A Promise Fulfilled

 I promised - nay, pledged - to find suitable accommodation for my long-time literary collaborator and amanuensis, the personage known to these columns only as "the Editor", when we upped sticks and left beautiful Ruislip for the rather more beautiful Warwickshire countryside. And here at Ramblings we stand by our pledges. I am delighted to reveal that, after considerable effort and painstaking research, a suitable property has been found.  

It is, perhaps, a little grander than I had first envisaged. Placed close to the river Alne¹ and with delightful views over the surrounding flood-plain, it comprises an entirely open-plan living space constructed of sustainable local materials. The property is fully air-conditioned using only natural sources of air and there's no irritating time-wasting required to clean the windows. Although not yet connected to the National Grid, there are ample supplies of bracken, gorse and bog-plants to permit an entirely self-sustaining lifestyle and fresh water is but a few steps away (in the winter it is freely available inside).

There is ample parking just two hundred metres away in the lane that comes fairly close to the bog that leads into the marsh in which the property is situated. Residents may enjoy a high degree of privacy given that nobody in the area comes anywhere near but local services may be readily found once one has put on heavy hiking boots and trudged a mere three miles to find them (Early closing day Monday, Closed Tues-Sun).

I have no hesitation in commending this site as being entirely fitting to the editorial contribution made to this blog over the past 19 years.

1. Or in it, any time it has rained heavily in the previous 24 hours

Implausability Corner

 The award for most unbelievable denial of the year goes to author Omid Scobie whose book Endgame has recently been published. It recounts the goings-on in the Royal Family with particular reference to the squabble between the Duke and Duchess of Sussex and the rest of them. A few years ago Prince Harry alleged that "senior royals" had made comments about the skin colour of their expected baby but did not name names. Endgame does not either - but somehow the version published in Dutch does. Or, rather no longer does, because every copy has been seized by the publishers and pulped.

Pic: Daily Telegraph

 

The British press are being coy about it but of course there are no such restraints on the internet. Photocopies of the relevant page have circulated, names have been named and social media is doing what it always does in such circumstances.

Whether the "what colour will it be" question is racist or not has exercised people ever since the revelation was first made on a popular US chat show. This columnist does not think it was, assuming it was a genuine question and asked in the same way that people always wonder about whose features a baby may inherit, and not followed up by a "hope it's not too much on the darkish side" which I guess is the implication the Sussexes meant us to understand. 

The fascination with the current imbroglio is that Mr Scobie has been at pains to deny it was he supplied the names that appeared in his manuscript. Apparently he had no intention of naming anyone and is utterly baffled that the names of a well-known reigning monarch and the wife of his heir were added to the text. It is being blamed on the translators who have pointed out that they all they do is translate. There is said to be a "full investigation" going on.

We at Ramblings have a well-placed source and can exclusively reveal how this investigation began.

Scene: Amsterdam. A publisher's office. Behind a desk piled high with manuscripts, moodily chewing on a raw herring and gulping the occasional schnappes, sits Sherlock van der Valk. Seated in front, the author.

Valk: Please be at ease Mr Scobie. We just need to clarify this matter.
Scobie: I've no idea how I can help but fire away.
Valk: You submitted the manuscript without including the names of the royals who so distressed the Sussexes?
Scobie: Of course. I haven't the faintest idea who they are. Nobody does. I couldn't possibly have included the names because nobody knows.
Valk: And they were inserted by someone else?
Scobie: Yes. Obviously. I wrote 'And so the names of the royals who were so cruel to Harry and Meghan must forever remain a mystery.' Someone must have sneaked in here at night, picked the lock of your door, found the right page in the heap, tippexed out what I wrote and typed over it 'are King Charles and the Princess of Wales'. The next day the manuscript went straight to the translator.
Valk: And who on earth would do such a thing?
Scobie: A sinister force, that's who. Someone very, very close to the truth who has the means and the motivation to ensure that the names came into the public domain. Someone - or maybe it is two people - with a huge grudge against the royal family, determined to keep this story alive and on the front page. Two people who have already made millions on chat shows using their unique position and who hope to make millions more. But I haven't the faintest idea who they might be, although there is a chance that they might be named, entirely by accident, by a ham-fisted typist doing the Czech translation of my new book.
Valk: New Book?
Scobie: Provisional title The Prince Strikes Back. But I haven't the slightest idea which prince that might be, of course and any speculation on my part would be utterly inappropriate.
Valk: Mr Scobie ... I am convinced you are correct. We shall never find this 'sinister force', as you name him, that is for sure. I think we must close the case. Let us instead turn to the question of who is to publish this new book of yours - I think I have a contract form to hand....

A Tomb With A View

 I was browsing hotels with an idea of going away for a few days. My technique is to pick an area and then do a search using either Google or a booking site, and home in on a few of the most interesting prospects. A great restaurant, comfortable rooms, splendid views, decent reviews - you probably look for similar recommendations yourselves. The Welsh borders and nearby areas appealed so I hit a few keys.

This was what Google served up.

I am not prepared to join the ranks of the undead, as part of a pleasant stay in Symonds Yat, but the Old Court Hotel does appear to be making this a condition. Not only was my contact lying peacefully in a nearby crypt, presumably waiting for the onset of darkness before levering the lid off his coffin, donning his cape and summoning a few bats to accompany his progress to Reception but he has a Special Offer for me. I have a nasty feeling that I know what this is, and as I have no desire to go to my eternal rest (or should that be unrest?) just yet, I may have to stock up on garlic, crucifixes and a few bottles of holy water before setting out for the beautiful, if haunted, valley of the river Wye.

 

 

Dr Commuter Answers Pop Stars' Questions

 Dr. Commuter writes: Many people find it hard to express their problems in direct, face to face communication with those that can help, and turn instead to the medium of popular song to express their fears and their uncertainties. This medium with its short, repetitive lyrics and undemanding vocal skills (frequently the ability to hit just two notes is sufficient), together with the possibility of significant financial advantage should one's recordings find favour with the public, has produced some of the most searching and important questions of our time. 

Here, then, are my answers to a selection of problems.

1. To Martha - No, I am not ready for a 'brand-new' beat and therefore have no interest in learning any more about what you may be getting up to out of doors. PS Do give my best wishes to the Vandellas.

2.  To Ringo Starr - You already sing out of tune, so asking me what would I do if you were to do so is pointless. I shall do what I always do when any of your songs are played - switch over to the cricket.

3.  To The Who. I am Dr. Commuter, that's who I am

4.  To Dionne Warwick. Turn on to the B439, left at the lights, take the A49 to junction 11 of the M17, proceed to Luton Airport, catch the first flight to Los Angeles then rent a car and ask at the desk for directions. Other routes are available. Don't forget to claim your duty-frees. 

5.  To Various 80's artists. Yes, round about the end of December each year they are aware that it is Christmas but since most of them do not observe it, it is irrelevant. 

6.  To Emile Ford. I was not making eyes at you or anyone else, I happened to be suffering from a mild infection that just makes them look a bit swollen and distorted. Pass on my kind regards to the Checkmates.

