Hangovers : God's Inhumanity to Man.

It is widely believed that God lets hangovers occur because he wants us to know he doesn't love us.
I don't think that's right though, and my view is this :
Hangovers are Satan's way of being spiteful. Pure and simple.
Why shouldn't we be permitted to enjoy a few beers without being felled to the ground in a headache-ridden, nauseated, photophobic, writhing heap?



HM Govt says  "Sir! Leave the rest of that pint!
Otherwise you might drink
more than your designated number of units."

HM Govt jumps on the bandwagon with its idiotic recommended limit of 21 units of drink per week, which figure it plucked at random out of the seven-times-table for ease of dividing by the no of days in a week. It does not constitute enough to keep a fly alive in my opinion. Women are only allowed 14 units. This cruel edict i) is sexist and ii) confirms my theory about the 7 times table. What are people like me who don't like non-alcoholic drinks supposed to do? Die of thirst?
Who says hangovers are caused by drinking anyway? I find the allocation of them totally arbitrary. Some days I wake up with an awful hangover even though I had (next to) nothing to drink the previous day, while at other times I can drink an appalling amount, yet get off scot-free without a twinge of pain to show for it.

If hangovers aren't wrought by Satan Prince of Darkness then why do we have them? What might Darwin's thoughts be on this? That hangovers evolved, to prevent us from overdoing it? It isn't working, is it? We still overdo it, and that on a regular basis. This is not how evolution is supposed to function. Evolution is supposed to lead us down a path BENEFICIAL to the species.
 

If God made hangovers, to try to stop us drinking, I have to say this is a FAILED INITIATIVE. Here is why. Picture the scene:

A convivial evening down at the White Horse. Merriment galore in progress.

Greg says "Another pint, Mel?"

Hangover pixie says "Mel! NO! Think of the hangover you will have tomorrow a.m."

Does Mel say "No thanks Greg, better not. It might give me a headache in 10 hours' time"?

NO she most certainly does not. She is PERFECTLY willing to risk a little minor discomfort in 10 hours' time. What do you think she is - some sort of WIMP?

She says "Yes Greg! Yes PLEASE!" and she tells Hangover Pixie to go away.

The next a.m. Hangover Pixie says "I told you so!"

Everyone hates Hangover Pixie.

 

The reason that the initiative has failed is that the consequence is too remote from the action. It would require a heart of FLINT not to carry on boozing on a lively night just because tomorrow your headache might (only might, note) be a bit worse than it's going to be anyway. 

Hangovers are a malicious, pointless invention and I do not accept that God could have made them. He made nasty spiders, squirrels etc but these are necessary because they have their place in some food chain or other. Hangovers fulfil no such mitigating purpose and as such, only a MALEVOLENT God would inflict them. I reject the idea of God's being malevolent.  He made Beethoven and honeysuckle and long-tailed tits and the heavens and I defy you to explain how he could make them and then hangovers. It just does not add up.



There he is, the swine! Hangover Pixie.
Why should he have all the fun?

 

Yes; we all know who is really to blame, don't we? It's Hangover Pixie. And everyone hates him, don't they?
Yes! Everyone hates Hangover Pixie.

Hangover Pixie is one of the Names of Satan.


 

Perils of Fecklessness

Hard Work for Our Lady

Our son has just had the worst journey in the history of journeys, because he suddenly had to get to Spiddal in West Galway for the Traidphicnic, which is a music festival.



Travel Safety Information
issued to all Carroll children when leaving the country.

The unexpected nature of the trip meant he was even iller-prepared than he usually is for such excursions so there was bound to be trouble. Our recent advertisement for a nanny to look after him had met with no response. All I could do was stand ready to give him a lift to the railway station, and print him out a new set of my Travel Safety instructions. His old copy had been long lost with his wallet on a previous outing. My children delight in frightening me by prancing about near the edge of any precipice they encounter, and need to be constantly reminded not to.

We set off for the station fully 5 minutes later than the latest time I had said we MUST leave before. In the car he searched his luggage and pockets with mounting alarm while I recited the litany "Have you got your phone charger passport tickets wallet violin" (the violin was the reason for the trip as he had found out that Martin Hayes was going to be giving tuition at the festival and Martin Hayes Tuition is not to be missed out on at any cost). 2 vital items were not present namely phone and violin so we had to return home for the phone. The violin was at his friend Steve's house.

When we had retrieved the phone, he made calls to arrange for Steve's gf to bring the violin to the railway station, thus saving precious critical seconds.

We had an agonising time on the road getting stuck behind tractors, herds of cyclists, and old folk doing zero mph, and during which the magic traffic light converter which is under the bonnet of all cars I have ever owned and causes green lights to turn red as you approach, was working FAULTLESSLY. It only fails when you are dawdling along without a responsibility in the world and care nothing for waiting at red lights. We reached the station, Henry leapt out and went to the ticket machine and I followed with the world's heaviest rucksack, and Henry's 2nd best violin in case Steve's gf didn't make it.

