Smooth-Ish Radio

Loving you is easy 'cos your beautiful.

AND YOU ARE SOMEWHAT SHALLOW

Making love with you is all I want to do.

THE NOVELTY MIGHT WEAR OFF AFTER A WHILE

Loving you is more than just a dream come true.

ALWAYS WITH THE MORE

And everything that I do is out of loving you

EVEN HAVING A POO? REALLY?

La-la-la-la-la,la-la-la-la-la.

La-la-la-la-la-la-la.

And doot-doot.dootin.doot-do.

[haaaaaaah]

NOW THAT IS GENUINELY THE FIRST SENSIBLE THING YOU'VE SAID

No one else can make me feel the colours that you bring,

I BROUGHTS THE COLOURS BECAUSE I WANTED THEM WASHED SEPARATELY

AND YOU DON'T REALLY FEEL COLOURS THOUGH DO YOU? UNLESS YOU HAVE SOME SORT OF SYNAESTHETIC DYSLEXIA

Stay with me while we grow old,

And we will live each day in the spring time.

FAMOUS FOR ITS UNEXPECTEDLY COLD RAIN & DIFFICULTY OF KNOWING WHEN TO PUT UP THE HANGING BASKETS

'Cos loving you has made my life so beautiful.

I BOUGHT YOU ONE CHIFFON DRESS IN 1975 AND YOU HAVE NEVER SHUT UP ABOUT IT

And everyday of my life, is filled with loving you.

AND THE WASHING UP, DRINKS AT THE ROTARY, ZUMBA, THAT PERSONAL INSTRUCTOR WE CAN'T REALLY AFFORD

Loving you I see your soul come shinin' through.

YOU SHOULDN'T GET DISTRACTED WHEN YOUR IRONING MY SHIRTS. THE POLYSTER'S SO SHINY THAT THE GUYS AT THE CLUB HAVE STARTED CALLING ME ELVIS

And everytime that we[uuuuhhhhhhh].

I'm more in love with you.

THANKS FOR THE WARNING

La-la-la-la-la,la-la-la-la-la.

La-la-la-la-la-la-la.And doot-doot.dootin.doot-do.

[haaaaaaah]

I WISH YOU WOULDN'T FINISH THE BOTTLE.

THIS ISN'T GOGGLEBOX.

Lovin-ughhhhh.

La-la-la-la-la-la-la.And doot-doot.dootin.doot-do.

boom.doom.doom.

Maya.Maya.Maya.Maya.Maya.Maya.Maya.

la.la.la.b.doom.b.doomb.doom

I'M CALLING YOUR SISTER.

Minnie Riperton died of breast cancer in 1979 at the age of 31. Take care out there.

Mr Interesting

"The 50p is legal tender for amounts up to £10".

"The 2p coin is legal tender for amounts up to 20p".


So that old adage of paying your electric bill in pennies.....well,
they are all in league....

You Silly Sausage

I was talking with a group of friends a couple of nights ago.
One is a tree-hugging home-schooling crystal-gazing mother and she was saying how she had had to chastise her child for using the term 'gay' as in "That's so gay!".

He was a 10-year-old who'd heard it around and started using it, frankly in the same way that is used by a lot of adults, lots of comedians, and lots of gays with a gently humorous edge.
She chastised him for using homophobic language.

Homophobic V Gently humorous. Choose your poison. 

Because you're the one being judgemental. It wasn't the 10-year-old.

I suggested it wasn't homophobic but I was in a minority (one as usual)  because our other acquaintance agreed with her.
So I'm going to tell you why they are both wrong. I am not going to tell them, Believe me, I know a closed mind when I see one.

The only homophobic concept is coming from the adults.
The child didn't have any feelings of hatred towards homosexuals, or using the more traditional use of the word phobia, of fear either.

'I just thought it meant stupid', said the child.
I'm pretty sure if he thought it meant stupid, and it is frequently used in exactly that way, then his friends did as well. Even if I personally, (and perhaps you too, I don't know) might have a mild preference for the term "silly".

