Terry Ravenscroft's Blog: Stairlift to Heaven, page 5
February 17, 2014
17 Feb 2014. THE WINTER OLYMPICS.
With a start, accompanied by a feeling of deep embarrassment, I realised that the shapely bottom of the Swedish entry in the skeleton competition belonged to a man. The previous day I’d had the time of my life ogling the participants in the women’s skeleton competition and on switching on the TV set and seeing yet more Lycra stretched over toned buttocks in the men’s competition I had automatically and subconsciously gone into Dirty Old Man mode.
Having gone back to the women’s skeleton my mind stayed there a moment or two – well it stayed there about ten minutes actually – and re-lived the wonderful experience. Can there be a more thrilling sight in sport than to see a shapely woman slider – that’s what they call skeleton practitioners apparently – speeding down the ice stretched out face down on her skeleton, her pert bottom stuck in the air, displaying skill, bravery and, with a bit of luck, visible panty line?
Well if there is it certainly isn’t housework on ice, or curling as it is also called. Other than Formula 1 can there be a more boring sport? People shoving a big round stone on the ice and trying to land it in a target while two of their mates scrub the ice in front of it because they haven’t shoved it hard enough? Both the men and women Team GB teams – as the commentators insist on calling the British team, and whoever thought that one up deserves to be shot – consist exclusively of Scottish people, as far as I can make out. Which doesn’t surprise me at all. Any nation that can derive pleasure from tossing a tree trunk end over end must view curling with the same excitement that I feel for the women’s skeleton competition. In fact the only thing that didn’t surprise me, the team consisting of Scots, was that they weren’t shoving deep-fried Mars bars down the ice instead of curling stones.
However the coma-inducing curling action didn’t dampen the excitement of the BBC commentators who, far from being rendered comatose, were more dementedly hysterical than ever. (I believe that this year they were coached by Brian Blessed, which goes some way to explaining it.) At the time of writing we have already won a bronze medal in the snowboard slopestyle and a gold medal in the women’s skeleton, and of course when the figure skating starts we are stone cold favourites for a gold in the Falling On Your Arse competition, but if our television commentators don’t come home with gold, silver and bronze in the Most Over The Top And Gung Ho Commentary I will stand shooting. Along with the person who dreamed up ‘Team GB’.
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February 16, 2014
16 Feb 2014. IT’S NOT CRICKET!
The other day a lady who had just finished reading my latest book It’s Not Cricket! asked me how authors get their ideas for their books. Well I can’t speak for others – and with some authors who shall be nameless (but one of them has the Christian name initials J.R.R.) I wish they had never had the ideas in the first place – but in my case it usually starts with a single incident that I have witnessed, or have come to hear about, or perhaps an anecdote related by someone, or a news item I have read in the newspapers or seen on TV.
Having come by the idea I then see where it takes me. Invariably it is up many blind alleys. If I stick to my task and I’m lucky I find an alley which, although a long way from having 20-20 vision, isn’t completely blind, and I eventually emerge from the other end with something resembling a story. It is by no means the finished article and may go through many changes but it is a start, something to get me writing.
In the case of It’s Not Cricket! the incident, told to me at a cricket match by the stranger sat beside me, happened at a cricket match between two local village cricket teams. The situation was that the match had to end at 8pm, the umpires taking the time from the clock on the church overlooking the ground. With three minutes to go it looked certain the match would end in a draw as although the home side had plenty of wickets in hand they still required another twenty runs for victory; a near impossible task, especially as the opposition bowlers quite naturally weren’t in any hurry to bowl. In the event they had plenty of time to score the runs. In fact there was still three minutes left on the clock when one of their batsmen hit the winning run. How come? Because one of the home supporters, as anxious for victory as his cricket team, had stopped the church clock at three minutes to eight.
Given this anecdote I wondered what might be the outcome if the defeated team were to try to get their own back by playing a similar type of trick on their rivals the following year; and if both teams continued to add subterfuge and low cunning to their cricketing talent (or lack of it) in their efforts to beat each other. Over the years a fierce rivalry would develop between not only the cricket teams but increasingly the villages and villagers themselves, until by the year 2013 they positively detested each other. I added into the mix the a recently retired ex-England cricket captain who, on his retirement from the game, had come to live in one of the villages – although it was by no means certain which village – and both villages’ efforts, fair and foul, but mostly foul, to persuade him to play for them. I had my book.