As we ran to the platform Henry was knocking old ladies to this side and that, crying out "Sorry Madam, I do apologise. It is essential that I board that train" and scattering belongings in his wake, but he still missed the train, by 0.5 attoseconds.

The furore caused by the attempt on the train came to the attention of the station staff who were REALLY KIND! YES! This was surprising but it helped enormously to salve the wound. The platform official who had waved the heedless train off without Henry aboard asked him where he needed to get to, and told us to go to the ticket office to be given a new route. The staff on the ticket barrier were sympathetic and opened special gates to let us through. The ticket office man, despairing at first but then merely doubtful, found a new train route which in theory should get him to his ferry on time but involved a connection time of hardly any attoseconds for changing trains at Crewe. He did not want Henry to risk it, but since Martin Hayes was at stake there was no choice in the matter.

There was an hour to wait till the new train departure time, and we told the ticket barrier people we were going to nip out for a while. They didn't like the sound of that and made us promise to get back in good time.

We positively AMBLED back in with a good 15 mins to spare and those barrier people were very relieved to see us. They led us to their secret staff lift so that Henry didn't have to carry his rucksack up the stairs, and made sure we went to the right platform. This time he caught the train.

Later well here's a transcript of the text messages that passed between us.

HENRY : Dear ma train left birmingham stop on time. Mad 4 it. Bally rollercoaster ride is what it is. X

ME : Dear Hen Thanx 4 txt. Am on tenterhoox about yr connection at crewe i have asked the BVM 2 get on the case 4 u. Hope yr journey goes ok, don't leave yr violin on train, ferry, coach, edge.

HENRY : Tis unbelievable! Just pulling in to Crewe on time and we've stopped short of the platform due to an incident somewhere in the station! They won't let me off the train.

ME : NO! Perhaps the train u need 2 catch will be delayed 2 by the incident. I hope so. Come ON Blessed Virgin Mary, do yr best 4 me lovely boy. Lv mum x

HENRY : Aye, c'mon our lady. Y'will, gwarn. Still not letting us off. I'm tempted to use fire axe. So are all else concerned.

ME : Oh dear it makes me WEEP. GO 4 IT! RIOT with that fire axe. Lv mum x

HENRY : "They are searching the station, this may take some time, all services delayed til search carried out, as soon as I have further information I shall let you know". In England we say sorry.

HENRY : "Complimentary teas coffees or waters are available from the onboard shop" well thanks a bally lot.

 

ME : How mean they are. They should at least give you CLARET

HENRY : Dear ma thanks b 2 our lady! On board the train to Holyhead! But she knows how to make u appreciate it!

ME : Oh i thank the Lord and the Blessed Virgin 4 getting u on that train.

HENRY : They won't let it leave the station 4 some reason but the ferry doesn't leave til 2.30 so its grand. Hurrah.

ME : Absolute nightmare the whole thing. Lv mum x

HENRY : Just set off, expek ari time @ holymotherhead 1.45 so should be fine 4 ferry.

HENRY : Train terminated at Chester, they've put us in taxi instead, ferry 'might' wait 4 us.

HENRY : Dear ma im on the ferry but it wasn't easy! Crammed in back of sweaty taxi with 7 others for hours.

ME : U have had our Holy Mother working hard so u have. I hope there will be no further mishaps. Keep away from edge. Lv mum x

Then messages ceased.
 

Poor Our Lady! What a night.



Our Lady retiring to take a well-earned rest.

Later I heard the phone had been lost presumed stolen on the coach from Dublin to Galway. Actually it didn't work properly anyway so the thief will be justly disappointed.

 

BUT, despite the complications brought about by being too late to catch his intended train, Henry did reach the Traidphicnic and got his tuition from Martin Hayes.

From this saga we learn the following :
If you are going to be feckless you must make sure to have the Queen of Heaven on your side.  

 

Martin Hayes playing the violin
instead of getting along to the barber's for a haircut.

Millions of Pounds not yet obtained

When we got married in 1988 I told my husband I would require £17,000,000 in monies to provide me with my heart's desires. I have been careful to review this figure annually and adjust it in line with inflation, so that it currently stands at £45million. (I have added a bit extra to allow for my increasing greed and sophistication over the years.) This would permit me to buy a fitting house for someone with my tastes and to pay staff such hefty sums as would prevent them from acting disloyally or displeasing me in any way. Obviously we are going to need some top quality personnel to see to the maintenance and grass-cutting etc. but as money is no object I can't foresee any difficulty there.