The disease of accusing people of being homophobic is a modern media friendly condition with very little upside.
Teaching it to children replaces that innocence with something that cannot fairly be described as educational. Particularly from a home-schooler. 

Please.

30 years ago the term gay was used to mean happy.
Currently it means homosexual.
Who's to say that if we don't poison the mind of the next-generation that in 30 years time, it may well mean happy again or silly, daft or something else. Would that be such a bad thing ?

We need to stop teaching hate. 

Hate is felt.

It might for example be felt towards the German nation for the millions of 

innocents they executed. But you don't need to teach the hate. Just teach the history. The hate will take care of itself.

If adults poison young minds with their own prejudices even inadvertently, they create traps from false materials. They make their children choose which side of the street to walk, whether they are pro-black or pro-white, whether they are pro-gay or pro-straight. It is a slow poison.
It is poor judgement.
It is wrong.

And over the weekend a primary school was reported as getting 3 years old to sign a contract against use of "transphobic" language.

I know a is for apple, b is for ball and c is for cat but is still feels like a million miles to transphobic. 

So let's talk about words, when you sell hate like these teachers were and mislabel it as tolerance, that is called hate-mongering or inciting hatred. But my arguing this, while accurate, is as useless as the propositon. It would not even lead to an interesting social discussion other than to inflame a few prejudiced vulnerables into becoming incandescent with faux rage.

Button it, teachers.

Leave those kids alone.

Now I'm feeling a bit gay today. I might go for a little walk, around the Catholic churchyard.
If you are available, you're invited to come and be a bit gay with me.

Go on.. what do you say?
Let's go and be gay together.

Second Thought

When did swimming baths become swimming pools?

Thought for the Day

Would it kill them to make a supermarket with an even number of aisles?

Psychic - Unforseen Part 3

I didn't really have any questions for 'my psychic' so I asked her

1. Does she get a lot of Mickey takers?
2. And is that why she is so suspicious?


My questions were not listened to. Because I am interested in 'method'
not icing. And she didn't seem to like me.

I had a similar problem going to an acupuncture workshop in Camden
where a London theatre director brought his 10 year old son. I didn't
mind the floppy haired director going to acupuncture but I thought
bringing his son to a treatment that essentially has no effect was
negligent. Some would call it abuse. Unintentional, of course. But
ignorance of the law and child-rearing is a poor excuse.

To get past 'my psychic' I might have worked harder on my disguise -
dirt under the fingernails, more paint on the shoes. More swarfega and
less L'Oreal.
I should have put on a dirty wig and blacked out a tooth.


The moral is familiar but unexpected: You get what you pay for.

It was too easy to see the artifice. Too lazy.
If Derren Brown was doing your reading and you didn't know he was a
conjuror, you'd believe in the supernatural. I did the first time I
saw him. Seriously. The first time I saw John Edward on TV, I knew,
KNEW, he was speaking to the dead. I didn't have the points of
reference to refute a highly, highly accomplished performance. And it
took me some time to work out the power of a TV edit, to work out what
exactly I was seeing. A year, perhaps. The main reason why I
eventually worked it out was it was so popular that they made lots of
programmes and the quality dropped.

When things are poor you can see the cracks, the joins. The jokes of a
sad clown. The truth in the ticket stubs of a man or woman who lies
about their other two spouses. We are slaves to good performers. And
that is a scary though intermittently fun place to be. Ask any
psychopath.

The quality of the finish on a product can hide all sorts of lies.
Ask any rogue builder or Harley Street physician.
Or don't.

But rated..as what...entertainment?
"If I could have given less than one star ...."

No Stars

So where was I.....
Let's try and wrap this up.

The "natural" medium asked me to deal some Mah Jong cards, extremely
well thumbed.
I dealt them four times over the next 20 minutes, and she told me 75
random things.
She insisted that I write down everything that she said... so I'd
realise! In time.

I was forced to write down about 75 prompts which included 6
specifically nominated days of the year, someone called Keith or Anne
or Pamela or Richard or John. (I think she needs to update her name
references a little bit - Pams are nowhere near as common as they used
to be. I can go for years without bumping into one), a health shake of
cancer and suicide.

