.

When Kevin tells Rachel, she says that Terrence Stamp was being interviewed on Radio 2 at the same time as either of these sightings, what is Kevin's defense?

This isn't a court-of-law situation, so I'm not going to pretend to know the correct procedure for analysing the evidence, but just for fun...

I believe the first sighting to be true because Kevin spoke to the actor. Celebrities are used to being recognised (some positively crave it, especially Nick Grimshaw, the idiot), so to say hello to a complete stranger is unusual in London. It is possible that the person looks like Terrence Stamp and is used to being mistaken for him, or is the sort of person who says hello to strangers on the streets of London. A weirdo.

If we believe the first sighting I think it is logical that the second also occurred. If you've seen Terrence Stamp in the street AND spoken to him, why would you make up a story about seeing him on a bus? It is possible it's the same weirdo again, but the odds are mounting against it.

If Kevin saw Terrence Stamp on one, maybe two occasions, the Radio 2 interview could have been pre-recorded (and Steve Wright, the bastard, pretended that it was happening live). The second sighting is easier to dismiss as wishful thinking, or 'having Terrence Bloody Stamp on your mind too much'. Watch the road for heaven's sake, it's dangerous out there.

One way the prosecution could try to unseat Kevin would be to use interrogative suggestibility and ask the following question:

'What colour scarf was Terence Stamp wearing?'

When Kevin thinks long and hard (or long and woolly eh? Eh? Oh never mind) and answers: 'Brown, I think.' And the prosecution shouts: 'HA! We know for a fact that Terrence Stamp has never worn a scarf, brown or otherwise!' You know that they have used interrogative suggestibility in its evilest form. 

It could be enough to convince the jury that Kevin was making it up, which is perhaps better than being found guilty of stalking Terrence Stamp. 

Dismissed.

The Not So Big Questions

"Will watching 'The Great British Bake-Off' make me put on weight?"
Clive

"If a mobile phone has loads of apps on it, is it heavier?"
Wendy


"How heavy is a memory?"
Samsonite®


Three questions, or possibly the same question. Let's take them one at a time.

Clive is being rhetorical when asking if merely watching 'The Great British Bake-Off' is going to result in him gaining weight. The implication is that watching Mary Berry and Doc Hollywood presiding over endless sugary dessert foods will induce Clive to either take up baking, or go to Marks & Spencer and purchase four chocolate eclairs and eat them all at once with a cup of tea. You could argue that if he takes up baking but shows a will of steel, he could ration himself to a tiny portion of cake, or give ALL his cakes away to the poor or greedy. If he takes the M&S option, all is lost.

Logically, we must answer "no". The evidence linking Clive's gain of two stones after the first show of the last series of 'The Great British Bake-Off' is purely circumstantial. The eclairs were on 'special' that week anyway.

Now, to mobiles. Your 'phone weighs 132 grammes, you add an app, ('Facebook', for argument's sake) which is 48.9 MB of whatever-that-is, does this make your iPhone (other devices are available) heavier? I tried it, and the kitchen scales were not sensitive enough to give a change of reading.

Logically, I think the answer can't be "no, it gets lighter."Adding things to things never makes them smaller, unless it's a wolf to a flock of sheep. There is, however, a way in which the answer could be: "it stays the same." I'm no scientist (so take that back!), but the 'phone could have a weight, or more appropriately mass, that is capable of holding a certain amount of apps. When the 'phone's capacity is full it simply refuses any new apps, photos etc. After all, there is no physical feed to the device when adding apps, and no wires are needed. I'm going to guess that the "cloud" is a weightless one.

And finally to Samsonite®. Their new ad starts with the line: "How heavy is a memory?" Like Clive, the (M)admen are being rhetorical, in this case to falsely suggest that the most important part of any holiday is your suitcase. In the same way, the new UPS ad tries to take credit for all the thrusting new businesses in the world forging ahead and changing the world. Yeah right, it's all down to the post guy. The new Samsonite® suitcases are quite light, apparently; but they've been making the buggers for ages. So, big deal. A memory weighs the same as an app; it's the dirty pants and stolen towels that make a return journey more exhausting.