Terry Ravenscroft's Blog: Stairlift to Heaven, page 4

March 1 2014. THE LAST WORD.

Flushed with success after getting The Trouble to stop soaking the pots for hours prior to washing up – well for the time being at least – I thought I’d try to stop her driving me spare with another of her annoying habits. This one happens every time I haven’t heard what she’s said to me, perhaps because my mind has been preoccupied with something else, and I’ve replied: “What’s that, my precious”, or more probably, ‘What?’” The Trouble then repeats just one of the words she had spoken. I’ll give you an example, of which I have thousands.

The Trouble: “Oh by the way I’ll need the car this afternoon.”

Me: “What’s that, my precious?”

The Trouble: “Car.”

What does she mean? That there’s something wrong with the car? That the car needs taxing/insuring? That the last time she drove it she hit something? (Likely) That she’s cleaned the inside? (Unlikely) That she’s cleaned the outside? (Very unlikely) That she’s put some petrol in it? (Impossible). I mean ‘Car’, it’s just a single word, coming to me out of the blue, a word which has no relevance on its own unless accompanied by a few other words.

I have of course tried to get her out of this terrible habit before.

The plan was that when she said just the one word in reply to my “What?” I would simply shake my head in a long-suffering manner and go back to reading my newspaper or whatever I’d been doing. Sometimes, when I put the plan into action, she would repeat the sentence in full. But more often than not, and probably in response to my ‘long-suffering ‘ bit, she would roll her eyes, make an annoyed clucking sound and carry on with what she’d been doing before she’d spoken.

There was, however, a big snag with my plan. Suppose what she had said was something important, something that needed my attention or, more importantly, something that might be to my advantage? What if the word in question was ‘Sex’ and the complete line was “Do you fancy having sex on the kitchen table this afternoon?” Not very likely I must admit. And more probably “How do you determine a sanke’s sex?” So I kicked the idea into touch.

My new idea stood much more chance. It wasn’t long before I got the opportunity to try it out.

“Shopping,” said The Trouble.

I pretended to search for a suitable response. “Er….Bag.”

“What?”

“Bag.”

“Bag? What do you mean, ‘Bag?’”

“What do you mean, ‘Shopping?’”

“What I said. That I’m going shopping later if you want anything.”

“Ah. I see. You see when you said ‘Shopping’ I thought we were having a game. I thought the idea was that you said a word then I said a word that you could put before or after it. Shopping….Bag. You see? Now it’s your turn to think of a word you can put before or after the new word. For example you could put ‘Old’ in front of it making ‘Old bag’.”

She hasn’t spoken to me since I said this, a few hours ago. So I suppose it’s worked, in a fashion.

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27 Feb 2014. SEA BASS (AND DUCK).

The Trouble and I are unable to take the week’s holiday in Turkey that we booked some time ago so I asked Atkins if he and his wife Meg would like to go in our place. “No thanks,” my friend said, before I’d even got the words out of my mouth.

“I don’t want anything for it, it’s a gift” I said, should Atkins have thought I was trying to cut my losses. “Still feel the same way about it?” I said, confident he wouldn’t.

“I wouldn’t go if you paid me,” said Atkins, more adamant than Adam.

Something was wrong. In Atkins we are speaking of a man who is as likely to turn down a freebie as your average politician is likely to be still standing on the platform sucking his thumb when the gravy train departs. I asked him why.

“Turkey?” he spat out, and pulled a face like someone who has discovered he’s just stepped on a dog turd.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well nothing if you don’t mind going about all the time in fear of having your throat cut.”

“This is Kusadasi we’re talking about,” I said. “A holiday resort on the Aegean coast. Not downtown Istanbul after Galatasaray have just lost eight-nil at home to Leeds United.”

“Kusadasi, Istanbul, they’re all Turks, they’re all tarred with the same brush; it’s only the amount of tar that’s different.  Cutthroats and vagabonds, the lot of them. They can’t help it, it’s in their blood. It’s the hot weather that does it.”

I was prepared to say ‘more fool you’ to him and leave it at that when an idea came to me that would test Atkins’s resolve to keep Turkey off his list of desirable holiday destinations to the full. “Even if what you say is true, it’s a risk that apparently thousands upon thousands of tourists are prepared to take every year, me amongst them,” I said. Then I paused for effect before continuing, “If only to sample the exquisite sea bass again.”