One of the cars was blank.... what does that mean I asked?
My fate was sealed. I'd interrupted (just as I had another palm
reading 20 years previously). She didn't take it well. I suspected she
might be the same person who gave me the palm reading 20 years
previously.

I'm sorry I didn't know the rules.
There are no rules, she was keen to state, multiple times
Well... there are, I said. I'm not supposed to interrupt. I don't
mind, I just haven't done this before.

My contract had explained that I had two questions at the end. The
only questions I could come up with the best avoided. Why are you so
mean? Why do you suggest on your wall that people should live laugh
and love and yet if I smile personably (in what I would usually
consider a normal human dynamic), you accuse me of taking the Mickey.

She explained how a lot of people came in very serious.
But for me I was very serious.

She was a bully.
We don't get many of your type around here, was effectively what she said.

But I had dressed down. I'd worn scruffy clothes. Admittedly I was
male but could do much about that. I guess most of her clients were a
bit greedy with the X chromosomes, a bit terrified, anxious, dare I
say gullible.

She was supercilious. Even when I gently spoke she would talk over me,
even when it was my few questions.

It stank.
She wasn't skilled.
She wasn't presenting herself in a nice human gentle angelic way.
You have to subscribe to her beliefs but she had no pastoral qualities.
Even a good vicar might have those, although we know now of course
that may be to curry favour with your children.
A decent schoolteacher would have those qualities in the vast majority
of them do not abduct your 14-year-old daughter and take them to
France.


She reminded me of the door-to-door gypsies. I remember being slightly
scared of gypsies who offered lucky heather and got caught up in those
Cash for Curses rows.

She didn't curse me. Her main crime was against entertainment. She
made me sign a disclaimer that said it was for entertainment purposes.
I had told her when she chastised me the first time for querying the
blank card, that she made me feel uncomfortable. DId she seem to flush
slightly and maybe there was a little humanity trying to creep
through? (I barely had time to look up as I was directed to write the
whole time).

I can only assume she faced a lot of open cynicism, accusations, and
knowing that she was being fraudulent.
But I wasn't bringing that today. I don't hunt easy targets.

I know psychic powers don't exist.
But she was a bad entertainer.

I can her forgive the first, but I don't think I can forgive the second.

My Future

I went to see a psychic today.
I went for a reading.
I know what you're thinking.
Why did you do that? That doesn't sound like your kind of thing.

The easy answer to that question is I just thought I would. They are
popular. it was cheap on a Wowcher. And even though I know how cold
reading works I wanted to see and feel it first hand from a pro.

There's two sides to every story and she was the expert.
She considered herself to be a "natural medium" which she implied was
one that was self-taught. I was determined to be a polite,
well-behaved guest, so well-behaved that I even chastised myself for
thinking the obvious gag of "she looked more like a large".
I was in her domain and I wanted to see somebody in action as it were.
So you might say, mild curiosity.
She didn't require the benefit of my doubts because I knew how the
process worked.
But I was not interested in rubbing her nose in it. I was there for
the experience.
I wasn't doing an exposé for the local paper.
She wasn't earning very much money from the coupon and I wasn't going
to give her grief.
I was hoping simply to have an enjoyable experience delivered by an
expert with a good heart.

Simply put. The real reason I went is that I wanted her to do well.
And for my part I hoped to brighten her morning a little. Maybe we
could work together in the future on a scam or something.

I wanted to her be nice and welcoming. She wasn't particularly. She
never told me her name. She wasn't interested in mine.

She made me sign a disclaimer. Of course I used the false name I
provided her with so that she could not research me on Facebook. The
disclaimer said that the service she provided was for entertainment
purposes only. Great.
I was ready to be entertained.
By an expert.
On their terms.

I had had one previous spiritual paid encounter 20 years previously
with a pretty useless palm reader in a Romany caravan at the local
fair. And inadvertently I had kind of fallen out with her, even though
I had just given her money.
I managed to do this simply by asking on which part of my palm she was
seeing a certain prediction.
It turns out this is unacceptable behaviour.
You see this is not interactive entertainment. It is entirely one-way.
After disturbing her script, she made it clear to me that my
interruption was not welcome. Of course I never got an answer.