7.  To Rod Stewart. No. 

8. To Jackie Trent. I'm over here. Here, by the door, The bloke waving his arm. Put your distance glasses on. At last. OK, waiter, she made it, let's have some drinks.

9. To Simon & Garfunkel. No, not this year, you see the car's playing up, there are road works on the B348 and I'm a bit worried about the parrot. But you guys go, have a good time, don't worry about me, bring us back a stick of rock.

10.  To Dion. You're not in love. You are merely experiencing sexual desire and frustration because the object of your affections is not interested. It happens to all of us. Grow up and get over it. If you happen to see any of the Belmonts, one of them still owes me for a cup of tea.

11. To David Bowie. Probably not, unless you mean certain molecular structures able to survive in ice for thousands of years until a mild warming enables some chemical activity. But no little green men, that's right out.

12. To Peter Sarstedt. Being a busy consultant and advisor is not all work, you know. I sometimes go down the Red Pony, other times I may be found at Haringey Dog Track. I have been known to frequent Achmed's All-Nite Arcade & Fish Bar. It all depends. Anyway, I see no reason why I should account to you for my movements, you never tell me what you do.

13. To Patti Page. That one is £275, beautiful eyes eh, yes it's house-trained, lovely temperament. Too much? Well, I've got a gerbil in a box but he's getting on a bit, let you have him for a fiver, ok?

 

Dr. Commuter cannot enter into correspondence, unless in accord with the Terms & Conditions, details of which may be obtained by phoning at 8:00am and joining a queue, only to be told every two minutes that you could do it all online even though you can't, that you are number 83 in the queue and then being cut-off after 42 minutes.

 -&-&-&-&-&-&-&-

 

Editor's spoiler alert

If you really must know the source of the questions, scroll down to see the 'hot waxings' referred to: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1. Dancing in the Streets
2. With a Little Help from my Friends
3. Who Are You?
4. Do You Know The Way to San Jose?
5. Do They Know It's Christmas?
6. What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For?
7. Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?
8. Where Are You Now, My Love?
9. Scarborough Fair
10. (Why Must I Be)  A Teenager in Love?
11. Life on Mars?
12. Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?
13. How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?

 

Stringing Along a Scammer

I received a friend request on Facebook from my cousin in Florida. Unexceptional, you may think, but I am already friends on Facebook with her. Just to make sure I had not unfriended her by mistake, I checked the profile and there was nothing there, just two friends. And my cousin was also in my list of friends, same name and photo as what I now had confirmed was a scammer.
 

Naturally I accepted the request and waited to see what would happen. In the past my fishing attempts to reel in live scammers have failed but this time I struck gold ["Caught a fish" might be a better metaphor: Ed].  Here is the transcript of our conversation on Facebook Messenger, scammer is in red, my messages are in black and my comments are in italics

 

How are you doing today?
Great thanks. Hey, you still want that $300 back?
Yes     
His eyes must have lit up

It's ready to go. Just need your bank details.

Did you make use of cashApp   Sure sign of a scammer, wants to use a cashapp because transactions cannot be reversed or cancelled once the money is sent
No, we don't have them in UK, as I explained last time

Did you have any nearby store?
What for? I don't need any groceries


Did you have any nearby store like Saisburys and Tesco or pharmacy?
Yes

Which one did you have?
Asda

Go to the store now and get a STEAM GIFT CARD or APPLE GIFT CARD with the $300     
Standard scammer method if cashapp fails, gift cards are untraceable, he would ask me to scratch off the covering over the serial number and tell him what it was.
 

Now? There are road works all down the Blackpool road.

Get back to me immediately you get to the store did you get that? 

Real loss of control, seems to be using a line from the script where a "technician" claims to have removed viruses from the victim's computer.

 
That's a bit rude Paula. By the way, how is Aunt Margaret - I could get her a Get Well card while I am out  

Time to see how long it takes him to twig that I am on to him.

Okay go to the store now and get the card as well
Scammers always try to hustle their victims, they don't want them talking to anyone who might warn them they are being scammed

 
Or did I mean Aunt Mary? There are so many aunts. Remind me, which was one was Margaret?

Aunt Margaret?
Yes, your aunt. The one you used to spend summers with in Vermont. I think.

Aunt Margaret is doing great, go to the store now before they close did you understand me?
Actually I've had a brilliant idea. I have a hot tip, a real cert on a horse in the 3:30 at Chepstow. It's bound to win. I'll put your money on it and split the winnings. It's 30-1 right now but the odds will go down fast tomorrow. Sound good?  

I was getting tired and, as Messenger has such an unpleasant UI, I didn't want to prolong the chat much more.  I was waiting for him to invent something about dear old Aunty Margaret but he stayed elusive. So I resurrected a a scene from one of my favourite TV sitcoms, Bottom.

Okay
Did he fall for it or was he getting suspicious? 

Have to go, Roger is knocking on the door, he looks real* and he's holding his shotgun, you know what happened last time   *meant to include "mean"

I unfriended at this point; I like to think of him drumming his fingers, dreaming of that $300 and praying that this time Roger keeps the safety catch on.

Brexit Betrayed!

 

source: Euronews

 

 

 

This is a very black day, my friends. Seven years ago did we not vote overwhelmingly to reject our membership of foreign conspiracies, as typified by the so-called European Union? Yes, we did. We resolved to have no further truck with people who speak non-British languages and who believe in working hard for a living. We had been gulled by them for too long. And at the heart of our rejection of all things continental was membership in the huge con-trick that is the so-called Horizon programme. 

Horizon is, as we all know, the name of a BBC science programme. There is no such thing as an EU Horizon project, other than as a fig-leaf to cover the huge fraud of lots of money being paid to so-called scientists to do so-called "research". Now what has EU research ever discovered? Gravity? No, that's one of ours. Mr Newton got there first. The Internet? - step forward Sir Tim. The first planet that cannot be seen by the naked eye? Uranus, found by Herschell (Don't be fooled by the name, our Bill was as British as the royal family). The railway engine? - British engineers, working here in Britain, designed them and built them and operated them and were the first to invent the extensive delay, please use alternative horse-and-cart replacement service. 

What did the Europeans do? Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, that's what. "I 'ave no idea where ze electron is or 'ow to measure eet, but if you give me €€€ I will 'ave another look".  Planck's length, a tiny bit of wood that is useless except as a doorstop in a doll's house. Gõdel and his incompleteness theorem "Alright, it's not finished but the van broke down, I ran out of differential equations, the tensor conversion matrix broke, but it'll be done by Tuesday, honest". What a shower. 

We must stay true to the fundamental principles of Brexit  and the immortal declaration that "we have had enough of experts" (M Gove, a true thinker who says it like it is). We've got plenty of crumbling schools and empty office blocks, far more than we need to house all the scientists in Britain. We don't need to spend money - when Roger Bacon and the Earl of Sandwich collaborated, was any public cash involved? No - and there is certainly no need for our brave boys and girls to share any of their precious data with the jabbering masses across the Channel, nor to bother trying to read anything they produce (which of course won't be in English so what's the point?). We stood alone in 1940 and we can stand alone again.