Below is how I incorporated the ‘stopping the church clock incident’ in It’s Not Cricket!
CHAPTER SIX
The Church Clock Affair
Following The Brothers Grimm Affair it took quite some time for the members of the Upper and Lower Medlock teams to regard one another with anything but distrust; however by 1968 their wounds had healed sufficiently for them to at least get through their annual fixture without a fight breaking out. Since the affair both teams had been victorious on three occasions, Upper Medlock finally having being successful in improving their batting strength, this time legitimately, thanks to the addition to their ranks of Ralph Breeze and Gerald Shippon from the nearby village of Much Nettleton, whose cricket team had been dissolved after their ground had been subjected to a compulsory purchase order to make way for the new Middleham by-pass. There had been murmurings amongst the Lower Medlock players that the Middleham by-pass scheme and its subsequent compulsory purchase orders had been implemented with unusual speed, and that a possible reason for this was that one of the Upper Medlock team, Alex Clunes, was a county councillor, and as such was in a position to influence matters in this regard; however nothing could be proved.
So it was in a state of relative peace that the next fixture began.
September 2, 1968.
Upper Medlock v Lower Medlock. Wickets pitched 2pm. Umpires S Chesworth, A Morten.
Upper Medlock 210 all out.
Lower Medlock
J Gartside b Clunes 43
R Breeze c Greaves b Smith 47
A Edmondson (C) lbw b Clunes 17
P Hibbert b Peebles 24
G Shippon not out 41
The Rev A Hartley retired hurt 10
L Mason not out 15
Extras 14
Total 211 for 4
Lower Medlock won by 6 wickets.
The cricket ground at Lower Medlock is owned by St Matthew’s Church, a handsome-looking Norman church dating from the twelfth century. In its largesse, and very probably because the Vicar of Medlock was a founder member of the team when it was formed in 1888, the church allows the cricket team the use of the ground for a peppercorn rent of one penny per annum, but with one proviso: that not a ball shall be bowled, regardless of the state of play in the match, after 8 pm. This stipulation is set as deeply in stone as the inscriptions on the tombs and gravestones surrounding the church, many of them former cricketers, ‘Out at last’ and ‘Not out, merely sleeping’ being just two of their fanciful inscriptions. (‘Bowled his last maiden over’ had not been allowed following an objection by the local branch of the Women’s Institute.) A further guarantee that the church’s wishes would be adhered to was that the incumbent vicar was often a member of the Medlock side, and if not a playing member, a club official and keen follower.
The 8 pm proviso had never caused a problem until the 1968 meeting. Until 1954, when the games were of unlimited overs, if the match was still undecided by eight-o-clock the game simply ended in a draw. After 1954, when the format changed to limited over and the matches decided over forty overs per side, there had always been sufficient time to complete the fixtures, or at least those fixtures the English summer weather hadn’t already put paid to by rain, and on a couple of occasions snow. In fact rainfall was to play no small part in the 1968 match, two lengthy showers being responsible for the loss of over an hour’s play. This had the effect of putting Lower Medlock’s reply to Upper Medlock’s total of 210 well behind schedule if they were to have any hopes of getting the required runs before the clock struck eight. Some very tight bowling by Smith and Clunes – although thankfully the two bowlers weren’t taking the wickets that might yield a victory for their side – put the Lower Medlock reply even further behind schedule, making a drawn game very much on the cards.
At this point there had been more than a suggestion that, with an eye on the clock, the Upper Medlock side had been purposely slowing things down – being somewhat dilatory in returning the ball back when it had been dispatched for a boundary, taking their time making the change in fielding positions at the end of each over, a bowler forever altering the position of his field in the middle of an over, aided and abetted by his captain; in fact just the normal sort of gamesmanship one expects in a game of cricket, but no more than that. And certainly not enough to justify the scandalous behaviour that what was to follow.