Anyway that was 20 years ago and I trusted that things have changed.

I arrived in a run-down part of the north-east on, it has to be said,
a gloriously beautiful day.
I was visiting a shop on a street called High Street. I tell you this
because this was the main street in the area. We all know what a High
Street is, don't we boys and girls?

But this is the north-east in a period of depression. Almost every
shop was closed. Even the betting shops. I've never seen a street so
closed.
Her psychic shop was one of the few that were open. Perhaps it was
open just for me. I don't know.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying she was doing a roaring trade.
When the betting shops go out of business, there isn't much left to play with.
And I admired what she was doing. She was running her own business.
She was trying to make a living.
She was a small businesswoman. Well, she was a medium. But as I say I
was on my best behaviour and certainly not making jokes like that.

As I waited, I looked around her waiting room. You can imagine the
sort of ephemera, a pot shire horse, an Aquarius mug, a pencil drawing
of Alan Shearer, nd a huge sign on the wall saying Live Laugh Love.
I was optimistic.
But that wouldn't save me.

I'll tell you the rest... tomorrow

Tea for Two

Hmmm.... may be I needed to upgrade the funny...make it a bit more Keith Lemon and  a little less Henry Root.

Dear Tea Drinker,

 

Thank you for taking the time to get in touch and please accept our apologies for the delay in replying.

 

We are sorry to hear you have been disappointed with our Yorkshire Tea tea bags.

We can confirm that Yorkshire Tea tea bags are in pairs due to the way our Manufacturing process is set up here at Taylors of Harrogate. The reason for this is that when the tea bags are in the box stacked together, they travel better. Being in pairs helps to prevent movement in transit – excessive movement in transit can lead to excessive dust within the box.

From time to time we do experience an operating fault on one of our machines where the knife does not perforate the tea bags sufficiently, resulting in the tea bags tearing when our customers try to separate them. From the description you kindly provided, our Quality Assurance team feel this is what has happened.

If you could kindly get back in touch with the blend and size of the box, along with the best before date and production details, we will pass these on to our production team for their information.

We'd like to reassure you that we are fully committed to quality and looking after our customers. We're sorry that you've been inconvenienced and if you could please also let us know your address details, we will  of course replace tea for you.

We look forward to hearing back from you.

Kind regards,

 

Becky 

Customer Services

Taylors of Harrogate

Things we forgot to name #34

That tag on a shirt where they keep the extra button. 

Cell By Date

I'm not the man I was.

Things change.

You'd never catch me putting my tongue on a 9 Volt PP3 battery nowadays.

I wouldn't risk my fingers to conkers.

I wouldn't do skids on my bike

But back in the old days....things were different

And yet...

I can still spin a good sycamore helicopter.

I'd take you on at marbles if you fancied your chances... Biggy Prits from Frenchy, no bollys. (Take that Google - you know nothing!) In fact I could have called this blog The Glass Alley...then very few would have got the reference. 5 years too late...sigh..

I still prefer Fruit Salad (the proper chewy one not that 5-a-day muck) to Blackjack. And I prefer both of those to the great pretender...Mojos). I still won't have gummi bears mentioned in the house.

I like a 2p lolly but nowadays they are called Double Lollies - and they are not 2p. They are not even 4p. And I like a Sherbet Dibdab and a pack of Refreshers.

It's just that it is a twice a year thing nowadays.

On the way home.

After a visit to the dentist.

Good Poisons

Two ideas:

Everything is a poison. I remember being told that oxygen is a poison that would kill you with emphysema by the age of 120 years old. I think pure oxygen would kill you a lot quicker. Michael Jackson placed himself in an oxygen tent for a while, but found other medics to kill him off in different ways.

Idea number two. I've always liked the idea that you can do NLP without hypnosis but it's quicker if you use hypnosis.

I wondered why this was for a while until I realised it is because the subject shuts their fat mouth.