Sizzling in September

 I record from time to time the less usual weather events that have affected me, hitherto in beautiful Ruislip but now I must switch focus to my new home in rural Warwickshire. A few warm days in September, often following a cooler period, are nothing new, indeed we have come to expect them. This week is one step beyond. It began warming up at the weekend and late afternoon temperatures have reached some 28c here, 31.5c in London, and will be at this sort of level until the end of the week. It is probably down to the jet stream, kinks in which gave us a scorching June, a cool and wet July and a fairly nondescript August. Europe, as usual, has it worse - Paris is expected to see 36c in a day or so.

It has rained so much in recent weeks that the countryside, I am delighted to report, is blooming. The fields are as a lush a shade of green as I can remember. That is, the pastures - arable fields have been harvested and are brown with a covering of whitish stalks. Huge dust clouds were blowing off one as I drove up the M40 yesterday, having had to pop back to London for an eye test.

Funny thing, returning to the place I lived for nearly 30 years, after three tranquil weeks in our new home. Ruislip seemed so much busier and noisier than I remembered. High Street was choked with traffic, and the stink of diesels and the snarl of the fast-food delivery motorbikes seemed overwhelming. Yes, there are many more shops and other facilities than are on our doorstep here but I don't really miss them. When my appointment was over and I was back on the road, it felt as if I was going home, not leaving it.

 

Waiting for the Rozzers

 A nasty little letter popped through the letterbox in our new home. It was from the TV Licensing people, addressed to "The Legal Occupier" and claiming that, because no-one had answered their enquiries, they were going to send round "an Officer" who might visit any day of the week, morning or evening, to see if we were watching anything we should not be.

Obviously the previous letters had not been answered because there was no occupier. This is a new-build house on a new estate. One might have thought the licencing people might realise that, but clearly no. In their eyes, the second the final decorator leaves with a cheery "All finished, mate", the licence-dodgers crowd in around the telly and gleefully devour EastEnders, bathed in the warm glow of not having paid for a licence. 

As it happens I do have a licence, transferred from my old address. But I have no way of telling the licencing people. The letter, signed by a Jane Jeffers, Enforcement Manager, Birmingham, has no address, phone number, email or any other contact details. Indeed, I have no evidence that Ms Jeffers exists at all ¹and she may be simply the name given to a stuffed doll residing on top of the cupboard in the Enforcers' Lounge somewhere in that grim Brummie office block. Therefore I can do nothing but wait the arrival of the Officer, whom I shall warmly greet, show off my TV and inform that "Yes, we watch it all the time, young sir, but really standards have slipped since that nice Michael Fish retired, what are are you going to do about that?"

And when he smiles his evil, gotcha, smile and reaches for his clipboard, I shall casually add "By the way, would you like to see my licence?". The light will fade from his slitted eyes, his fingers will twitch, the stub of pencil will drop to the floor and he will sigh a long and disillusioned sigh. "It's all right", I will add reassuringly "Ms Jeffers knows all about it, but it was not possible to tell you before your long journey from Birmingham because, as you know, she does not make it possible for anyone to contact her".

And he will grind his tea-stained teeth and take a deep breath and begin packing up his detecting equipment, muttering about "always the last to know, bloody head office" and probably won't even touch the biscuit I was offering. Just as well though, month-old Jammie Dodgers do go a bit soft.

1.  Update - I searched for Jane on the web and found a post, very similar in tone to mine, written a couple of years ago. But the author of this piece lives in Wales and his letter (or indeed, letters, for he has received several) are signed Jane Jeffers, Enforcement Manager, Cardiff. Was she promoted after her excellent work in Cymru, or was it a sideways move? Had she made too many enemies and was being placed out of harm's way? Or does she cover both regions? 

-&-&-&-&-&-

Readers!  Join our exciting "Hunt the Jeffers" competition. Send in your sightings of Jane to the usual address and one of you will be the lucky winner of a genuine copy of the letter she sent to me!

The winner will be selected by the time-honoured way of chucking all entries into the Editor's wastebin and then picking the one at the top. 

Terms and Conditions apply. You must have a licensed copy of the T&Cs to be eligible and our Officers may visit any time, day or night, to see that you do. Authentic copies are only available from Ramblings Enterprises, priced at a very reasonable £25 (plus VAT, service charge, convenience fee, reservation fee, import duties and slush-fund contribution).

One Week on

 Just seven days ago we were exhausted, surrounded by boxes of our possessions and trying to find the essentials to make it possible to sleep. At least our bed had been assembled but everything else was a jumble. Suffering from the after-effects of a virus that had given us both coughs the week before, we now had breathing problems caused by a brand-new carpet that had not even been vacuumed once, so piles of fluff accumulated everywhere.At least the weather was good to us - it remained warm for several days and we lived with the doors open.

Now we have begun sorting ourselves out. Huge numbers of boxes have been opened and contents decanted and placed more or less where we want them. The bare rooms are starting to feel homely - putting up lampshades in the last couple of days has certainly helped. We ate off our knees for several days but now have cleared all the stuff cluttering up our tables and can sit down to eat in a civilised way. Even the television - which did not work because the internal wiring system was not properly set up - is now functioning.

We have barely left our secluded estate, other than to pop out to Alcester for shopping and a couple of times to local pubs. This, however, feels right and proper. We have chosen a rural location and expect to be spending most of our time here.

We had hoped for a warm welcome from our fellow-residents. What we have experienced so far has surpassed our expectations. We feel part of a community in which everyone has an abiding interest in living harmoniously with their neighbours.

Moving

 This is the first despatch from our new home in Warwickshire. Amidst a welter of boxes, packing tape, piles of things in every corner and the joys of trying to find stuff you know you packed but can't quite put your finger on, there has been barely time to draw breath. And we have been here fully five days.

I am, finally, sat at my desk looking out over the edge of the estate - and it really is an estate - over a wildflower meadow to a horizon of trees. 

 

 

 

This is one of the key reasons we left beautiful Ruislip; we were fortunate to have lived in one of the pleasanter parts of the suburb but houses surrounded us in all directions. Here it is mainly trees, fields and the low density buildings of the retirement village to which we have migrated.

Our moving men did not do us many favours. We had a plan for us to arrive at the property first so as to direct them - they changed it and split the load into two. Load one arrived some time before we did and they had unloaded wherever they thought fit.They piled up the boxes four and five high in front of many of the storage units to which the contents were destined. We had to shift the boxes before we could do anything and they were heavy! They elaborately packed up wooden spoons and similar with twists of paper but took apart a delicate display case containing miniatures that were all stuck firmly in place, damaging the case in the process and breaking the bonds that held the pieces in place. 

We moved into a newly-built house and have the usual "snagging" issues but so far nothing that is worse than a minor irritant. 

There is still much to do so I will end here and resume when I have renewed my literary energies.

Farewell to Ruislip

 After nearly 30 years in beautiful Ruislip, it is time to move to greener pastures - literally - for Mrs C and I are relocating in the lush countryside of rural Warwickshire. There will be no more despatches from this agreeable part of west Middlesex and no more blistering invective on behalf of commuters everywhere.