Atkins’s ears pricked. “Sea bass?”

Those of you who have read my book Stairlift to Heaven might recollect that Atkins is such a lover of duck that if he is eating out with friends and one of them orders duck he has to change his order to duck as he can’t bear other people eating it if he himself isn’t gorging himself on it. Sea bass is its Piscean equivalent; he likes it almost as much as he does duck. On one when he had ordered sea bass and another of the party then chose duck he had to order both.

Now, salivating at the prospect of acquainting himself with some more of it, he couldn’t have conveyed his love of sea bass any more if he’d had “I Want Some Fucking Sea Bass!” tattooed on his forehead.

I sauced the dish I had prepared for him. “The last time I was over there I had the most marvellous sea bass I’ve ever tasted, fresh out of the sea that day. Hanging over the edges of the plate it was, must have weighed a pound and a half at least. It cost me £7, including chips and all the trimmings. In this country you couldn’t buy a sea bass of that size for three times the price from a fishmonger, let alone have it perfectly cooked and served up to you in a restaurant which, incidentally, also served up a perfectly acceptable wine for four quid a bottle.” (It didn’t, it was crap, like all Turkish wine, but what was another blatant lie if it helped to bring Atkins down a peg.) I could see his mouth watering at the prospect. I went for the jugular. “And as for the duck!”

“They have duck in Turkey as well?” Atkins’s face lit up like a firework display.

“Possibly the finest duck I have ever tasted. Free range of course.”

My friend looked suddenly suspicious. “They don’t have duck in Greece.”

“In Turkey they have it in a piquant black cherry sauce.”

Atkins ignored my little joke. “Next Monday you say?”

“8.30 am from Manchester Airport.”

“Right, I’ll take it.”

“Good.” I waited a beat then frowned and said, “But….hold on?”

“Hold on what?”

“Well, how are you going to eat sea bass and duck if your throat’s been cut?”

“I’ll think of something.”

However he won’t have to think of something for the duck; I’ve been to Turkey four times and I haven’t come across a duck yet. I once came across a place that had duck on the menu but if it was duck it’s the only one I’ve ever had that had the skeleton of a rabbit.

There’s going to be hell to pay when he gets back.

 

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26 Feb 2014. WHY BOTHER?BLOG.

Here’s a blog I came across the other day. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.
www.whybother?co.uk

Got up and had breakfast (lightly boiled egg, toast, coffee, one sugar as usual). Unlike some people who sort of bash in the top of my egg with a spoon I always slice the top. This is because one time when I bashed it in it left little bits off eggshell in my egg. Not pleasant. So I never did it again. After breakfast I cleaned two pair of shoes, one brown one black, then tidied out my sock draw as it was getting in a bit of a mess.

Then came the first highlight of my day, if you don’t count my breakfast, when I caught up with other bloggers blogs. I’m reading ten blogs a day at the moment, but not always the same ones. I suppose I read about twenty blogs altogether, fifteen of them regularly. I went to Home Thoughts from a Broad first (still my very favourite blog title even if she doesn’t live abroad, she lives in Northampton, but I suppose HomeThoughts from Northampton isn’t as eye-catching), to see if she’d finally made up her mind about her new bedroom curtains. Interestingly she had. She chose the yellow flowered ones on a white background in preference to the yellow and cream striped ones. Personally I thought she’d go for the striped ones myself (as I wrote in my blog last week and the week before), but there you go, you can’t win them all. I made four comments. I hadn’t really got anything in particular to say so I confined them to ‘Good on you, Baz’, ‘Well, that’s life’ Sophie, ‘Wow!’ and ‘First comment on your post of today at long last. Hurrah!’ It’s nice to be involved.

Then I checked to see if I had any comments from my post of yesterday. There were two (making six for the week, one up on last week). They were ‘Good on you, Cec’ from Baz and ‘C’est la vie’ from Pierre. (Pierre on www.frogblog.org is well worth checking out. I visited his blog initially because I’ve always been interested in pond life and quite naturally thought his blog was all about frogs but even though it turned out not to be about frogs but about his life in Rouens I’m glad I did as he’s a very interesting chap).