When you do that, you can avoid articulating your way out of allowing a change to take place. Announcing your own tired reasons for not already being "that way improved" is not a further reason not to. In simple terms, it's putting up walls.

If you relax and stop speaking, then you can let an idea play and pollute.

You don't need to climb over walls.

You can walk around them.

You can walk around them slowly... but hey, why not walk round quickly?

It is still walking. It won't knock you out.

Hypnosis can help you get an idea in between the cracks.

Like weedkiller between paving stones.

It seeps through.

Into the water table below.

It poisons the whole well.

But it does so with a "good poison".

It only takes a drop. 

It will taint the rest of the universe it touches. Until the end of time.

Find the cracks.

Free your mind.

And choose your poison.

Young Einstein

We used to have a convector heater.

But we had to use it sparingly because it was expensive.

Which was a test in itself because positioning yourself in front of it on full blast, maximum temperature, sitting on the purple shag after a shower, your footprint minimised to present your entire body to the full force, curled up, grabbing your shins like a prostitute coming off heroin ...well.. it was one of life's great pleasures.

But it makes you cold.

That might be a paradox philosophically.

But scientifically, it is basic physics.

Evaporation causes cooling.

I remember informing my Mum of this fact.

"Oh...that's why feel cold in front of the [convector] heater after a shower".

(When you do square brackets, it means they didn't really say that word).

Yes it is, I thought.

You too, I thought.

How smart I am, I thought.

I let it hang in the air like Einstein had just walked into the kitchen.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Sometimes it's best to appear as though you could clarify any scientific point, it just being that today evaporation was the relevant one to delve into.

The reality was of course was that that was the only thing I learned from science of any particular practical use.

Nobody in the household had recently asked me to copper-plate a willing cathode. (Which was a relief because the only deep blue liquid in the house was some Mr Matey bubble bath which I strongly felt wasn't up to the job. It may have been a bottle of fun but it was useless for electrolysis).

Nobody had suggested I get the baking tray and some pepper and duplicate the ripple tank experiment to measure the diameter of a molecule of olive oil.

Nobody! Despite prompting. 

If I didn't know better, I'd think they didn't give a monkeys. Where would we even have got the olive oil from? We were strictly a sunflower house. Not like those arses at number 49. I bet they had olive oil coming out of their ears.

But explain why you become cold in front of the heater after a shower and you have a perfect dining-out anecdote for a 9-year-old.

Yesterday, however I was in a Turkish steam room.

I'm not sure what made it Turkish. Nobody was handing out kebabs. But there was certainly no shortage of steam.

So much so that when I entered the tiny cupboard, I announced a bellowing "Good afternoon, everybody". It was only when I got a little further in that I realised nobody else was in da house.

If you are a little out of puff after a swim of course, a Turkish steam room is a mildly uncomfortable place to go when you're still panting. The speed at which the balsam hits the back of your throat does suffocate you a little, until you get it under control. (I don't actually know what balsam is. It just seemed like the right word).

But what I'm getting to is this.

When I exhaled onto my skin. Blew my skin, if you will. It burned. It burnt.

I did it again.

It frazzled, screamed and seared.

What was going on?

I know...the answer is obvious. I had just entered a parallel universe.

You're not alone. I thought of that first as well.

It had happened when I'd open the door, and walked through clouds of steam. I never missed an episode of Quantum Leap or Stars in Their Eyes. 

All the clues were there.

And yet..after a while I self-thought that maybe there's another theory.

I blew on my skin again.

It burnt. Again.

But my skin was wet. And evaporation causes cooling.

Think, man.

I refused to Google it but it took me a while to work out.

I knew I had the principles in place.

I was blowing my skin dry in a wet room.

But what I was doing wasn't causing cooling, it was causing heating.

So it can't have been evaporation, it must have been..come on, I can do this... condensation.

Blowing on your skin in a steam room must cause more condensation.

The (now relatively) cold air from your breath brings the hot wet air down in temperature.

Presumably that liquid volume on my skin increases, squeezed from the copious steam rather than from my breath.

As it lands on your skin and dumps its water, it delivers up its latent energy as heat directly to your skin. 