At eight minutes to eight by the church clock – from which the umpires were duty bound by the church to take their timing – it was looking like a lost cause for the home side: twenty more runs were required but with very few five minutes to get them, and the bowling as tight as ever.
It was at this juncture that The Reverend Hartley, the current incumbent of St Matthew’s church, approached umpire Chesworth complaining of severe stomach pains: he thought he was running a temperature, it was all he could do to keep from vomiting, if he were to vomit he certainly didn’t want to do it on the cricket pitch, heaven forbid, could he possibly be excused? Umpire Chesworth, after a brief consultation with Umpire Morten, ruled that the reverend could leave the field, retired hurt. The Upper Medlock captain was informed and The Reverend Hartley left the field clutching his stomach rather dramatically, and a little too quickly for a man in severe pain, to be replaced by the next batsman, Mason.
All this had soaked up another three minutes and it was exactly five minutes to eight by the time the new batsman had taken guard and faced up to his first ball. He took a two from it, a handsome drive through the mid-wicket area, blocked the next delivery, and then, chancing his arm, hooked the final ball of the over for a four. This left fourteen runs required for victory, but with virtually no time left to get them. Shippon now faced up to Upper Medlock’s best bowler, Clunes. Perhaps inspired by his new batting partner’s success Shippon hit out at the first delivery and despatched it through the covers to the boundary for another four. Could victory still be possible? It was possible, yes, but even the most optimistic of the Lower Medlock team wouldn’t have risked so much as a penny on it. It would have been a wise decision; Shippon’s boundary proved to be a false dawn and it was his only success until the final ball of the over, which he edged through the slips down to third man for two.
Shawcross, the Upper Medlock captain, glanced up at the clock, confidently expecting the hands to show that there wouldn’t be time for another over, probably not enough time to even start one. However, and to his great surprise, the clock was registering two minutes to eight. Shawcross, aware that time sometimes has a nasty habit of standing still when you most want it to get a move on, put the discrepancy down to this phenomenon. However he wasn’t at all worried, secure in the knowledge that by the time the fielders had changed positions in readiness for the next over that there would be no more than a minute to go at the most, and Ted Dexter and Tom Graveney themselves weren’t going to score fourteen runs in a minute, let alone the Lower Medlock batsmen, and a well-deserved victory would be Upper Medlock’s. Therefore it came as something of a shock to him when it turned out that not only was there enough time left to start the over but enough time for Shippon and Mason to knock up eight runs from it. It came as an even bigger shock to him when he looked up at the church clock after the final ball to find that it still showed two minutes to eight. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the hands hadn’t budged so much as a centimetre from when he’d last looked. Those members of the Upper Medlock side who had also been keeping an eye on the minute hand of the clock were equally surprised on looking up and observing the time. The Lower Medlock batsmen Shippon and Mason were surprised. Umpires Chesworth and Morten were surprised. The thirty or so spectators were surprised. The only person not surprised, now high in the clock tower of the church, was The Reverend Hartley, the man responsible for stopping the clock.
Consternation replaced surprise on the faces of the Upper Medlock team. Hope replaced it on the faces of the Lower Medlock batsmen. Confusion replaced it on the faces of umpires Chesworth and Morten, both of whom were at a loss as to what to do. But, as Shippon was quick to point out to them, a proviso was a proviso, the law was the law, a deal was a deal, the clock had yet to strike eight. With nothing else for it Umpire Chesworth signalled for the game to continue and Shippon and Mason knocked off the runs. With two minutes to spare.
Only then did The Reverend Hartley remove the wooden plank he had jammed between the cogs of the clock’s mechanism. As the ancient timepiece whirred into action again the reverend gave a benevolent smile, looked heavenwards in thanks to God, and made his way back down the spiral stone staircase to finish off writing his sermon for the morrow, ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. He thought that Hymn number 559, Lead us heavenly Father, lead us, might chime rather well with it.
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February 14, 2014
14 Feb 2014. THAMES RIVERSIDE.
I switched on the telly for the lunchtime BBC News. More floods. More floods in London, more floods in Wales, more floods in Somerset. And definitely more news reporters stood knee deep in the floods in a pair of waders talking about the floods. Why do they find it necessary to do that? I don’t have to see them standing in it to believe there’s been a flood. A nice shot of the reporter on dry land with the flood in the background would be more than enough to convince me there’s been a flood thereabouts. But no. Apparently that isn’t good enough. They have to stand it. Like little children do at the first opportunity when they go to the seaside.
