Pointless Tweet of the Day

 I make very little use of Twitter. I mainly follow my local football club and a few individuals whose tweets interest or amuse me. But I have been on the system for about 15 years, long enough, one might think, for Twitter to have some idea about the sort of adverts that might attract my attention. 

No, of course not. They haven't got a clue. This is what turned up in my feed today,

I suppose, given the mention of "pharma" that GSK might be GlaxoSmithKline. But then again, who knows? They haven't bothered to actually put their proper name (even though there was plenty of room) and I'm not going to waste my time clicking on their twitter hash, cunningly named @GSK (and therefore telling me nothing additional by way of help).  I am trying to feel a frisson of vicarious excitement that they have won some sort of award but I have no idea what ESG means and I don't know what putting the # in front does, either. 

 I have no idea who or what DJSI is (but I have a horrible feeling it may be the Disc Jockeys' Social Institution, a ghastly club where middle-aged men pretend to like the music that appeals to 13-year olds and who are unable to listen to anything longer than 3 minutes without interrupting with a "dedication" or a "motoring update"). No award that these parasites issue is worth anything.

Anyway, hearty congratulations go to @SPGlobal, apparently and no, I don't know who they are and what their connection is to the DJs or to the pharma industry or to GSK.

And now you are undoubtedly thinking to yourselves "Did he click on the link in order to learn more?". No. I did not. I would, in fact, be happy to learn less. I do not need to know who has the leading score in the pharma industry, whether judged on ESG (sorry, #ESG) or not. And really, Twitter, you should bleedin' well know that by now.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of, Your Grace

 

Source: The Guardian

A wooden bird. Worth a fortune to those in the know. Royal connections and skull-duggery. I think we have here what is known as a prequel.....

 *&*&*&*&*&

My manservant coughed discreetly as he let her into the cheap room that I rented in a cheap alley near Cheapside.

"A lady to see you, sir"

What sort of lady would come by herself to my part of town? She swept into the room, veiled and wearing a dark cloak. 

"Mr Shovell? I need a man of discretion and ability. I am afraid for my life. A certain personage is threatening me"

"Indeed my lady? What do you wish of me?"

"Follow me tonight. I shall frequent Whitehall. Scare him away, Mr Shovell."

"And may I know your name? For to act for one unknown is to cast dung after ordure"

She frowned at my aphorism "Call me Lady Moresee". She left. I pondered a while, then procured my sharpest dagger, my second-best cloak and a bottle of mead. It was going to be an interesting night.

*&*&*&*&*&

The Fat Man grunted as he swilled another bottle of sack. His weaselly associate still held the pike with its sharp tip just under my throat. I breathed very carefully. No sound from outside reached this small, tapestry-lined chamber.

"I am after this ...object, Mr Shovell. I have been pursuing it for many years. During that time I have risen high in my ...chosen profession. I have much power and you would do well to hearken."

"Oh, I'm hearkening" I said, as jauntily as a man with a pike at his throat can be "But I haven't heard anything worth hearkening to yet"

"Shall I prick him a little, your eminence?" hissed the little man.

"No, we need him intact, Mr Cornwall. But only as long as he is useful to us. Now, I ask you again, where is Mistress Moresee?"

"I don't know and even if I did, I never betray a client"

"But she has betrayed you, Mr Shovell". The Fat Man laughed, a long and wheezy laugh "And she has betrayed me and Mr Cornwall here, too. 

Then it all went black.

*&*&*&*&*&

We were gathered in the upper room in the Angel Inn at Islington. A fast coach-and-four was waiting below but I knew that none of us there would be fleeing north on it tonight. The Fat Man sat in the only chair, sweat glistening on his forehead in the light of the crackling fire. Cornwall paced up and down. Lady Moresee stood by the window, tense and trembling. 

I pointed to the package on the table. "Before we unwrap that, let me tell you a story. A story about three very ambitious people. People like - you, Lady Jane Seymour! Yes, I saw through your story at once. And you, Cardinal Wolsey! Everyone knows you're the fattest man in the Church. And as for Cornwall - or should I say Cromwell? The finest pike-twiddler this side of the The Strand. But what was it all about?"

Wolsey pointed a shaking finger at the package. "Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell slit the paper. Wolsey reached and withdrew a small wooden figure.

"At last. After so long, it's finally mine". I watched the others; they were watching him. I grabbed the pike. "Back against the wall, Cromwell. And you, Wolsey. Hands where I can see them. Ah, no you don't" and I snatched the little knife from Seymour's hand "Now, I prithee, show us the prize".

"It's a falcon" Wolsey's voice registered amazement and shock "I thought it was a precious relic, covered in gold and jewels. It's just a sodding wooden falcon. It's worth no more than £75"

Ignoring the pike, he stood up, gathered his robes about him and swept out, Cromwell following meekly in his wake. I let them go. Little did they know that the coachman was going to take them directly to the Tower where the King's executioner was waiting. I looked at Seymour, whose moist lips were parted.

"Oh, Mr Shovell, you'll not see me taken by the guard, will you? I thought we had something special between us. You did love me, did you not?"

"Perhaps, Jane" I said through gritted teeth "But you're taking the fall. The King's been on to you for some time.  That falcon is going back to Ann Boleyn and you, My Lady Moresee, can kiss goodbye to your pretty little head".

