November, 2007:

In a recent overhaul of the Dangerous Wild Animals Act (1976) the British government have removed the need to obtain licenses for a number of exotic pets. Whereas previously you had to go through a lengthy and expensive bureaucratic process to own a woolly lemur, North American porcupine, or squirrel monkey; now all you need to do is saunter down to your local Pets-at-home and order half a dozen of each.

This change in the law has ramifications for the blogging community too. Jeff may well be emigrating to England when he learns that over here he can keep as many emus in his back garden as he wishes. Greg, Deb, and Bon Bon however will probably be staying put as Badgers alas remain prohibited. Lee will also not be emigrating as he will be unable to take with him his beloved pet dingo and red and grey kangaroos.

The actual process of drawing up the reforms must have been incredibly stressful. There are a number of powerful lobby groups in the UK that had to be dealt with: The Brazilian Wolf Spider Owners Society, the Keep Earless Seals Off Our Streets Campaign (KESOOC), and of course the highly militant Liberate Leaping Lemurs League. No, it mustn’t have been an easy job.

And so who can blame the poor junior minister in charge if he cracked under the strain. So what if he made up a few animals in order to flesh out the list. He’s only human after all. Anyway, maybe one day scientist will discover a cacomistles, a binturong, or a kinkajou. Who knows what the future will bring. And besides, Lewis Carroll made his fame and fortune by talking absolute claptrap about Jabberwockys and Bandersnatchs and all sorts of rubbish. Give a man a break.

Incidentally, you will all no doubt be delighted to learn that chickens remains joyfully off the prohibited list.

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Amy has grown rather attached to one of the presents Evan received for his birthday. It’s basically a little battery powered plastic box which bleeps out a variety of tunes when you randomly mash its buttons. It’s called a “my-Pod”, which for some reason I find to be a much more witty and clever a title than it actually is. Simple things please simple minds I suppose.

One of the tunes on the my-Pod is Top of the world and Amy has repeatedly declared this to be her favorite. As she likes it so much I decided to liberate the original Carpenter’s version from the internet.

As soon as Karen Carpenter started warbling Amy pricked up her ears.

“Hey!” she said, “Is that Uncle Neil singing that song?”

“Yes Amy. Yes it is.” I replied “And next time he comes round you should ask him to sing it for you.”

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Amy and I were walking down by the canal the other day when a bike came barrelling towards us down the towpath on an apparent collision course.

“Oh Shit!” said Amy.

It’s an interesting experience hearing your three year old daughter swear. You go through a mixture of emotions: shock, amusement, shame, and strangely enough pride. The thing that impressed me most was that she used it completely appropriately and with the correct intonation and emphasis.

Knowing that if I made a big deal of it she would probably say it all the more I just let it pass. But it raised an interesting question for me: how do I feel about my daughter swearing? I know of parents who let their kids swear like troopers at home. They say that as long as they are able modify their behaviour when out in public they see no problem with it. On the other hand however I know of other people who wash their children’s mouths with soap and water should their children utter the merest “bugger” or “damn”. I personally have never had an opinion about this one way or the other, which is the main reason I think I’m having difficulty working out what my stance should be.

Amy does know some things are taboo. Around six months ago she went through a phase when she was calling everything “stupid”, particularly other people. We quickly drummed into her that it was very unkind to call people names. She took this so much to heart that she now rigorously polices my own and Kerry’s language. Should either one of us accidentally slip up and let a “stupid” through our lips we get thoroughly told off by an angry three year old.

And when it comes down to it I think she has her priorities right. Saying “shit” might be a little rude and uncouth, but using words in order to belittle others is most certainly worse.

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In the mid nineties a drunk 18 year old needing a cheap way to get back to Holmfirth at 11pm on a Friday night had two choices: the 312 bus or the 313.