To my skin.

And burns.

Thank you very much.

Einstein signing off.

I have an appointment with a bread poultice. And you if don't know what they are, you can't afford one.

Quotable Me 15

Art obscures method. It elevates technique, graduates it.  Cover your tracks.  Get a leafy branch or use the heel of your shoe. 

If a line's worth crossing, it's worth blurring.

Hi Tea!

Dear Yorkshire Tea

Would you mind terribly refraining from pairing up your teabags?

The inevitable activity of unpairing that I so frequently have to negotiate has an approximately 4% error rate which causes me to break the teabag.

I needn't tell you of the unpleasantness which follows, but I have been late for work on at least three occasions this week.

There seems to be no reason why bags would need to be paired. 

They are not sausages.

As a single man without a wife to function for me, it has been taking up a good deal of my working day to separate these paired drink units. 

First thing on the morning is a particularly treacherous time to have to negotiate such activity. I can barely walk in a straight line at that time and the potential for a pretty awful start the day is sky high.

I have taken to separating the pairs of teabags on a Sunday evening in a sufficient quantity that will get me through the week. Then if something does go wrong, I only miss a few minutes of Poldark.

But it would be much appreciated if I could avoid the risk of this action when decanting my teabags from the cardboard box to my terracotta tea caddy.

Perhaps you can explain to me why historically this has been done? I'd be very interested to find out why.

Anything that your tech team can do to mitigate or perhaps eliminate this situation from here on in would be much appreciated.

I enjoy your tea leaves but I would rather not see them all over the Formica.

Many thanks

Stood Up

Magic is an interesting thing. It delivers an experience that is hopefully well...magical. But because it is likely presented in a way that is abstract from normal life. It appears as a separate magical event.... a trick.

But what is really interesting about the process of magic is how we might use it in life.

What if you use the same time-consuming process, of practice-failure-more practice, of method after rejected method, of incremental improvement, of polish, performance and sheen, and of brevity and compassion to deliver into the hands of another individual a single brief moment of wonder.

Using the premise of magic, to gift somebody an experience.

That's even more perfect, isn't it? More perfect than a trick.

But there's a problem, isn't there?

There is no rabbit. 

There is no top hat. 

There is no deck of cards.

They don't even know to suspect a double lift or Aronson stack.

They don't speak the language. But they think they do. Because you presented it so perfectly in their language.

There is effectively, in simplistic terms, nothing signalling the amount of effort it takes to make something look invisible. 

There can't be. 

There mustn't be. 

And yet...

This is perhaps why most magicians introduce themselves with a phrase such as "Can I show you something..." It allows a little time for you to prick up your ears, and wonder what....

In Magic, your audience knows they don't speak the language because they recognise that the language is Magic. They're not going to ask you for the deck of cards in order to try to duplicate what you've just done. It would be preposterous. 

But perform a little magic in real life and it will likely go unnoticed. 

You've misdirected perfectly. 

There's no round of applause. No recognition. Your personal magic is so perfectly invisible that it becomes almost perfectly worthless.

It is, ladies and gentlemen, and I don't use this overthrashed word lightly, a paradox.

The Old Enemy

The Feed

"Who told you about us?" she screamed "Who told you about us?"

She looked menacing at first and then reached for an object which from
the corner of my eye looked like hot tongs.

"Give me the money".

"I've given you the money".

"So you have". Again though "Who told you about us?"

"Look, should you really be talking to me like…… " I started but I
barely had enough breath…

"Who the fuck are you and who told you about us?"

"I suppose you found us on the Internet, did you? Is that what you're
going to claim? You are not leaving here until you tell me. It would
be easier on you if you do". She drew breath, slowed down a little.
"Look, just who told you about us?" Calmer now but I knew what follows
calm.

"Just tell me. Why wouldn't you?" Then the thunderclap. "Why wouldn't
you tell me? You'll feel a lot better, Fuckbreath"

"I didn't feel bad before … until you started…." Oh no.. she was on
the move, approaching slowly. She was between me and the door.
Shutting down the exits.