Then I checked to see if there had been any comments to any of my three comments but there weren’t. Then I went for a walk. It wasn’t raining again. I am fairly sure that is an original statement. I have heard the expression ‘It’s raining again’ many times but I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard anyone say ‘It wasn’t raining again’. I may well have added to the world’s vocabulary!!! It started raining again just after I started my walk and it occurred to me that if it had already been raining when I set out I might never have added to the world’s vocabulary, if I have added to the world’s vocabulary. It just goes to show, doesn’t it. Then I posted on my blog what I have written so far.

Next I went to the launderette to do my weekly wash (seven shirts, seven pairs of socks, seven pairs of underpants (boxers now, thanks for the tip Julie), two pullovers, three towels, two sheets, one duvet cover (blue). A man in the launderette told me that he used to wear y-fronts and now he wears boxers but he’s thinking of going back to y-fronts because he feels uncomfortable walking about in Ricky Hatton and Muhammad Ali. (I think he was making a joke but he looked serious when he said it.)

The launderette has been redecorated. The green painted walls are now lemon and the woodwork has gone from blue to white. Suzy’s (Home Thoughts From a Broad) yellow flowered curtains would go well with it but it looks like they’re sticking with the old green spotted curtains unless it’s just that they haven’t got round to changing them yet. Probably they haven’t got round to changing them just yet.

On the walk back with my clean washing the rain stopped again. Then it started again just before I got home. When I got back I dried myself off (home and dry!) and checked to see if there had been any comments on my post so far. Just one. Pierre said that he thought Suzy would have gone for the flowered curtains too. I thought he might say that. I commented ‘Good on you Pierre’.

 

 

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24 Feb 2014. A GOOD SOAKING.

It took me a bit to come up with the idea, an hour on the internet, a couple of phone calls and a hundred mile round trip to Burslem in The Potteries but it was well worth it to just see the look on The Trouble’s face when she fished the dinner plate out of the kitchen sink.

For as long as I can remember my Nearest and Most Expensive has ‘soaked’ the crockery and cutlery before completing the washing up. And for longer than I care to remember I’ve been asking her not to do it: in my book there is nothing worse than going to the sink to wash my hands after completing some hand-soiling task and finding that I can’t because the sink is full of crockery. Another bone of contention is that the soaking water is usually so hot I can’t just go ahead and wash my hands in it anyway, or even express my annoyance by pulling the plug out before being forced to go upstairs to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. (Atkins’s solution to the problem, to piss in the sink, thus expressing my displeasure whilst at the same time cooling the water down so I stand a better chance of pulling the plug out, although appealing, lacked finesse, like most of his ideas.)

I have always wondered what The Trouble hopes to gain by this pot-soaking ritual. I can understand dirty clothes being soaked as the soapy water will permeate the material and assist in getting all the dirt out. But crockery and cutlery? You could soak them in a sink of soapy water until Kingdom Come and they would still remain as unpermeated as the day you put them in there.

I asked her once why she insisted on doing it. She said it wasn’t doing them any harm. I said it wasn’t doing them any good either. It didn’t make a scrap of difference, she still carried on doing it. Until, that is, I had the idea.

I had established from Mr Hartley, the man I spoke to at the ceramics factory in Burslem which manufactured our best dinner plates, that although they had ‘seconds’, which were available in the factory shop, they did not have ‘thirds’. Anything not good enough to be classed as a ‘second’ was broken up and discarded. I asked him if it was possible for me to purchase one of these plates. At first he demurred, citing ‘our reputation to think of’. However once I’d explained to him why I wanted it – and after he’d stopped laughing – he agreed, probably because his wife soaks the crockery too. I gave him the specific design of the plate and he promised to give me a call when he was able to fulfil my request. About a week later he called and the following day I picked it up. It proved to be perfect for purpose; when placed on a table not only did one side of it almost touch whilst the other side was about two inches in the air but in addition it developed a satisfying wobble at the slightest touch.

The Trouble not only soaks the crockery but, because she is somewhat lax when it comes to keeping on top of the washing up, invariably has many items to soak when she eventually gets round to it. Which means that as well as our every day dinner plates quite often some of our best dinner plates accompany them. Fortunately.

I waited until an ideal moment to put my plan into effect. It arrived a week last Friday. The Trouble soaked the crockery again. I established that two of our best plates were absent from our crockery cupboard and therefore in the sink. I poked about in the foam for a minute or two and found one of them. I donned The Trouble’s marigolds, fished it out and replaced it with the warped one. Then I dried the one I’d fished out, hid it on top of our bedroom wardrobe and settled back to wait.