The 312, while marginally quicker, was the more edgy of the two.  The passengers always seemed more aggressive and confrontational somehow.  I hold a theory that this is due to the villages it served: namely the comedically titled Netherthong and Thongs Bridge. The villages’ unfortunate association with ladies undergarments causes its residents to have a subconscious chip on their shoulder (or rather a string up their arse crack). This seething bitterness is quietly and discreetly repressed during their normal life, but after imbibing alcohol the populace of both the Thongs lose there previous self control and become angry embittered louts spoiling for a fight.
 
The 313’s route on the other hand didn’t pass through any places named after trashy lingerie, and as a result was much more civilised in atmosphere.  Which isn’t to say that things didn’t get a little rambunctious of course; but it was a jovial and genial rambunctiousness that was most pleasant to be a part of.  Good natured banter, happy camaraderie, and drunken singing were the order of the day. 

On those beer fueled journeys home we used to invent a variety of games to pass the time. My personal favorite was the “see how many screws you can remove from the bus” competition.  Like some kind of giant game of kerplunk we had to take out as many as we could without making the bus structurally unsound.  In retrospect it perhaps was not the most civic minded of games, but to our 18 year old drink fuddled minds it appeared the height of sophisticated wit.
 
Things were not all fun and frolics however. I quickly found that after a night on the beer it takes my bladder approximately forty minutes to reach bursting point.  Unfortunately it took the 313 bus approximately fifty five minutes to reach my home.  These two facts did not make for the most comfortable of bus journeys at times.  In fact there were frequently occasions when it all got too much and I had to get off a couple of miles before my stop in order that I could relieve myself in a handy bush. It was on one of these emergency pit stops that the infamous talking tree episode took place. I’m not sure if it is good blogiquette to quote from your own blog, but I’ll be buggered if I’m typing it all out again:

One particular night we came across a three foot high wall with a hollow tree on the other side. Thinking I was perhaps the wittiest person in the entire world I vaulted the wall and jumped down into the centre of the tree. Only to find out that although the wall was 3 feet high on one side, it was 8 feet high on the other and I was now trapped inside the tree. The walls of the tree were slippery with rot and the opening at the top was about a foot beyond my reach.

My calls for help were met by my drunken and hysterical friends shouting “oh look, a talking tree”. Very amusing I’m sure. Visions of the front page headline of the local newspaper proclaiming “Drunken pillock rescued by fire brigade from a tree, parents very disappointed indeed” swam before my eyes.

Eventually I managed to get out, bizarrely enough via my equally idiotic friend jumping down there with me and letting me climb on his shoulders. I will leave you to ponder on how he managed to get out himself, some mysteries are better left unrevealed.

_{From: Well thats another fine mess, 25th October 2006}

 
Just as it was common to get off the bus too early, it was also possible to get off too late.  Generally this was the result of you falling asleep and your swines of friends deliberately not waking you and craftily sneaking off the bus while you slumbered.  I think Ali held the record with a nap that took him right to the final stop and a long five mile walk home.

Ah, Happy days.

And now I learn that the powers that be have deemed that the 313 bus route is to be discontinued. And, although that decision will have no effect on my current life whatsoever, the news of it’s passing makes me a just little sad that the new generations of drunken idiots will never know its joys. Perhaps I should get in touch with National Heritage and see if I can get a preservation order placed on it.

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My mother has recently returned from a short holiday to Istanbul. Knowing that her son’s love is a fragile beast which is largely dependent upon the volume of presents showered upon his shoulders, she brought me back a traditional Turkish gift: a Tomtom GPS car navigation system from the shop at the airport.

Boy oh boy do I love it. So far I have got it to direct me to my work, to the supermarket, to the petrol station, and to my mother’s house. Of course I didn’t really need it to tell me the way to those places, I simply get such a thrill watching that little blue arrow whizz up and down the roads that I just can’t pass up an opportunity to play with it.

The only time that I’ve actually used it to take me somewhere to which I didn’t already know the way was on Wednesday night giving Jim a lift home from the pub. He kept spoiling my fun however by blurting out directions five seconds before the tomtom did, so I’m not even sure it counts. I’m confident it will come into it’s own when I use it for work though. I can visit up to five or six new addresses every day and so its really going to prove invaluable. No more stopping every three meters to consult the A-Z. Bliss.