*&*&*&*&*&

Cast

Cardinal Wolsey	Orson Welles (with sherry)
King Henry VIII	Orson Welles (with cushion up his tunic)
Lady Jane Seymour	Jane Seymour (Jane Seymour the actor, not Jane Seymour the Lady)
Thomas Cromwell	Oliver Cromwell
Sam Shovell	see if Michael Caine has a free day
Manservant	Sam Kydd

My new mate, Chris the robot

The landline rang and it was an unfamiliar number. I automatically assumed it was a spam call but, because I like playing games with these people, I picked up. After a short pause, a friendly English male voice announced himself as "Chris, your local energy advisor for your postcode".

I was intrigued. I don't know how you get to be an expert on local energy but, let me tell you, there's loads of it round here, from the gale force winds that blow at the top of Windmill Hill near where I live in beautiful Ruislip, to the majestic onrushing waters of the river Pinn. I also pondered on how anyone could be an advisor for a postcode and whether he had opted for my area or had it handed it to him by his manager "Jim, you lucky sod, you get W1A, plenty of rich folk there, Alison, you get OK4, take your waders, it can be pretty wet up in the Orkneys, and Chris, watch yourself where you're going lad, I've hand-picked you for Ruislip. They're a rough lot there, don't let me down".

 Chris then asked if I was the householder and I mumbled something, and after another pause said cheerily "I assume you've taken advantage of the Government scheme for insulation 10 or 20 years ago". Now strictly speaking that is a statement about him and not a question so I didn't answer. Instead I said "Don't you have to qualify for that?". Another pause and it all went quiet.

Ten seconds of online research revealed that "Chris" is a very clever bot, a series of recordings that are played by computer and adjusted for the response of the victim. Anything unexpected, as in my question, aborts it. There are numerous complaints about "Chris" making multiple calls to the same people and frustration that the authorities do not intervene. Presumably the idea is to find someone who will say that they do want advice or insulation and then a real person will take over. As the cost of making the robot calls is pretty low, the people behind it just let the system run phoning numbers in sequence.

 I must admit I thought I was talking to a real person, albeit rather a slow-witted one.  It would have made no difference to the outcome but, now I know, I will refrain from inventing time-wasting stories in future because, sadly, the only time that I would be wasting would be my own.

The Uxbridge Effect

 One must feel sympathy for the hapless family who found their dream holiday in Cornwall metamorphosed into something unusual - a hotel in sunny Uxbridge. The Guardian took up their case to reveal the usual web of agents and hotels blaming each other for incompetence, and leaving the customer to suffer.

What, of course, concerns us is the fascinating idea that the agent, Booking.com, could consider that Uxbridge (which The Guardian maliciously describes as "a London suburb close to Slough"¹) might be some sort of acceptable substitute for the golden beaches of north Cornwall. Booking.com is a Dutch organisation but presumably has some knowledge of UK geography. They must surely know that Uxbridge, just four miles from beautiful Ruislip, is sufficiently far from the coast that any seaside jaunt that starts from these parts requires either a re-mortgage to pay for the exorbitant cost of train tickets or hours spent in a hot, cramped car jammed onto a motorway, as the flasks of tea cool and the impatient kids in the back seats dig their feet into one's back.

Of course, it is possible that one of the Dutch researchers came here on a day-trip a few years ago and still cherishes happy memories of buying cheap chocolate bars in Poundland, admiring the many office blocks that have all but strangled the historic town centre and finally taking a train a few stops east to stroll blissfully up Ruislip High Street for a spiritual recharge by the duck pond. It's not exactly a fun-filled family day out but maybe there was sufficient magic to make Uxbridge the obvious choice when it became apparent that there was a cock-up with the Newquay booking. 

Footnote:

1. I have covered the "part of Slough" calumny before, in a searing and contempt-laden review of Facebook's disgusting practice of branding Ruislip as part of the hellhole ten miles to our west. I have explained why right-minded citizens should affirm a belief that Slough remains a place to avoid as part of my series 101 Things I Refuse To Do Before I Die.

Petrol, panic and perception

 Here we go again. Another news story blown up out of proportion with serious consequences for huge numbers of people. Nine years ago the fears of a tanker drivers' strike (that never happened) created massive demand for petrol that saw many stations run dry and others besieged by long queues of motorists desperate to top up.Now, with a few BP stations having to close because of a shortage of tanker drivers, the fear has returned, generating the self-reinforcing "rational" behaviour of drivers queuing to fill up because they don't want to be trumped by all the other drivers queuing to fill up because they don't want to be the ones left out repeat ad nauseam.

 These are some of the typical comments on the Ruislip Facebook group posted today:

The cause of the shortage of tanker drivers is, of course, Brexit which at a stroke forced large numbers of drivers to return home but provided no home-grown replacements. We learned today from the hapless "Minister of Transport" that his department is considering whether temporary visas might help' naturally the most dysfunctional government department, the Home Office, is unhappy and will probably block it on the grounds that the British people voted to take control, or something.

Wholesale gas prices have increased sharply and shortages of other workers is pushing up inflation,  President Biden  has made it clear to prime minister Johnson that the UK is not in any sense a priority for a trade deal, a headline I saw in passing on one of the Irish daily papers stocked by my supermarket noted that UK exports to Ireland were down a third since Brexit, and now the media are raising alarm about whether the shelves will be fully stocked for Xmas. Jeepers. We really are the guys, aren't we?