But fear not, this blog will continue. Perhaps the Ramblings bit will become even more relevant as I explore the  byways, the disused railways, the canals and riverside walks close to my new home. Even my editor has agreed to make the move and I hope to find an untenanted tumbledown cattle shed to provide suitable accommodation. [Thanks. Thanks so very much: Ed]

 The problem confronting us today is whether to change the name.  Or not to bother, maybe just insert a tiny little "ex" before the word "Ruislip". Changing well-known names for neologisms has sometimes had damaging results - The Post Office attempting to become Consignia amidst universal derision is a good example. And the hamlet to which we are migrating is not a household name; I don't want people distracted by trying to work out exactly how to find Upper Silage-cum-Bishop's Nodules. Yes, I think Ruislip needs to remain at the heart of the marketing side of things and I can be a sort of writer-in-exile, warming my heart in the long dark winter evenings with thoughts of the roadworks on the A40, extensive delays on all Tube services to Harrow, the unending posts on Facebook about missing pets, found pets and pets found sadly deceased¹, mislaid keys, strangers outside one's house ("Stay safe, everyone") and the unstinting efforts of the O'Hara Bros to replace every pavement in the borough whether it needs it or not.

 More when I have had a chance to settle in ....

 

1. No pet ever dies - they are always found deceased.

Going to Extremes

 I received a puzzling message from my energy supplier today and I need some time to decide how to respond.  Perhaps one of my readers with a better insight into modern corporate thinking can assist.

Hello Anthony,

 You've been in contact with us recently and I hope that I was able to help. 

 We're keen to hear what your experience was like so we can make improvements to our service. If you have a spare minute, please answer below and give as much feedback as you can.

Have a great day,

So Energy

And it ends asking me to click on one of three buttons, labelled Extremely Satisfied,  Neither satisfied nor dissatisfied and Extremely dissatisfied. I am not allowed to be mildly pleased or a bit miffed. It's the extremes or the middle.

Jolly nice of them to wish me a great day and my degree of chuffedness has undoubtedly risen a notch or two. But that is where the pleasantries must end, I fear.

Let us, if we can, pass over the "I was able to help" and the corporate signature; no name of any real person (or even bot) was appended to the missive, leaving us in some doubt as to who the mysterious "I" may be. I don't suppose they have a autonomous AI brain running the customer communications.

No, the issue at hand is that the reason I contacted them was of a problem entirely of their making. The facts are these clears throat, refreshes memory with a quick glance at notes, reassuring smile to the jury  Last summer, after much pleading on their part, I permitted the installation of a smart meter to monitor my use of gas and electricity, both being supplied by the aforementioned SO Energy. I was assured this process would be seamless with the previous billing system based on my reading the meters every two months or so, backed up by the odd¹ visit from a man in a brown overall and a clipboard. 

Four months elapsed. My account was credited with the monthly direct debit that I pay them. But no charges for fuel. Consequently a hefty credit balance built up. When I looked at the account online there was apparently not a volt of electricity or therm of gas being consumed at Ramblings Towers. I emailed them to point this and was reassured that they were receiving my meter readings and it was all the fault of their dastardly billing team who would "reach out" to me very soon to fix the matter.

Three months later I politely emailed again if the team were now ready to do a bit of reaching, perhaps followed by a bit of pulling their bloody fingers out and doing some actual work to complete the apparently mind-bendingly difficult task of linking a meter reading to a customers account. A couple of months passed and I finally received a series of statements showing the fuel used since the meter was connected and giving me a correct statement of my account. Case closed, I thought. But no. Yesterday came this message

Hello Anthony,

Thank you for your email regarding bills.

Firstly we would like to apologise for not responding to your email query within our usual timeframes. We have received unprecedented levels of customer contact recently due to the ongoing energy crisis, which has meant we have not been able to keep to our usually quick response times.  

I've checked for you and I can see your previous query has already been resolved therefore I'm now closing this ticket.

and this was actually signed by a named person²

 Alright, it's taken them three months to acknowledge my email but I don't care because the account has been sorted out. End of story, yes? The ticket has been closed, the papers are filed away in a plain manilla folder marked "The Ramblings Affair" over-stamped with "Closed" in red ink, and in turn deposited into a heavy cardboard box along with similar cases, the whole being labelled "Embargoed until 2035" and placed in a high security warehouse somewhere near Loughborough.

 No, this one won't die. Today they are back in touch with the message displayed at the top of this column,  to say that they hoped they had been able to help in a problem entirely of their own making, and asking me to rate the "experience".

I don't know what I being asked to rate. The fact I had to chase them to bill me correctly or that they eventually got round to it? Is it the experience of raising the issue with the surnameless ladies of Customer Care? And how do I rate it? Wishy-washy, middle-of-the-road, don't rock the boat opinion or plump for an  "extremely", let them have it with both barrels as it were.?And that, my friends, is why I brought you here today and presented you with the full story. Over to you.

Footnotes

1. There was nothing actually odd about the visits per se. Or about the meter readers. It's just that they only came occasionally.
2. It was only a first name, as it happens, but it feels like I have been contacted by a real person. Or do they call their bots by ordinary English names?

The Coronation - 6: The Day After

 Everything went exactly as planned, bar the weather which, typically, refused to supply warm sunshine and fluffy white clouds, and instead went all gloomy with a steady drizzle and cloud so low that part of the RAF fly-past had to be abandoned. The crowds cheered, the state coaches glittered, Chas and Cammy, surrounded on all sides by bishops charged with preventing their escape, managed to get through a fairly dull service in Westminster Abbey, albeit enlivened by some splendid traditional music plus some modern extras and made a triumphant appearance on the balcony at Buck House a little later.

It was strange to see the blend of religious service and political rite-of-passage. When he arrived at the West Door, Charles was greeted, not Archbishops and Deans, Dukes and Marshalls, but by a young boy, a chorister, who effectively asked him what he was doing there.  His reply was that he was there to serve. (It should have been "This is my personal church, young fellow, and if you don't want my beefeaters to rough you up, I suggest you get out of the way"). Charles, keen to not just endorse Henry VIII's title of Defender of the Faith but to be all things to anyone believing anything by being Defender of Faith, spent a fair amount of time affirming the privileges of the Church of England and the truth of the Protestant religion. Oddly, various clerics participated with readings from the Bible, including some whose faiths do not acknowledge it at all. The one who played the least part in proceedings was the Chief Rabbi, bound by hundreds of years of tradition that forbid Jews participating in the religious proceedings of others. But at least he was there, processing in with the others and being greeted at the end by the newly-crowned monarch.

I was looking forward to seeing the massed ranks of the peerage swearing homage, wearing their ermine state robes and flaunting coronets and tiaras but there were none - modernisation has relegated them to mere onlookers wearing similar gear to everyone else. Only the Archbishop of Canterbury and then the Prince of Wales made a personal act of homage - the rest of the congregation and all of us watching were invited to take a mass oath. 