As I watched the waterlogged reporter delivering his bulletin I felt a sketch coming on. I wrote it. Here it is.
The banks of the River Thames a yard or two away from the flood waters. A CAMERAMAN with a hand held camera is waiting to start shooting. The DIRECTOR is with the REPORTER at the water’s edge.
DIRECTOR: In you get then.
REPORTER: What?
DIRECTOR: Get in the water.
REPORTER: Get in the water?
DIRECTOR: Of course.
REPORTER: Why?
DIRECTOR: Because that’s the way we do live reports on floods. Haven’t you ever watched the news?
REPORTER: Of course.
DIRECTOR: Then you’ll have seen our flood reporters standing in the flood water when they deliver their report. Usually up to their knees. Although the one in Dawlish the other day was up to his bollocks in it. Looked very effective too.
The REPORTER thinks it over for a moment.
REPORTER: You see I usually do reports from the stock exchange. The latest share prices, mergers, bank scandals, that sort of thing.
DIRECTOR: Then welcome to the real world. Well come along then, chop chop, they’ll be coming over to us anytime now.
REPORTER: I’m only going in up to my knees. I’m not going up to my bollocks in it.
DIRECTOR: Nobody is asking you to go up to your bollocks in it.
REPORTER: Well at least that’s something.
DIRECTOR: I want you to go up to your neck in it.
REPORTER: Up to my neck?
DIRECTOR: Yes, the viewers are getting blasé about seeing reporters just up to their knees. They want something more exciting. It will be a great shot. You’ll have to make sure you hold your microphone up. Go on then.
The REPORTER dithers and the DIRECTOR pushes him forcefully into the water.
DIRECTOR: Walk in a bit further.
REPORTER: I’m not going in up to my neck.
DIRECTOR: Oh all right, we’ll settle for waist high.
The REPORTER fearfully edges his way in further. Suddenly he disappears underwater.
DIRECTOR: Oooops! Must have fallen down a hole or something. Not to worry, it will look even better if he’s swimming.
The REPORTER’S head bobs up.
REPORTER: Help! I can’t swim!
DIRECTOR: Shit.
REPORTER: I can’t swim!
The REPORTER goes under again. The DIRECTOR listens as he receives a message in his earpiece.
DIRECTOR: (To the CAMERAMAN) We’re on the air in five. I’ll have to do the piece. Try to keep him out of shot if he comes up again.
CAMERMAN: Roger.
The DIRECTOR wades into the water up to his knees and turns to camera.
DIRECTOR: Here, by the banks of the River Thames, as the flood water inches ever higher, the floods have claimed yet another unfortunate victim….
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February 8, 2014
8 Feb 2014. LADY TO LADETTE.
I have three books on offer at 99p from Amazon for the next seven days, Stairlift to Heaven, Stairlift to Heaven 2 and James Blond – Stockport is too Much.
8 Feb 2014. LADY TO LADETTE.
Following the success of the ITV series Ladette to Lady the BBC have announced they are to make a similar type show – surprise, surprise – entitled Lady to Ladette. The concept of the show is that over a course of six few weeks six debutantes will be transformed from refined young ladies of excellent breeding to drug-taking, shag-happy, pissed-out-of -their- brains, slags.
Lessons will include drug abuse, alcohol abuse, verbal abuse, self abuse (only if necessary, but probably not), advanced effing and blinding, fighting (including hair pulling, spitting and biting), mooning, screaming at coppers and getting shagged by blokes mostly called Darren and Wayne.
The pilot episode, already in the can (where a lot of the action takes place, incidentally), is dominated by two of the girls, The Hon Arabella von Hof, youngest daughter of property magnate Baron von Hof, and Henrietta fforbes-hyphen, only daughter of socialite Henry fforbes-Hyphen and his wife Twoeffs fforbes-hyphen. In the episode Arabella, on drinking ten Bacardi Breezers after warming up with six pints of Stella, is shown by programme consultant Denise van Outen how to pull a bloke named Darren Wayne, give him a blow job in the gents toilet, and be sick all over him, in no particular order, whilst Henrietta gets her first lessons in becoming a cokehead from guest ladette ex-East Enders star Daniella Westbrook.