Later that afternoon The Trouble started to wash the pots. While she did I hung around in the kitchen pretending to be weighing up whether it was due for a paint job. As I have already said, her face was a picture when she pulled out the warped plate. “What the….!” she said, obviously shaken.

“I thought you said soaking them wasn’t doing them any harm?” I said.

“It never has before.”

“Well it has now,” I said. I returned to examining the walls for possible re-decoration before saying, as though I’d just thought of it, “What a shame. And we’re having Atkins and Meg and the Brightmans for dinner next Saturday. Whatever will we do?”

I can report that the ruse worked perfectly and that The Trouble has stopped soaking the pots. However it isn’t all good news. At the dinner party guess who ended up with the warped plate?

 

 

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21 Feb 2014. LOST IN TRANSLATION.

News item from today’s Daily Telegraph. Judge John Bevan said that the foreigners involved in the paedophile ring had committed appalling crimes before going on to burden the taxpayer with a £40,000 bill for translators at their trial.

Personally I don’t see much wrong with footing the bill for translators used in the defence of paedophiles and other criminals who have parked themselves in our country but haven’t troubled themselves to learn the English language. I believe it to be money well spent. It’s just a matter of getting a decent translator.

A COURT OF LAW. AN IMMIGRANT FOREIGNER CHARGED WITH RUNNING A PAEDOPHILE RING IS IN THE DOCK. STANDING BY IS A TRANSLATOR. THE COURT USHER CALLS FOR SILENCE IN COURT. THE JUDGE ADDRESSES THE DEFENDANT.

JUDGE: How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?

TRANSLATOR: Inestiv bakalila snovof zit, palomova evti palomova neet?

FOREIGNER: Palomova neet. (Not guilty)

TRANSLATOR: Guilty.

JUDGE: I can set you free or have you shot. Which do you prefer?

TRANSLATOR: Ez zlotov vanya zit  gorki bahng! Tak wolorzi zlon?

FOREIGNER: Mez zlotov zlon zit vanya. (I prefer to be set free.)

TRANSLATOR: I prefer to be shot.

JUDGE: Would you prefer simply be shot or before you are shot would you like to have your bollocks brushed with a bunch of stinking nettles, be buggered thrice daily by a man with an enormous penis, keel-hauled every other day, flayed every day, have red hot six inch nails pushed up your fingernails and have your face sat on by a big fat woman with piles and diarhorreah? Often.)

TRANSLATOR: Omar voor zeetov doz bahng! oder peevarik voor bahng! omarvoor zeetov vooro bolokos trevi nedved puzi oooooooshit, ars pers jigjig grosz talliwacker troik tagg, snoz-slot ta al tagg, barek al tagg, bug bez zliema  oop digizliema fukin ouch zaturt, bug freyza plod flab bumangerz, tote ze flot? Zam.

FOREIGNER: Mez doz zeetov bahng! (I prefer to simply be shot.)

TRANSLATOR: I prefer to have my bollocks brushed with a big bunch of stinking nettles, be buggered thrice daily by a man with an enormous penis, keel-hauled every other day, flayed every day, have red hot six inch nails pushed up my fingernails and have my face sat on by a big fat woman with piles and diarhorreah. Often.)

JUDGE: Take him down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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20 Feb 2014. SCOTLAND THE BRAVE.

Unlike the Prime Minister, who wants Scotland to remain in the UK, Atkins and I want it to leave. To this end we travelled to Buxton to see if, supposing we could find any Scottish people, and supposing they hadn’t yet made up their mind on which way to vote in the coming referendum, we could persuade them to vote for leaving, or, if they intended voting to stay, to try to get them change their minds.

We are fortunate to live in the beautiful Peak District, an area where there are always people on holiday to be found, even at this time of the year, especially in the popular spa town of Buxton, which is the reason we chose it to embark upon our mission. We both felt that even if we could only locate one undecided Scot and persuade him to vote for an independent Scotland it would be well worth the effort. As Atkins remarked, “If the vote in favour of leaving us is successful by just one vote it will be down to you and me, Razza.” I felt a surge of pride already.

On the train to Buxton Atkins played our Daft Game of ‘Taunt the Conductor’, despite the last time he played it the conductor threatening to duff him up if he ever played it again. However today’s conductor was quite harmless-looking and a much smaller man than Atkins, so Atkins probably thought he was on safe ground.