And now I must revise one of my earlier pieces in this little series, where I opined that not much seemed to be happening locally. Mrs C and I strolled into the heart of beautiful Ruislip this afternoon and saw three roads closed off for street parties. One was rather discreet -

but closer to our house, our near neighbours made their usual exuberant expressions of loyalty 

and, fortuitously, warm sunshine and fluffy white clouds graced the scene.

Covid - All over?

 Amidst the final build up to the Coronation and the news about the local government elections, here is a story that could easily be missed but which is of huge significance

BBC website

The pandemic may have finally declined to the point that 500 people dying from it every day is not seen as a global problem but the sting in the story is the drastic underestimate of deaths and the continuing threat.  Certainly in the streets of London there are very few signs left of the disease which three years ago brought normal life to a halt - the occasional mask-wearer, and some of the signs about keeping one's distance are all that remain to remind us. Those suffering from the effects of long Covid are invisible. Are we as a society becoming complacent? The health service workers clapped by people coming out of their houses on Thursday nights are now out of strike, trying to obtain a fair pay after years of freezes and inadequate settlements, whilst the government boasts about recruiting more. It leaves a feeling of desperate unease.

I did not write a great deal about impact of covid (at least not in this blog; I did keep a private journal of the lockdown period) and I hope never to have to mention it again.

The Coronation - 5: The Excitement is Overwhelming

 Just three short days to go until my old mate Chaz can stick a fancy piece of jewellery on his bonce and nobody will laugh. Surely, one would think, the streets will be awash with flags and patriotic symbols, there will be bunting festooned between the houses, there will be memorabilia galore to buy and display, there will be a flowering of the magnificent artistic talents for which this nation is rightly renowned?

As a litmus test of the extent to which the Coronation is gripping the entire country, I opted to do some hard-hitting, in-depth research here in beautiful Ruislip. I carefully selected a shop representative of the town - Sainsbury's in South Ruislip - and thither I conducted myself on this pleasant spring morning.[You do your regular shopping there anyway, don't you? Ed]. The results, I fear, were less than overwhelming. I took two photographs and these encapsulate the entirety of the impact of the forthcoming event.

Tucked adjacent to the stationery and computer bits shelf, a little display with a few Chaz'n'Cammy masks. Strung up along some of the cash tills and the self-scan checkouts a few strings of Union Jacks. And, as I have already noted, nothing else at all in the store to mark this day out as in any way different from any other early bank holiday. And that's not the royal purple on the placards behind, its just adverts for Sainsbury's Nectar card prices.

There might have been mugs adorned with the royal faces. There could have been colouring books of crowns, beefeaters and princes for the tinies and build-it-yourself models of the royal coaches for the older kids. There might have been long, pull-out maps of the royal route, coronation quiches piled up in the deli section, full length costumes of crowns, ermine, robes, stars of the garter etc for loyalists to don whilst they chanted the "Homage of the People", perhaps books in which loyal sentiments could be inscribed before being sent off to Buckingham Palace.  There might have been many sights and wonders, plus opportunities for shrewd entrepreneurs to sell loads of cheap tat provided it was described as "Right Royal" and adorned with flags.¹
 

But there was nothing other than what you see in those photos. When the grandchildren of the nation ask plaintively in years to come "What did you do to celebrate the coronation", the answer will be "I put on a comic mask with the King's face on it" and they will look puzzled and sad.

Footnote:

1. Absolutely something we at Ramblings would never do, our cheap tat only comes with one flag.

The Coronation - 4: Of Oaths and Allegiances

 The Coronation, that has already brought us the delights of the Coronation Quiche, continues to delight with novelties. The latest story concerns something that really is an innovation - a "Homage of the People". This will be a slot during the ceremony when all of us, peers, clergy, commoners, believers and atheists, even the editorial staff of Ramblings, will be invited by the Archbishop of Canterbury to recite a brand new declaration that goes as follows:

I swear that I will pay true allegiance to Your Majesty, and to your heirs and successors according to law. So help me God.

Well, OK, the atheists get the usual raw deal but can always substitute something for the word "God" should they wish. In my case "The statistical probability that the universe exists because there is a chance, however unlikely, that it can come spontaneously into being and therefore, given that we are here, that that chance has actually materialised, as it happens, and just as well too if you ask me". 

There is a real meaning behind the swearing of allegiance to a king. William I summoned all his peers to Old Sarum, a few years after the conquest of England, and made them swear allegiance as a reward for holding land. All titles in the peerage derive ultimately from that moment. But the oath never applied to the rest of the country, the 3 million or so English men women and children who were merely the subjects of the king.

So, as us cynical columnists might put it, "What's in it for us, Charley-boy?" Do we get tracts of land courtesy of regal graciousness? Do we get fancy titles, the right to coats of arms and to fortify our houses with walls, towers, moats and arrow-slits? Nope, we do not. 

Nit-pickers might also ponder the distinction between true allegiance and plain ordinary allegiance. Is there such a thing as false allegiance?  

As soon as the oath has been taken and a fanfare has sounded, the service continues:

The Archbishop of Canterbury will then proclaim “God Save The King”, with all asked to respond:“God Save King Charles. Long live King Charles. May the King live for ever.”

For ever? Can he be serious? Is he really asking God to make the King immortal? Why not leave it at Long live King Charles - that's fair enough, he's waited a hell of a long time to sit on that throne, he deserves a few years at least to wriggle about it, get really comfy and then get down to some serious reigning. And then, like his ancestors and indeed just like the rest of us mortals, his soul will depart to a higher plane (or whatever). 

That is what is going to take place inside Westminster Abbey. But what of the nation outside? How, exactly, will be we making our homage? We will all, of course, be watching the ceremony on TV or on suitable internet-enabled devices, and most of us will be indoors. Are we expected to go outside to share our homage with our neighbours, in a manner similar to the "Clap for Carers" campaign that enlivened the darkest days of the covid lockdown? Should we be upstanding, hands over hearts in the style so familiar from watching football teams in international competitions as their turgid national anthems are ground out over the loudspeakers? Or, in true Norman style, down upon our knees, heads bent toward the shimmering figures on the screen? Is this the moment for a selfie, to be distributed on Facebook and Instagram, showing the world that we are indeed true liegemen of his gracious Maj and truly grateful for the extra Bank Holiday his crowning has blessed us with?

After some considerable and learned discussion here at Ramblings Towers, the consensus is that a healthy swig of some suitable British ale, accompanied perhaps by a portion of peanuts representing the Commonwealth, is a worthy expression of our allegiance, nay, our true allegiance, and a fitting prelude to the quiche that will the centrepiece of the banquet to follow. Drinking, a slap-up lunch and a holiday - what a great start to His Glorious Reign

-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-

Readers! Don't miss this sensational offer, exclusively to subscribers to this column. Be the first in your area to affirm your undying and true allegiance to His Majesty by wearing this fantastic hoodie

Available in all popular sizes and colours, only from Ramblings of Ruislip (est 2023), By Royal Appointment *. Hurry, Hurry, Hurry. Just  £83.50, plus p&p, service charge, administration fee, proof of Britishness fee, extra fee to prevent Evri couriers from nicking it and special fee to cover all the other fees we haven't had time to invent yet.