By the end of the six planned episodes it is hoped that the six girls will have learned enough to be able to forsake the vacuous world of Sloane Square and round-the-clock shopping they currently inhabit in exchange for a more rewarding life in Nottingham or Newcastle, either working by day (unlikely), or throwing a sickie (very likely), and clubbing by night.
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February 6, 2014
6 Feb 2014. OUR SALAD DAYS.
About six months ago The Trouble decided she needed some weight, which meant that I had to lose some too, and since then we invariably have a salad for out mid-day meal. It comprises of the usual mix of leaves and tomatoes and whatnot with maybe just a small quantity of rice left over from a Chinese or Indian the evening before. (Only a small quantity because The Trouble insists that rice is fattening, despite my pointing out to her that you don’t get many fat Chinese or Indians.) It is accompanied by some meat or other, a couple of slices of roast beef, ham or pork, often a chicken thigh or piece of breast, all of which serve to just about make a salad bearable.
Which is where I have a problem. Because The Trouble, unlike normal people who eat their lettuce, tomatoes etcetera and meat in more or less equal proportions until their plate is empty, insists on eating all the lettuce, tomatoes and whatnot first, leaving the meat virtually untouched, so that towards the end of the meal there’s just the meat on her plate and nothing else.
This might not bother me if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m a faster eater than The Trouble. Consequently when I’ve emptied my plate she always has all her meat left. And I haven’t any meat left. Which gets right up my nose. Especially as I’m usually still hungry after having just a bit of salad for my lunch instead of a proper mid-day meal like fish and chips or a pizza or something.
“Why do you always leave your meat until last?” I once asked her.
“What?” She’d heard me all right but it’s her standard opening gambit whenever I pull her up about something.
“Why can’t you be like normal people and eat a bit of this and a bit of that so you finish everything at the same time?”
“It’s my salad, I’ll eat the ingredients in any order I wish.”
Of course once she realised it annoyed me she did it all the more. Now, more often than not, she leaves the beef or whatever it is completely untouched until she’s eaten everything else. And I’m pretty sure she puts more meat on than she used to. Of course this means that I have more meat, rendering me not quite as hungry as I used to be when I’ve finished, but it also means that The Trouble has more meat too and consequently more meat left when I’ve eaten all mine. I’ve tried eating slower so that we finish at the same time but the slower I go the slower she goes – it once took us about three quarters of an hour and she still had all her chicken breast left when I’d finished mine.
Anyway I’d had just about enough of it and at lunch time a couple of days ago I took decisive action. When I’d emptied my plate and The Trouble still had both slices of her roast beef left I leaned over, picked them up, dropped them on my plate and wolfed them down while she was still looking at me dumbstruck. That’ll teach you I thought.
Some hopes. Yesterday when I sat down to lunch there was just leaves, tomatoes and whatnot on my plate. The Trouble had leaves, tomatoes, whatnot and a nice half inch thick slice of turkey breast, my favourite. (Which she well knows.)
“Where’s my turkey?” I said.”
“Oh,” she said, feigning surprise. “I assumed you’d be stealing mine.” And then jabbed her fork into the turkey, making sure I couldn’t grab it off her plate. “There’s some more in the fridge, help yourself.”
Of course I didn’t demean myself; I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead I said airily, “I wasn’t going to eat it anyway. I don’t feel much like meat today.”
Today the meat was back on my plate. Roast ham. I ate it along with the salad and finished round about the time The Trouble had just her roast ham remaining on her plate. I reached over with the intention of pretending to steal it but she anticipated it and if I hadn’t been quick about it she’d have jabbed the back of my hand with her fork.
I shan’t try again.
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February 3, 2014
2 Feb 2014. THE RESPONSIBLE PHARMACIST.
“Mr Ravenscroft?”
“That’s me.”
“Here’s your prescription.”
“Cheers.”
“Would there be anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“How about a few drugs?”