I’ve also had vague fantasies about randomly typing an assortment of letters and numbers into the postcode finder and just heading off where ever it tells me. There’s definitely a concept for a travel book in there somewhere, but I shall leave it to more nomadic and adventurous souls to write. I’m happy enough just being told where the nearest cash machine is.

Looking at the tomtom website I’ve also discovered you can download alternative voices for it. Most of these are pretty crappy; various “comedy” characters lifted straight from the bumper book of cliched stereotypes. But there is one that is rather tempting. Somehow they have managed to persuade John Cleese to record a set, and the prospect of having Mr Fawlty telling me to “turn right you bloody fool!” is very appealing indeed. However something holds me back. Probably the same thing that prevents me from downloading a novelty ringtone or putting an amusing bumper sticker on my car. There’s a fine line between “funny” and “wacky”, and it’s not one I’m willing to cross. One moment you’re listening to John Cleese telling you to make a U turn where possible, and the next you’re wearing Hawaiian shirts to work and buying little signs that say “You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!”.

Spinechilling.

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On Thursday Kerry, Amy, and I went to the open day at the primary school where Amy will be starting next year. There are a number of things that attract us to sending her to the school, namely it is within walking distance of our house, has an average class size of just 15 children (in fact there are only 38 kids in the entire school), and has a reputation for a nurturing and close knit atmosphere.

However the open day very nearly changed our minds about sending her there. Here are a couple direct quotes from our conversation with the (acting) head teacher:

[on the plans to begin sharing the teaching pool with another similarly sized local school]

“Up until now all the teachers have been wearing a number of different hats. For example I’ve been literacy co-ordinator, IT leader, and in charge of physical education. And quite frankly I’ve had so much to do that I haven’t been doing any of those jobs particularly well”

[on the plans to employ a head teacher to jointly manage both this school and the previously mentioned similarly sized local school]

“..and by having a head responsible for both schools hopefully we’ll be able to recruit a headmaster of much higher caliber than we could previously”

Now to be fair I know what she was trying to say, and if I’m honest the pooling of the two schools resources sounds like a good and practical idea. If nothing else it should help protect against any future school closures. But surely she could have chosen her words more carefully than that. Let’s just be thankful that they don’t teach marketing at primary school.

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“But I’m curious” Asks Jeff from View From a Cloud, “what is your actual fascination with wanting chickens yourself?”. Well Jeff, this is just for you:

• Chickens are one of the easiest and most hassle free birds to keep domestically. Much easier to look after than say, an ostrich.
• Chickens are very economical to feed, all they need is a bit of corn and as many bugs and creepy crawlies that they can scratch up. Other livestock, such as ostriches, require expensive specialist food which can often be hard to source.
• Chickens eggs are packed full of protein and an essential part of numerous recipes. Ostrich eggs take 40 minutes to boil and do not feature in any of the cookbooks I own.
• A pure bred rare breed chicken costs around £10, an ostrich costs thousands of pounds.
• Do you know how big an ostrich is Jeff? They can be over 8 feet tall an weigh up to 340lb. You really think I want that in my back garden?
• You know I have kids Jeff? Two small kids? Just think what a well aimed kick from one of those things could do to their frail little bodies. I can’t believe you are even suggesting this.
• And just how on earth am I meant to fence the damn thing in? Do you know how high an ostrich can jump? No, neither do I, but I’m guessing it’s bloody high. I hope you are planning to send me the money to get the proper electric fencing and ostrich proof wire mesh, because I sure as hell can’t afford it on my salary.
• What about my neighbors. Have you even considered them? Well let me tell you they are not happy about this, not happy at all. They have already handed me a petition with over 300 names on it. They have also asked me to get your address from you; they want to know where to send the lawsuit.

So instead of asking me stupid questions about chickens I think you should be taking a cold hard look at some of your own issues. Just what is this unhealthy obsession you have with ostriches? Was there some trauma in your childhood that has caused all this.

I think you need help Jeff, professional help.

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