Also available - "I swore the oath and all I got was this lousy tract of land in Northumbria"

Terms and Conditions apply and will be supplied upon swearing of a oath to accept them. Failure to swear the oath may make you liable to be declared a foul traitor and have all your goods, lands and titles confiscated and put for sale on Facebook Marketplace

 

* Application pending but bound to be granted as we are the first in the queue with this one

The Coronation - 3: What's God got to do with it?

 King Charles will be crowned a week from today in Westminster Abbey, a religious site with a direct connection to royalty since Edward the Confessor built the predecessor to the current building put up by Henry III, and which became a "royal peculiar" by Elizabeth I. His right to be monarch will be acclaimed by the peerage and ordained by the Church of England speaking on behalf of God. 

The King will in turn make a covenant with his people by uttering the coronation oath. The following extract is from the oath sworn by his mother in 1953, as administered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and I assume he will use the same wording.

Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you to the utmost of your power maintain in the United Kingdom the Protestant Reformed Religion established by law? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Church of England, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in England? And will you preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of England, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?

The other parts of the oath relate to everyone who is a subject of the King, but this section refers only to the Protestant religion. It is worth considering what this means. According to the Office for National Statistics, the results of the 2021 census show:

• For the first time in a census of England and Wales, less than half of the population (46.2%, 27.5 million people) described themselves as “Christian”, a 13.1 percentage point decrease from 59.3% (33.3 million) in 2011; despite this decrease, “Christian” remained the most common response to the religion question.

• “No religion” was the second most common response, increasing by 12.0 percentage points to 37.2% (22.2 million) from 25.2% (14.1 million) in 2011. 

Less than half of the population is Christian but within that number are Catholics, Baptists, Methodists, Quakers, members of the various Reformed churches and so on. The Church of England represents only part of a minority, but it is this unrepresentative group that the King will swear to defend, to protect its privileges and to to the utmost of his power, maintain its doctrine and worship. And by declaring his oath in the most sacred place that he acknowledges, he is swearing that the Protestant religion is true and by implication all other versions of Christianity, never mind the beliefs of the rest of the country, are not.

Charles may the first monarch in British history to be in this strange position, apart from Edward VI and Elizabeth I who implemented the Protestant takeover of the church after they were crowned. Unlike them, he cannot say "I am the king, everyone believe what I believe or I shall persecute you, even unto death". He will take his oath to represent some of his subjects and, unless the wording of the oath is to change drastically, will omit the rest of us.

During the rest of his lifetime, and that of William his heir, it is likely that Christianity will continue to decline and that the majority of Britons will describe themselves as of no religion. Will there come a time when it is no longer reasonable for the King to defend the privileges of a small minority on the grounds that that is what God wants? God remains silent on the subject.

Grotesque Exaggeration of the Week

 At the conclusion of the Mastermind 2023 series on BBC Two earlier this week, presenter Clive Myrie declared that the achievement of the winner, Stuart Field was "absolutely incredible".

The abuse of the once rather useful word "incredible" by people in the media has long been a source of pain to those of us at Ramblings, who believe that words ought to have some sort of integrity, and who reject Humpty Dumpty's famous dictum that "When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less". ¹ We have tried to adapt to some modern usages. But Mr Myrie has taken Dumptyism² to a new high.  Mastermind is a quiz show in which whoever scores the most points wins. That the winners  often painstakingly research subjects of zero interest to the rest of us - Mr Field chose the BBC TV show Extras as his special subject - does not tarnish the result. It doesn't matter if the other candidates in the final score just one point and someone scores two - that person will be declared the winner.  Therefore there is nothing whatsoever in the least remarkable, in any way, that someone won. And therefore that achievement, in itself, is not even incredible, alone absolutely incredible.

What therefore compelled Myrie to reach for the super-superlative to express his inability to put any credence upon Field's memory for television trivia? Did Field utterly trounce his rivals and score more points than has ever been known in the venerable history of this show? No. The scores were 20, 22, 22,24,25 and his score was 28. A good result, certainly. Possibly impressive. But not incredible. 

Perhaps Field had to battle obstacles hitherto unknown to Mastermind contestants? Did he have to learn three obscure foreign languages within a month? Did he have to memorise the contents of the West Yorkshire (he is from Sheffield) telephone directory for March, 1958 and cross-refer each name to whatever their descendants are currently doing? Was he compelled to travel from his home to the TV studio by pogo-stick, blind-folded and being harassed all the way by Rottweilers? No, I don't think of any this applies, fascinating though it would be to watch.

Does this therefore come back to the obsession in the media to build up every TV moment as special and as better than the last? Will next year's winner be greeted by "That's so staggeringly incredible I'm going outside to jump off Tower Bridge"?  Wouldn't it be nice if Myrie simply said "You've scored 27 points, everyone else scored 26 so you are the winner, jolly well done and now, for an encore, you can pogo-stick your way back to Bolton. Nigel, release the Rottweilers!"

Ah, well, must break off. I'm going to have an utterly unbelievable cup of tea, the weather is simply amazingly normal for this time of year and I shall soon watch some World Championship snooker, a pastime to which "incredible" is, on occasion, le mot juste

Footnotes
1. Alice through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
2. [Must we? Ed]

Alert Test Hits Britain!

 It was National Emergency Test Day today. The Government planned to send a message to every mobile phone in the UK at 3:00pm, preceded by a beeping signal, and bearing the following text:

Pic: The Guardian

Mrs C. and I made sure we were seated comfortably in the living room, with the curtains drawn and a bucket of sand close by. As the witching hour drew near, we concentrated on our phones (although with the snooker in the background showing John Higgins leading Kyren Wilson 8-0 in the second round of the World Championships, it was not easy). At last it came - or any rate it did on my phone. A beeping tone for a few seconds and then the message popped up, complete with a voice over from an unidentified American female. Mrs C.'s phone remained mysteriously silent.

Naturally there was a barrage of reaction on social media. The population divided into the following groups:

1. Those who received the warning tone and the message
2. Those who received the message but only a truncated tone, just a second or so according to some
3. Those who received it one minute early
4. Those who received it late - in some cases after several minutes
   
5. Those who received nothing at all
6. Those who received it but had failed to take heed of any of the advance publicity, of which there had been plenty, and who had a shock. 
7. Those who received it but had forgotten about the advance publicity and who had a shock from which they quickly recovered.

I am disappointed that, test or not, no further action is required. For it was just three years ago that, under the guidance of  ex-prime minister B. Johnson, I went onto  high alert in the national interest.  And have remained so. Despite not receiving the regulation tin hat and armbands marked "Alert Warden", which I am fairly sure I was promised when I was recruited, I have never let my guard drop. I mentally note all suspicious movements in beautiful Ruislip and maintain a sharpened pencil close at hand to write them down, should the need arise. I peer with slitted eyes around my estate [back garden: Ed] each morning lest something sinister should have occurred during the night. My phone is always charged in case the call comes.