“What, you mean prescription drugs? Paracetemol perhaps?”
“I was thinking more cocaine.”
“Cocaine?”
“Or heroin. Then again we have some very good crystal meth should you prefer. Fresh in this morning. I can recommend it highly.”
“Is that why you’re swinging from the lampshade?” I begin to edge towards the door.
The irresponsible pharmacist calls after me. “We have spliffs on ‘Special’.”
I stop and turn, think it over for a moment and say, “Oh go on then what the hell.”
February 2, 2014
2 Feb 2014. THE RESPONSIBLE PHARMACIST.
In our local Boots the Chemists’ dispensary there is a notice on the wall adjacent to the counter where you pick up your prescriptions. It reads, and I do not lie, ‘The Responsible Pharmacist today is…..’ followed by the name of the pharmacist responsible that day. I presume that if they have a responsible pharmacist they also have an irresponsible one on duty, otherwise why would they go to the trouble of pointing out who the responsible one is? I haven’t yet met whoever is the irresponsible pharmacist yet but I can imagine what it would be like.
“Mr Ravenscroft?”
“That’s me.”
“Here’s your prescription.”
“Cheers.”
“Would there be anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“How about a few drugs?”
“What, you mean prescription drugs? Paracetemol perhaps?”
“I was thinking more cocaine.”
“Cocaine?”
“Or heroin. Then again we have some very good crystal meth should you prefer. Fresh in this morning. I can recommend it highly.”
“Is that why you’re swinging from the lampshade?” I begin to edge towards the door.
The irresponsible pharmacist calls after me. “We have spliffs on ‘Special’.”
I stop and turn, think it over for a moment and say, “Oh go on then what the hell.”
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January 31, 2014
Jan 31 2014. ENGLISH LANGUAGE TEST.
All I can say to this is that it’s a good job that the ability to speak English correctly doesn’t extend to the natives. If that were the case the entire cast of EastEnders would be deported immediately. Anyway that’s wot I would’ve fought; what you fink, guv? And along with the regulars of the Queen Vic to be departing our shores would be a fair number of the population of the rest of London and most of Essex. Jamie Oliver and Jonathan Ross would have to join in the exodus and whilst the loss of the former might not be a cause for celebration I can’t see the banishing of Wossie causing much heartache.
Any Geordie who regularly ‘gans yam’ instead of going home would likewise be deported. Many residents of Birmingham with their ‘Do yow cum frum Brum?’ and numerous Liverpudlians who sound like they are regurgitating a sizeable dollop of phlegm along with every word would be told to hoppit; countless Cornishmen, Devonians and ‘ee bah gum’ Yorkshiremen and Lancastrians would have to join them; and as for Scots, especially Glaswegians, they would be the first on the boat along with the Welsh.
However, as far as Bulgarians and Rumanians having to pass an English exam before being allowed into the country is concerned, I think there would be little chance of them failing such a test, at least not if it is as dumbed-down as the GCSE A levels our schoolchildren are now being asked to sit by our excuse for a Government.
The questions, naturally, would be multi-choice. A typical one would probably be -
Which of the following is correct?
(a) I are going to the corner shop to buy some beetroot for our evening meal.
(b) I am going to the corner shop to sell some beetroot for our evening meal.
(c) I am going to the corner shop to buy some beetroot for our evening meal.
(d) I are going to the corner shop to sell some beetroot for our evening meal.
(e) Fuck the beetroot, we’ll send out for a pizza.
Underline the correct answer. Best of five attempts to count.
Jan 31 2014. ENGLISH LANGUAGE TEST.
In yesterday’s newspaper I read that one of our wonderful Members of Parliament found no better use of his time than to suggest that ‘The ability to speak English correctly should be a prerequisite for the tide of Rumanians and Bulgarians currently landing on our shores and settling in Britain’.
All I can say to this is that it’s a good job that the ability to speak English correctly doesn’t extend to the natives. If that were the case the entire cast of EastEnders would be deported immediately. Anyway that’s wot I would’ve fought; what you fink, guv? And along with the regulars of the Queen Vic to be departing our shores would be a fair number of the population of the rest of London and most of Essex. Jamie Oliver and Jonathan Ross would have to join in the exodus and whilst the loss of the former might not be a cause for celebration I can’t see the banishing of Wossie causing much heartache.