Here's a house that would do: 

 

 

This is Bloxworth House and you get loads of Dorset with it for only £4,000,000 sterling! Perfect. That leaves £41million for emergencies and for bribing the workforce. Unfortunately it's got a tennis court but with this sort of budget you could get that grassed over no problem.  How happy I shall be!

 

They had better let me have it unfurnished as there is some pretty nasty stuff in there at present (I have seen the particulars from the estate agent). If there are any wood-burning stoves in it they will be TORN OUT before I set foot in the place. I hate wood-burning stoves.

 

The flaw in my plan is this: the specified sum has failed to materialise. ANY of it. But if we do not act quickly someone else will buy the house and then hang onto it for 350 yrs. So please send your contribution NOW, URGENT, cheques payable to G-AHLK and thank you very much. No Gift Aid I am not a charity. 

 

Bloxworth house was built in 1608, a v good year for architecture as you can see.

Standards have fallen dramatically since then and near here the latest housing estate is as shown :

 

 

Notice the shape of this bijou terrace of affordable homes. It looks like a couple of bookends squashing that pitiful hovel in between them. I am at a loss to explain the reasoning behind this. Nursery school children routinely draw nicelier-proportioned houses than these. What compels the fools of architects to try to be different all the time? They could just find a pleasing old cottage built by simple peasants, copy its proportions exactly, and gain a much more satisfactory outcome.

Why have they used those mean little windows? It makes the buildings dark inside. Perhaps they have a pact with the League of Artificial Light Suppliers. All new houses suffer from this defect.

The rooms are so small and separated by such flimsy partitions that they seem scaled to house a race of delicate pygmies rather than the robust oaves of Somerset.

The chimneys - at least the ones which are not FALSE - betray the presence of wood-burning stoves.

Needless to say greed dictates that the gardens (which are boasted only by the more prestige* of the properties) are approx. 1 sq. yd. in area and therefore quite useless either for recreation or for horticulture.

 

They have destroyed an ancient stone wall and some of Exmoor's best blackberry plants to put up these tiny-windowed, gardenless, stove-infested dolls' houses. I am furious. 

Well, I should be furious; but since I shall have Bloxworth House soon what do I care?

 

 

 

 *'Prestige' has become an adjective meaning 'expensive'. This is due to Estate Agents defiling the English tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instructions for Feeding Ducklings

Further evidence of my boundless capacity for being cross

 

Some dear little ducklings have been coming along the river behind the house here and cheeping in a most weedy manner to ask for food. Utterly charmed, we responded to their pleas with enthusiastic benevolence - "Feast, my Pretties!" we cried - and indeed we felt flattered at their obvious devotion to our patch of river. Horrid great seagulls and rooks, no doubt equally needy and deserving, gathered to glower over the scene but we scared them empty away. WE feed only the fluffy, the endearing.

Endearing fluffy ducklings ready for feeding. Seagulls are neither fluffy nor endearing and get no bready morsels.

 

But now our neighbour, a kindly and thoughtful person, has ruined everything with her superior feeding methods. Whereas we pelt the ducklings with big bits of rock-hard stale crust, Mrs Nextdoor buys for them soft, fresh bread containing nourishing and tasty seeds. She cuts the crusts off and crumbles the bread into micro-pieces in order to present it in a beak-friendly format, and then delivers it just upstream from the ducklings so they can pick it up as it floats down to them.
She has enticed them away, and since then the duck family have naturally spurned our offerings and only visit us if there's no-one in next door.  

Ungrateful Mother Duck leading her family of QUISLINGS off to get the baby-compatible bread treats from next door

  

 

Right. Well, here you are, Rooks and Seagulls! Have some of this premium ciabatta and costly sourdough, this exotic couscous, these grains of choicest expenso-rice! Gorge upon these hand-picked flakes of wild salmon, these slices of fillet beef, this asparagus! Eat! Leave nothing for the thankless ducklings. Let us teach them the consequence of their folly.

 

 

Some Towers : A Comparison

Right. (left) Here's the Campanile of Venice, completed as it looks now, in 1514. When it fell down in 1902 the Italians decided to rebuild it "com’era, dov’era" i.e. as it was, where it was, bless their sensible hearts. And what a joy it is. Well done, Italians!


 

 

                                        


 

And what did we do, when at Weymouth, awash with Olympics money in 2012, we thought we'd build a tower? We did this :

Weymouth Sea Life Tower -

Utilitarian, yet useless. Tall, yet contemptible. Intended as a tourist attraction, yet repellent in every way.

The best that can be said of it is that it blends nicely with the surroundings - in this case scaffolding, vans and Keep Out signs.

It has a ridiculous doughnut-shaped thing that you can go into and which goes up and down the tower, costing £22.50 a time for a 10 minute ride during which you are pestered to buy various nasty souvenirs of your foolishness.