“T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..t..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..t..to..”Atkins stuttered, taking out his wallet, when the conductor came round for the fares almost immediately we’d sat down.

“Two to Buxton?” asked the conductor helpfully, suggesting the most popular destination on  the up line.

Atkins shook his head. “T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..t..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..t..t..”

“Two to Dove Holes?” said the conductor, referring to the stop before Buxton.

Atkins shook his head again. “T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..t..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..t..t..”

The conductor moved a station further down the line. “Two to Chapel-en-le- Frith?”

Another shake of the head from Atkins. “T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..”

“Whaley Bridge. Two to Whaley Bridge?”

“T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..”

“Two to Furness Vale?”

“T..t..t..two..t..t..t..t..t..to..”

“Well I’ve mentioned all the stations on the line from where you go on,” said the by now exasperated conductor. “What are you trying to say?”

“T..t..t..t..t..toot toot Tootsie, goodbye,” said Atkins, bursting into song with a passable impression of Al Jolson. “T..t..t..toot..toot..Tootsie don’t cry. That ch..ch..choo t..train that t..takes me….”

And then of course he curled up laughing like a drain.

I adopted a world weary look and said to the conductor, “I have to have him back by three.”

The conductor regarded Atkins as though he was quite mad and appeared at a complete loss as to what to do next. I rescued him. “Two to Buxton, please.”

When the choo choo arrived in Buxton we wasted no time in trying to locate a Scot. “How do you propose we go about it?” I said. “I mean I don’t suppose they’ll be wearing kilts. Especially in this weather.”

“Look for anyone the worse for drink,” said Atkins knowledgeably.

“That would include half the indigenous population of Buxton,” I pointed out.

“They’re usually red-headed,” Atkins said, narrowing the field down considerably. “And most of them have broken noses.” Atkins’s only visit to Scotland had been to Glasgow and it no doubt prejudiced his thinking on this suggested aid to Scot identification.

It was all most disappointing. We located Scots easily enough, simply by standing in the precinct and asking every passer-by if they happened to hail from north of the border. Seven in all – only three of them, despite Atkins’s advice, showing signs of drink – or it may possibly have been only six as one of those showing signs of drink, a lot of it, could have come from anywhere as he was slurring his words and when I asked him to confirm his country of birth he said Timbuktu. But each and every one of them was resident in England. Atkins expressed the opinion that we were wasting our time as in all probability there weren’t any Scots left in Scotland to vote for staying there and we gave it up as a bad job.

We did however have more luck on the way home when in one final effort we canvassed the occupants of our train carriage. One of the eight people we asked was not only Scottish but still lived in Scotland. We asked him how he was voting in the referendum. He said that up until today he had been unsure. But he had been an occupant of our carriage on the journey up to Buxton and having witnessed Atkins’s performance was definitely going to vote for an independent Scotland.

Atkins was delighted. “He could very well be the one I mentioned yesterday,” he said with a satisfied smirk. “The one vote that tips the balance in favour of them leaving the UK.” He paused for a moment and said, “If they do, do you think we’ll be able to make them take that woman back, the one who presents the snooker?”

“One can but hope,” I said.

 

 

 

 

 

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19 Feb 2014. ATROCITIES.

Scanning the Daily Telegraph online newspaper this morning I read that an Australian judge has sent a letter to the North Korea despot Kim Jong-un criticising his country’s crimes against humanity. I read the article and then moved onto the comments, which in my experience are usually more enlightening and rewarding than the article that inspired them. I was not disappointed.

One of the first comments, from someone with the pen name thisday, was -

Meanwhile a European version of Tiananmen Square erupts. Interestingly just as Chancellor Merkel is talking with the opposition. The forces of the States (Ukraine and Russia) are clearly scathing of the oxymoron that is European hard power. The West dared not intervene in Georgia. Will not in Ukraine and will not in the DPRK. People simply don’t understand how militarily impotent is the non US West, both in terms of will and capability when faced with serious armed forces.

I like this Aussie guy, he’s got it just right.

 

I could see thisday’s point. However, perhaps he has forgotten that Australia itself hasn’t exactly covered itself in glory in the past when it comes to human rights, in particular with its treatment of its aborigine population. This numbered somewhere between 250,000 and 750,000 in 1788 according to my encyclopaedia, a figure that had decreased by 1911 to 31,000. And it wasn’t because they’d gone on their holidays. Between 1824 and 1908 alone approximately 10,000 Aborigines were murdered in the colony of Queensland. Considered ‘wild animals’, ‘vermin’, ‘scarcely human’, ‘hideous to humanity’, ‘loathsome’ and a ‘nuisance’, they were fair game for white ‘sportsmen’.