And now there is a national system of alerts but still I have not been given the long-awaited commission into the Alert Corps. Such a promotion, fully deserved and way overdue, would entitle one, I should think, to a proper steel hat, some stripes to be sewn onto one's jumper (Mrs C. assisting) and above all to a special phone alert that ordinary members of the public would not receive. Having that alert, say ten minutes before the real one, would give us officers time to don our hats and armbands, collect our pencils and assemble in an orderly way at strategic points in the locality, thereby to dispense directions, information and reassurance to an anxious public.

"Nothing to worry about" I would say, crisply and with effortless authority "Move along now, return to your homes or places of work, everything is in hand, well done everybody"

Nonetheless I shall carry on, undaunted, always on the alert until the all-clear finally signs and we can all go back to civvy street. I shall do my duty, God knows I can do no less. Or more. Thank you. 

-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-

Readers! Have you been involved in any amusing or life-threatening "It happened because of the emergency alert" situations. We at Ramblings are keen to hear from you for a forthcoming blockbuster book, soon to be made into a long-running TV series (please God), called You've Been Alerted. We are looking for, in particular:

• Pilots who nearly crashed on landing due to looking down at their phone as it went off
• Cabbies who dinged into the back of the van ahead when they were startled
• Painters who left a long streak down the wall as they dropped their brush
• Mothers who took their hands off the pram handles at the top of a steep hill only to watch in horror as it hurtled down, Battleship Potemkin style before a policeman miraculously stopped it with a deft twirl of his truncheon
• Cafe proprietors left with a sopping counter top after they took off their eyes off the cup into which they were pouring coffee
• Footballers who looked up at the wrong moment and then found an opponent darting past to score (Newcastle 5 Tottenham 0 at half time today might be one such instance)
• Newsreaders who announced "And here is the three o'clock new...Oh shit what's that noise, oh bugger I'm still on air" 

And anything else that we can milk for all it's worth, especially if we can get our hands on it royalty-free. Send your submissions to the usual address. Terms and conditions apply, probably, as soon as we can think of any.

 

The Coronation - 2: Unleash The Quiche!

 Chicken featured on the menu for the silver jubilee of George V and, more famously, at the coronation dinner for Queen Elizabeth II. The precedent for her son as he planned his special nosh-up seems clear but Charles is his own man and vegetarianism is definitely in. The dish of the day for the "Coronation Big Lunch" is to be a quiche.There has been much comment about the choice and the fillings - notably broad beans and spinach - and many commentators on social media have pointed out that the current shortage of eggs in some shopping outlets could make it hard for the nation to join in the gastronomic feast.

The "Big Lunch" is something new to me. Apparently started by the Queen a while back, it encourages anyone wishing to eat a menu with royal approval to do so at a communal event. The burning question is whether the royals themselves will be tucking in on Sunday 7th May, the day after the coronation and the day designated for Chazza's subjects to get stuck in to the pastry. In the interests of research¹, this columnist looked at the royals' own website for details of the coronation events. It is surprisingly coy about the new king's arrangements. In fact it says nothing at all about whether he and his consort will be necking a few quiches, dining off a whole roast swan stuffed into a boar stuffed into a dolphin or just nipping out to the Windsor Pizza Hut with brother Andrew. The royals are expected to attend a concert, to be staged at Windsor Castle by the BBC, on that night, but whether they will be reeling in from the pub or dining in splendour off gold plates at a pavilion attended by mahouts on elephants is not known.

In beautiful Ruislip, events such as the Queen's jubilees have been celebrated with street parties and much jollity but there doesn't seem quite the same enthusiasm for Charlie's do. Hillingdon Council have put up flags and some shops are displaying festive posters but a certain sordid commercialism has crept in - a local baker advertising a pie as "fit for a king", that sort of thing.  It seems unlikely that your correspondent will be partaking of anything at a Big Lunch, never mind the famous quiche. Perhaps one of Sainsbury's standard quiches will do a similar job when Mrs C. and I have our own "Modest Lunch" here at Ramblings Towers.

Footnote
1. Yes, really. We do the groundwork and dare to venture where others do not.

The Weasel Chickens Out

Fox News, an American broadcaster whose very name contains a lie, has been successfully sued for defamation over its false claims that the 2020 US election was rigged. The owner and executive chairman is the same nasty, money-crazed reactionary outed in these columns more than once, a Mr R Murdoch. There was a well-known comic in the early days of BBC Radio called Richard "Stinker" Murdoch, who is no relation but whose nickname could surely be applied, without the quote marks, to his modern day namesake.

Fox, under the directions of Stinker, knowingly broadcast inflammatory claims that led directly to the battle of Congress and the deaths of several people. Murdoch was due to testify in the lawsuit. At the expense of yielding to the suit, and at a cost of nearly $800m, he was able to avoid taking the oath and facing questions about why he has plotted high treason against his adopted country.

I have given up hoping that Murdoch would either be dumped by his partners and shareholders, or be removed with extreme prejudice by some agency dedicated to justice, but let us at least rejoice in the diminution of his fortune.

The Coronation - 1: A Nation Holds Its Breath

 As a loyal and devoted subject of the Crown, and one whom many believe to be long overdue for official recognition for services to literature, blogging and taking the piss out of advertisers, I humbly submit the first in what will build into a historically important series of short pieces about the one subject that is gripping the nation at this time - the Eurovision Song Contest The Coronation of King Charles III. For, in just a few short weeks, the nation's longest serving Prince of Wales will finally get to wear a crown, have oil splashed on his head for the first time since a dodgy barber in his student days asked if he wanted anything on top, and can point to coins with his face on and say "Hey, everyone, that's me, that is". He no longer needs to carry money or a passport, or drive a vehicle with registration plates. Everyone has to walk behind him all the time and he no longer needs to mouth the words to the National Anthem on state occasions.

Today I shall look back to his namesakes, Charlieboys One and Two. What can we learn from their reigns, separated by execution, civil wars and an 11 year Republican interregnum?

Chazza One was a difficult sod. He didn't like being told what do to, so made sure he only picked advisors whose one phrase was "Excellent idea, your Majesty". He was an awkward second son who decided that the Divine Right of Kings was a jolly good doctrine, and it was purely coincidence that he himself happened to be the Chosen One, and anyone who thought kings ought to have some sort of responsibility to listen to their subjects was doing the work of the devil. It all ended unpleasantly on a cold day outside the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall. He did at least reform and strengthen the Navy, and started the long and awkward process of persuading the English that such things needed to be paid for, but it was the Parliamentary opposition to him that established the core of the constitution as we know it today, not Charles.

His son, Chazza Two ("The Kingdom Strikes Back") took over a nation utterly weary of the failed Cromwellian attempts to have a Puritan state backed by popular consent (It failed because deep down the Puritan cause was not that popular). He established the Royal Society and presided over one of the great periods of scientific discovery, for which he has my respect. He also, with brother James, presided over the exploitation of the West Indies and southern states of the American colonies which were based on the expropriation of natives and the West African slave trade. His failure to have a legitimate heir nearly led to the destruction of the constitution and a Louis XIV-style absolute monarchy at the hands of the aforementioned Jazza; fortunately things worked out differently.