"Look, we're all just trying to get on with each other, aren't we? We
all have a job to do", she smiled a scary smile. I preferred her
without the smile.

"All I'm asking you is who told you about us?"

"I don't have to answer". But my voice shook even as I replied.

She rifled through some papers as though busy and picked up the
handset of a phone that hadn't rung.
"Annnnnyway", she said as though she was about to drastically change
the subject "I am just asking you who told you about us"

That had been apparent.

"Maybe… oh I don't know, Silly, maybe you got an anonymous text" she
suggested with a barely disguised smirk of contempt. I was now Silly.
Mr Silly. It was an improvement over Fuckbreath.

"Maybe… I don't know… somebody put a letter through your door and you
never knew who it was?" "That's all you need to say. If that's the
truth. If that's the truth then that's all you need to say", she
repeated with a disconcerting level of clarity and reassurance.

"Just tell us what you know, and everything will be fine. So.." now
scarily upbeat.."now we understand each other. FULLY. I'm going to ask
you one more time. Are you ready?

Oh Lord.

"Who…, are you paying attention?… WHO. Told you. About us?

I was sweating now and I knew that she knew she could see me sweating.

"Come on. It's a simple question".

I made a decision there and then.

I'm not a huge fan of retail feedback surveys but I'm definitely not
going to that hairdresser again.

R and R

Do you have any regrets?

You're not allowed to regret the Second World War or 911. The question
is one of personal regret

Regret is a personal feeling of sadness, disappointment - something
done or not done. Are you disappointed with yourself, and sad as a
result, over things that you've done or things that you've not done.


Because if you were to undergo a brain scan, that regret wouldn't show
up. So unless you qualify for some artificial illness criteria which
allow people to speculate on what is going on at a cellular level and
call you a diagnosis, people will credit your regrets to the process
best anonymously described as "functional". And functional is probably
best described as "part of the human condition". You might even go as
far as to the N word.
Normal.

Real on the other hand is an actual thing occurring in fact not
imagined or supposed.
Actual.
Existent.

Regrets - imagined
Reality - actual.
Opposites, in fact.

Regret aren't real.

Try not to waste too much time on them.

Modern Plastics

Plastics are fluid.
Plastic is throwaway.
We prefix it with the word 'cheap'.
You don't really hear of 'fine plastics'.

That's OK because change needs to be cheap. It needs to be renewable.
Sometimes it even needs to be artificial.

There is an analogy in snooker.
Sometimes the shot isn't really "on". You have to 'make' the pocket be on. That might mean  pinching a bit from the edges or the boundaries. It might mean using a  little top spin or drag. Putting on a bit of side.

It's OK for plastic  to be common, cheap. (Let's not go as far as nasty). Because it needs to be 'everyday'.

Because you have to make the shots everyday.

Plastic isn't a bottle. It's a concept.
It's fluid. Because we have to be.

I, Musical

"Anything you can do I can do better.

I can do anything better than you.

Yes you can.

Yes I can.

Yes you can

Yes I can.

Yes you can.

Yes I can, Yes I caaaan".

You know...

I've never fully understood where the conflict in that song is.

The Perils of Sharing a Hairdresser

 
​

Flying High With a Fly Pie High Five

I haven't seen a "fly pie" on the menu for a while.

It is an entity so rare you have to go all the way to the 5th page of your Google searches to identify what it is. 

OK that is not exactly a tireless hundred hours in the vaults of the British library, but clicking on that Next several times seemed both tedious and exhausting. It's lucky I was sitting down.

In the end I relented to qualifying the search term with the word " Yorkshire"

And guess what? Those swine from Lancashire seem to be claiming it is a nickname for the Eccles cake. Unbelievable!.

But we know it to be the currant square.

I didn't know it had other nicknames .... Dead Fly Pie, Flies Graveyard, Flies Cemetery.

Perhaps you know of similarly morbidly named confections?

Why not write in and tell us!

Actually. Don't bother.

This isn't a democracy.

All equal now.

Grey hair is maturity's gift to gingers.

A cosmic "sorry fellas" from the conscience of evolution.