 

(Before I go any further I would like to make clear that I have nothing against Australia or Australians. No nation has a worse record than Britain when it comes to atrocities, of which it committed hundreds, if not thousands, during the building of the British Empire. Not to mention our involvement in the slave trade. The United States too, in addition to its wholesale embracing of slavery, was as bad as Australia with its treatment of the indigenous population. And even in the supposedly enlightened times of 2014 there are always at least two or three African countries being run under the rule of machete.

It was ever thus, and always will be. Just because it happened two hundred years ago doesn’t mean to say it didn’t happen.

I posted the following reply to thisday’s comment  -

Maybe you should ask this Aussie guy, who ‘got it just right’, about the disgraceful way his country treated their aborigine population? And do to this day to some extent.

My word. What a hornet’s nest I disturbed!

Someone using the pen name Libertarius replied-

I’m sure he has an informed opinion on the subject, and can probably express it without departing into irrelevance and non-sequitur.

Well I wasn’t using a non sequitur of course; a non sequitur refers to a conclusion that is not aligned with previous premises or evidence; a statement that is not logical. And my reasoning was entirely logical. (I noticed that Libertarius had also used the expression non sequitur in a previous comment so I suppose it is his new buzzword, even though he doesn’t seem to know what it means.)

In the meantime Ando had added his two pennyworth -

The indigenous (this term is preferable over aboriginal, but you would know that with your incredible knowledge) population in Australia was treated horribly for a long period of time, by people who were by and large British it should be said. And repairing those inequalities is taking a long time, and still will, but to say they are still treated terribly by the government is uninformed and idiotic. Sacred sites are protected by law, a huge number of scholarships and funds are directed specifically towards indigenous education and support, and on every form you fill out, there is a section to define yourself as an indigenous Australian. They do alright these days, so learn the facts.

Then thisday, in answer to my original comment, posted -

Why? It’s got nothing to do with the thread.

To which I replied -

Because people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

To which thisday wrote -

I was complimenting Mr Kirby (the judge in question), who happens to be Australian. Australian government policy towards Aboriginals is a completely separate matter. By your logic, since Fred West was a British citizen, no UK person should comment on anything. Oh I see, that is your message.

I couldn’t quite work that one out. So I replied –

No it isn’t my ‘message’. My message is that you should ensure your own house is in order before criticising others who are guilty of similar crimes.

To which si_ed commented -

So you’ll be supporting the claim for an apology and financial retribution recently laid by descendants of African slaves residing in the Caribbean against the English?

And I replied -

Now that really would be in non sequitur country.

thisday hadn’t finished  yet -

I am sure Mr Kirby’s house is in very good order. See above (Ando’s comments). I have nothing more to say about Australian domestic policy.

Thank Christ for that, I said to myself, and signed off there before I got myself in any more trouble.

 

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18 Feb 2014. GEORGE LOONEY.

There has been much in the newspapers of late about the American actor George Clooney’s gaffe, when expounding his unwanted opinions on the rightful home of the Elgin Marbles, in referring to their rightful home as the Pantheon, when it is of course the Parthenon. (Although whether or not the Marbles are its rightful home is arguable.)  However what is not arguable is that a Pantheon is either (a) a circular Roman temple, (b) a public building commemorating the heroes of a nation or (c) a group of persons most highly regarded for contributions to a field or endeavour. Whereas the Parthenon is the chief temple of the Greek goddess Athena, built on the acropolis at Athens.

People shouldn’t be unduly surprised at Mr Clooney’s mistake as I have it on excellent authority – in fact the authority of my friend Atkins, who knows about such things – that on a trip to Italy in 2008 the famous Hollywood actor referred to one of that country’s most famous monuments as The Leaning Tower of Pizza before going on to enquire whether the Bay of Nipples was as exciting as it sounded.

However, again according to Atkins, these aren’t the only two occasions when American actors’ grasp of historical facts have been less than convincing. One such was no less than John Wayne himself, Atkins averred, on the occasion he was in China on a diplomatic mission for his country and asked if it was possible that while he was there it would be possible for him to visit its Hanging Gardens of Babylon. (During this trip the Duke is reported to have visited the Great Wall of China and gazed in awe at it for five minutes before proclaiming ‘That is a GREAT wall.’