And so to Charlieboy Three. King because the constitution says he is, not because God has ordained it, and with very little power to screw things up the way his forebears did, though with a lot of influence behind the scenes. Ahead of his time with his interest in ecology and the preservation of the environment. Can he inspire today's youth in the way that his mum did in her time? Seems pretty unlikely. Will republicanism revive in the former British colonies? I believe it will, in a few years. But does any of it matter? That may be the most important question of all.

The Welsh Connection

 I am indebted to ex-Wealdstone centre back and club legend Sean Cronin for retweeting the following from one of his compatriots:

I had not heard of this letter before so I looked it up. The original is in the French National Archive. There is however, no record of a reply. Is this because the King of France decided not to offend the English, or felt that a secret reply was more discreet? No, it is because he regularly received letters similar to the one below and simply filed away Owain's letter as just one more of a set.

Dear King Charles VII

I hope this letter finds you in the very best of health. Let me introduce myself - I am Owain Glyndŵr, Prince of Wales and I need your help in something that will be of the greatest benefit to both of us. Some time ago a very rich man, Charles of Harlech, deposited all his money with the Royal Bank of Wales. Unfortunately he died in a tragic crossbow bolt to the throat accident. He did not name his next of kin and nobody has claimed the money. It has been in a special holding account for five years and will shortly be forfeit, unless it can be claimed first.  This, Your Highness is where you come in. It so happens you have the same name as the deceased and if you made the claim, the Bank would have to honour it.  I can ensure that your papers are quickly processed and propose to give you 30% of the proceeds. The total sum is two hundred and forty (240) groats, thereby making your share no less than eighty (80) groats!!

Please write back urgently, using only the most efficient of messengers, with the following details:

Name
Age
Job Title
Address of main castle of residence
Passport number

and enclose the sum of two (2) groats to cover preliminary expenses, which will of course be reimbursed when the funds are released. 

Most respectfully yours

Owain Glyndŵr, Prince.

Getting a Grilling - the Aftermath

 I wrote yesterday about the mysterious poster on behalf of the "British Toast Association" that had been put in a prominent place near Ruislip Manor Station. I pondered that it might be a spoof but opted instead for the far more likely reason that sinister forces might be afoot.

Today, whilst in haste to the station to catch a rare train (serious delays following an all-out Tube strike yesterday), I noticed a large group of hi-vis vest wearers near the station, and on drawing closer saw some with cameras and other gear. Their attention was focussed on the mysterious poster. I had intended to take a proper photo but there was not enough time so I caught a quick snap, which I here present to you:

Alas, I missed off the left side where the toast itself was pictured, but at least I recorded something because on my return, a  few hours later, the yellow-jacketed crew was gone, the street was quiet and the poster had been replaced by something else.

So it was all a stunt after all, an advertising shoot or perhaps a TV sketch, or a clip to be used in a drama. Or maybe there really is to be a British Toast Association and they were preparing the publicity material for the grand launch, presumably at the Dome (or whatever it's called these days), complete with a display of precision toast-ejection by a group of girls on horseback, balloons showering crumbs over the Thames and celebrities munching away merrily for the cameras. I look forward to missing it.

Getting a Grilling

 A poster has appeared by Ruislip Manor Station. On a plain white background, it features a picture of a very well-done piece of toast, has a slogan saying something like "Make your weekdays more weekend with toast" and bears the name of British Toast Association.  That is all. I was unable to take a picture as I was driving past at the time but will endeavour to do so.

There is no such thing as the British Toast Association. There is a Guild of Toastmasters but these people officiate at functions, praying for silence for the father of the bride, and suchlike. They do not, to the best of my limited knowledge, wield machines for the grilling of bread, nor do they judge slices as to crispness, degrees of carbonisation and suitability to bear a generous lather of butter and marmalade (insert toast topping of your choice here).  A Google search fails to reveal anything. I conclude that this is a spoof or the start of something else. 

I suspect skulduggery is afoot in the world of commercial baking. A group of disaffected crumpet-makers, in cahoots with the muffin-men and purveyors of pikelets, are planning a coup. They will announce a breakaway Super League of craft bread makers, spurning those who churn out the humble white sliced loafs, and restricting entry to a selected group. Then they will plaster our high streets with posters extolling their products

"Cor - it's Crumpet Time!";  "Bag yourself a Baguette!!"; "Wow, look at the Buns on that!!!" - that sort of thing. There will be ghastly TV adverts no doubt featuring beaming actors dancing and twirling around as they cram sophisticated fermented-yeast items into their mouths, plus an irritating jingle featuring whistling and a catchy tune. There will be National Griddle-Cake championships and Bagel Marathons, and racehorses called BannockULike. There will be lovable animated characters, although as most of the popular animal types have been taken, they may have to feature something more unusual - perhaps Jeremy and Rachel Dung-Beetle will be portrayed having adventures which always end when they gather round the family fireside scoffing craft Ciabattas and Dampfnudeln¹.

Somehow the ordinary bakers have got wind of this scheme. They have resolved to unite and strike first. Led by Jeremiah Warburton, Carol Kingsmill and Sir Geoff Hovis, they have realised that, if they get everyone hooked on toast made with their everyday products, then the Super League will be outflanked - we will all be too busy pushing down the levers on toasters, musing over whether to set the dial to 6 or 7, running cold water over our burnt finger-tips and forever picking up crumbs to worry about knocking back the odd Limpa² or Melonpan³.  

And so, in haste, the British Toast Association was born. No website as yet, no contact numbers, not even a lovable mascot to adorn their posters, but surely they will come, social media will be deluged with the promotion of good old English toast - "As good today as it was last Thursday" - and the world will be safe once again for those who want something on which to put a generous dollop of peanut butter.

-&-&-&-&-&-&-

Footnotes

1. Sweet, dense and moist bread from Germany
2. Scandinavian sweet spiced rye bread
3. Crispy Japanese bun made with cookie dough

[Is that all of them? Jolly nice of Messrs Google to assist with this project: Ed]

Return to Rush Hour

 I don't drive to work any more, and just as well too, but today I had to rise at some unearthly hour to take my car in for its annual service. Normally the exit from driveway to road is simple, maybe one car will be passing as I crane my neck in each direction. But leaving as I did, at exactly the same time everyone going to work was on their way, and everyone taking kids to school was doing likewise, as I backed out into the street to face the crossroads there was a car behind me, a van crossing ahead in one direction, cars coming the other way, cars trying to come up the facing road to turn across me ... I'm telling you, I am not used to this. 

A few minutes later, less than a mile from the garage and the roads were locked solid. I sat and fumed for about ten minutes as we crawled, maybe one vehicle at a time, each time the traffic lights ahead changed. Eventually I turned off and took a longer way round.  Having finally dropped off the car, I aimed to take a bus home, but just missed one, and then nearly caught it up as I started to walk home but as the traffic was moving at about 6mph, and I don't jog any more, it managed to evade me. Naturally the one behind was stuck in traffic and I had walked half way home before it finally caught me up and I could sit down for the final part of the journey.

I used to drive a fair chunk of the M25 every day to reach a god-forsaken trading estate in New Malden. I don't think I could cope with that now.