Any Geordie who regularly ‘gans yam’ instead of going home would likewise be deported. Many residents of Birmingham with their ‘Do yow cum frum Brum?’ and numerous Liverpudlians who sound like they are regurgitating a sizeable dollop of phlegm along with every word would be told to hoppit; countless Cornishmen, Devonians and ‘ee bah gum’ Yorkshiremen and Lancastrians would have to join them; and as for Scots, especially Glaswegians, they would be the first on the boat along with the Welsh.
However, as far as Bulgarians and Rumanians having to pass an English exam before being allowed into the country is concerned, I think there would be little chance of them failing such a test, at least not if it is as dumbed-down as the GCSE A levels our schoolchildren are now being asked to sit by our excuse for a Government.
The questions, naturally, would be multi-choice. A typical one would probably be -
Which of the following is correct?
(a) I are going to the corner shop to buy some beetroot for our evening meal.
(b) I am going to the corner shop to sell some beetroot for our evening meal.
(c) I am going to the corner shop to buy some beetroot for our evening meal.
(d) I are going to the corner shop to sell some beetroot for our evening meal.
(e) Fuck the beetroot, we’ll send out for a pizza.
Underline the correct answer. Best of five attempts to count.
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January 29, 2014
Jan 29 2014. PLAIN ENGLISH.
“What, if anything, do you intend doing about Jane Austen?” I asked the man who answered the phone.
“How do you mean?”
“Well according to your website your organisation claim to be trying to rid the English language of gobbledygook. So how about sorting out some of the stuff Miss Austen wrote? This sort of thing for example. It’s from Pride and Prejudice. (It wasn’t, I made it up, but it could well have been.) I quote: ‘I would deem it a great honour, Miss Bennet, if you could find it within your heart to permit your good self and my humble person to attain a close proximity, the object of which would be to pursue that physical dalliance beloved of those who have become enamoured of each other.’ Now all that Darcy meant by that torrent of verbiage is ‘Do you fancy a shag?’, so why doesn’t Jane Austen just say that?”
The line went quiet for a moment or two then the man said, “Are you serious?”
“Well of course I’m serious,” I said, at my most serious.
“It was the manner in which people spoke in Austen’s time,” the man said.
“I know that, but shouldn’t you people be re-writing it and getting rid of all the gobbledygook in it, like you claim to be doing? I admit there wouldn’t be much left of Pride and Prejudice, about three pages I should think, but well worth the effort I would have thought.”
Whilst I had been speaking the man had come up with a defence. “Besides, it isn’t strictly gobbledygook. Admittedly it’s a little on the verbose side for modern tastes, but the grammar is correct, and one can understand it.”
“So that’s all right then is it? That is the criteria which the Plain English Campaign applies when making its judgements? That the language should be understandable?”
“More or less.”
“So when are you going to sort Shakespeare out?”
“Pardon?”
“I quote again: ‘What’s in a name, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. Now what Shakespeare meant by that is ‘Shit’s shit whatever you call it’ so why doesn’t he say that?
And how about this? I recited a bit of Shakespeare I’d looked up that I didn’t understand, which didn’t took me long as I don’t understand any of it. “‘Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that l’ourd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried?’ Now you’re not trying to tell me that one can understand that, are you? Because this one can’t for a start. I mean what does ‘l’ourd’ mean for goodness sake? Does he perhaps mean lard? Does the Bard mean lard?”
The line went quiet for ages. Eventually a woman spoke to me. “Mrs Jameson here. Can I help you?”
“Well you can if you can you tell me what ‘l’ourd upon our house’ means.”
After a moment Mrs Jameson said: “Well I’m more of a Dickens person, actually.”
“Don’t get me started on Charles Dickens!” I said.
After a couple of minutes pulling to bits the almost impenetrable prose of Bleak House I rang off and left them to it. However I don’t think they’ll be doing much about it, more is the pity, as I quite fancy being able to understand what Shakespeare is on about rather than pretend I know what he means, like the vast majority of people do. I’ll take a pass on Jane Austen though.