Atkins went on to tell of Brad Pitt’s visit to Paris, in particular his visits to the Loofah to see Leonardo DiCaprio’s Mona Lisa, and the Poppadom Centre. And I myself definitely remember Jack Nicholson, on a visit to the Lake District, saying how he’d always wanted to visit the birthplace of William Woolworths.

I can’t wait to go to America and ask to see their Statue of Puberty.

 

 

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There has been much in the newspapers of late about the A...

There has been much in the newspapers of late about the American actor George Clooney’s gaffe, when expounding his unwanted opinions on the rightful home of the Elgin Marbles, in referring to their rightful home as the Pantheon, when it is of course the Parthenon. (Although whether or not the Marbles are its rightful home is arguable.)  However what is not arguable is that a Pantheon is either (a) a circular Roman temple, (b) a public building commemorating the heroes of a nation or (c) a group of persons most highly regarded for contributions to a field or endeavour. Whereas the Parthenon is the chief temple of the Greek goddess Athena, built on the acropolis at Athens.

People shouldn’t be unduly surprised at Mr Clooney’s mistake as I have it on excellent authority – in fact the authority of my friend Atkins, who knows about such things – that on a trip to Italy in 2008 the famous Hollywood actor referred to one of that country’s most famous monuments as The Leaning Tower of Pizza before going on to enquire whether the Bay of Nipples was as exciting as it sounded.

However, again according to Atkins, these aren’t the only two occasions when American actors’ grasp of historical facts have been less than convincing. One such was no less than John Wayne himself, Atkins averred, on the occasion he was in China on a diplomatic mission for his country and asked if it was possible that while he was there it would be possible for him to visit its Hanging Gardens of Babylon. (During this trip the Duke is reported to have visited the Great Wall of China and gazed in awe at it for five minutes before proclaiming ‘That is a GREAT wall.’

Atkins went on to tell of Brad Pitt’s visit to Paris, in particular his visits to the Loofah to see Leonardo DiCaprio’s Mona Lisa, and the Poppadom Centre. And I myself definitely remember Jack Nicholson, on a visit to the Lake District, saying how he’d always wanted to visit the birthplace of William Woolworths.

I can’t wait to go to America and ask to see their Statue of Puberty.

 

 

The post appeared first on Stairlift To Heaven.

18 Feb 2014. THE PANTHEON?

There has been much in the newspapers of late about the American actor George Clooney’s gaffe, when expounding his unwanted opinions on the rightful home of the Elgin Marbles, in referring to their rightful home as the Pantheon, when it is of course the Parthenon. (Although whether or not the Marbles are its rightful home is arguable.)  However what is not arguable is that a Pantheon is either (a) a circular Roman temple, (b) a public building commemorating the heroes of a nation or (c) a group of persons most highly regarded for contributions to a field or endeavour. Whereas the Parthenon is the chief temple of the Greek goddess Athena, built on the acropolis at Athens.

People shouldn’t be unduly surprised at Mr Clooney’s mistake as I have it on excellent authority – in fact the authority of my friend Atkins, who knows about such things – that on a trip to Italy in 2008 the famous Hollywood actor referred to one of that country’s most famous monuments as The Leaning Tower of Pizza.

However, again according to Atkins, these aren’t the only two occasions when American actors’ grasp of historical facts have been less than convincing. One such was no less than John Wayne himself, Atkins averred, on the occasion he was in China on a diplomatic mission for his country and asked if it was possible that while he was there it would be possible for him to visit its Hanging Gardens of Babylon. (During this trip the Duke is reported to have visited the Great Wall of China and gazed in awe at it for five minutes before proclaiming ‘That is a GREAT wall.’

Atkins went on to tell of Brad Pitt’s visit to Paris, in particular his visits to the Loofah to see Leonardo DiCaprio’s Mona Lisa, and the Poppadom Centre. And I myself definitely remember Jack Nicholson, on a visit to the Lake District, saying how he’d always wanted to visit the birthplace of William Woolworths.

I can’t wait to go to America and ask to see their Statue of Puberty.

 

 

The post 18 Feb 2014. THE PANTHEON? appeared first on Stairlift To Heaven.