 

Lastly here is a tower constructed by me entirely out of things waiting to be ironed. The largest man-made structure in the district and now visible from outer space, it is both a danger to shipping and an internationally recognised landmark. Result.
It isn't a very cheerful sight, but at least it's an achievement.

 

EFFIGY NIGHTMARE

Alas! The effigies season has begun and this specimen, found in Swabia (south west Germany - far away, thank goodness) shows how the new crop are evolving to push the boundaries of what people can bear. It alarms me that this one is a more realistic shape than the earlier models; yet in keeping with established effigy tradition the colour is as fanciful as it is unpleasant. One wonders what they are trying to achieve. At least it has been placed appropriately, in what seems to be a demolition site.

 

 

Here's another blemish on the Swabian scene (right). 
This one is not even fibreglass but is cast in bronze. Dear Lord above what a waste of valuable resources. It is of a ragged beggar and he is strumming upon some sort of mandolin thing. Really horrible in every way. Why do the authorities think we want our public money wasted on items of this nature? It's bad enough when a real minstrel comes by, strumming and plucking. We don't want a permanent reminder of such visitations. All it does is degrade its surroundings and lower the spirits of all who see it.

 

Better News:
I have received a report that the Dulwich inflatable hippopotamus and all it stood for have been RAZED TO THE GROUND. Result. (as the yobbery say.)


 



Pests on the Road Network

Sporting Cyclists do not read this. I warn you.

Honest persons who use a bike in order to get about may read with impunity.

Yesterday I was delayed in a journey to work because the road was swarming with racing cyclists and I take this to be Nature's way of permitting me to make this blog entry.
 

A herd of deluded madmen.
Note silly attire. Note stream of delayed traffic behind.

I can not STAND the sort of cyclists who wear all that idiotic ugly lycra and preposterous helmets. They look horrible, they make it quite obvious that they are convinced of their own tremendous  superiority to other road users (who they arrogantly ignore), and they selfishly clog the road as if they had more right to be there than the cars - and all the while they are clearly going NOWHERE for any legitimate purpose whatsoever.

Now look. I am happy to share the road with people who are going by bike in order to get to somewhere where they need to be, eg work, or the pub, or their friend's house; and these people can be identified by the fact that they wear ordinary clothes, keep to the side of the road and do not go about in packs spread right across the carriageway. I like to see them, and I sympathise warmly with them when they are struggling up a hill into the oncoming gale. I have in the past cycled, myself, to many pubs etc. I admit that I did sometimes bicycle without a specific destination to get to, but only because I used to use 'going for a bike ride' as a way of blow-drying my hair. 

I have NEVER, though, biked like these modern fools do, in special outfits or just to race. If they want to do that they should do it in Velodromes, not on the narrow public roads around here. They are a confounded nuisance, and inconsiderate with it. The ones yesterday were so pompous that they were being preceded by a "Race Lead Vehicle". Where will it end.

This is what I have to say, and the 'Sports Cycling Community' ought to take note:

• There is no need to wear a special outfit; that is the advantage of cycling.
• As for the helmets... do they not realise what utter TURKEYS they look in them? And have they not noticed that when you fall off a bike, you get grazed knees or elbows? Your head is rarely damaged. And if it is run over by a lorry your turkey-helmet is not going to save it.
• Refusing to acknowledge other road users is one of their most serious mistakes. They do it in order to impress upon us how very important and difficult their task (they think) is. But eye contact with motorists is a useful communication tool. It also helps dispel some of the hostility. These things would be to the cyclists' own advantage so they aren't doing themselves any favours by being so standoffish. 

My policy is to wave cheerily at the dolts from my car, smiling friendlyly whilst saying "You really do look like a lot of complete twerps. Get out of my ruddy way, curse you," knowing full well that they are far too grand to bother doing any lip-reading.

Here is a picture from my early cycling career. You will notice that
 

i) my conveyance was an ancient tricycle handed down from generations of previous Smiths - not some £8million fancy-bike

ii) I was wearing "normal" clothes (normal for Smiths). Lycra had not been invented I admit but even if it had I would have shunned it.

iii) that's a sunbonnet in the picture, not a turkey-helmet.

iv) I had gumboots on. Sporting cyclists wear freakish shoes which can not be used for walking in when they get off their bikes.

v) I was confined to the yard - not allowed to wander willy-nilly about the highway.

vi) I was looking directly at the photographer with a genial expression. (aren't I charming). It is not the custom of sporting cyclists to offer even a flicker of recognition to anyone. 


All cyclists should be forced to study this picture, to embrace its tenets, and to have a proper justification for every journey.
Those refusing to comply had better stay out of my zone.