The Good are Good—The Bad, Frightfully Ugly

12 Feb

As I was born with a charitable nature, all my life I have sought to help those in need. I unselfishly give away the many unwanted gifts I receive each year to local charity shops to help increase their revenue.  I have donated my time to teach underprivileged children to read, offering up copies of my own books to them at an extremely generously reduced cost. I have traveled to faraway countries to help literally build new communities, and I can tell you there is nothing more rewarding than being present while someone christens a new sewer system. I buy a new poppy every single year, and I have no qualms about telling other shoppers in the queue at Sainsbury’s to shut the hell up if we happen to be waiting together  at eleven on Remembrance Day. I do these things not so I can then brag about them during lectures to the WI or on this very website. I do them because frankly that is just my nature: there’s no two ways about it, I am a good person.

Alas, we good people are becoming few and far between these days.  I don’t want to seem overly moralistic here, because I am aware that good people sometimes do bad things and that being bad once doesn’t necessarily make one a bad person. I do not believe in unfairly judging people.

At the same time, though, people seem to be up to some real evil-doing these days.  I’m dismayed by the crimes of all natures which I read about in the papers and the stupid choices politicians around the world seem to be making. Even in my own village, I witness my neighbour leaving his dog in his back garden all night, despite the cold and horrendous noises the creature makes and let’s not forget about the dressmaker who not only delayed the delivery of a dress by six days but when said dress was delivered, it clearly fell three inches below the owner’s knee as opposed to the two inches that had been requested.

bad peopleCan we really say that these are simply “bad acts” and not “bad people”? No. I think it’s high time we stand up and call a spade a shovel.

It used to be that those of us who were good were the norm; the bad people were a minority group easily identified by that evil little glint in their eye (and their tendency to drink publicly from bottles in paper bags). Those simple times are no more. Therefore, I have devised a quick test to determine where each of us stands.

Firstly, readers, I ask that you yourselves complete this straight forward assessment; you never know, you might actually be a bad person who is just so good at being bad that you have in fact fooled even yourself. You may then want to pass this out to those you come into contact with (especially those with whom you do financial or sexual trade). It is a simple way to separate the wheat from the chaff.

1. If you were angry with the woman who lived next door to you, would you:

a. Beat her with a shovel and bury her behind the shed before you went through her home, snatching anything that looked like it might be of value on the black market.

b. Complain about her loudly to both the postman and the woman who lives across the lane.

c. Paint a rude symbol on the pavement in front of her house.

d. Think to yourself, seeing as how she is an internationally famous writer and the highlight of your life is watching Countdown each day, perhaps she was right about it being your responsibility to maintain the creosote on the fence.

2. If you worked at a bank and a woman came in wanting to exchange her collection of two pound coins for newer, shinier two pound coins, would you:

a. Throw the bag of coins in her face, bruising her delicately rouged cheeks.

b. Point out to her that it is midday and the bank is very full of customers whose needs are apparently more important than hers.

c. Close your window.

d. Meet her request because it is nice to see someone who appreciates the aesthetic as well as monetary value of Her Royal Majesty’s mint.

3. If you lived in a small village and had a son or daughter under the age of sixteen, would you:

a. Feel comfortable allowing your child to enter the local shop without your own personal supervision.

b. Grant your child the privilege of riding a scooter, skateboard or public transport through the village.

c. Permit your child to call any adult by their Christian name.

d. Teach the kid to mind their manners and keep the hell away from my hydrangea.

Clearly, if you answered anything other than d, you are a bad person. The facts speak for themselves. Do some soul-searching and if you can’t manage to be rehabilitated and come over to the good side, please book into a prison immediately and get yourself the help you need.

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Going Postal

6 Feb

You may be aware of the brouhaha regarding the United States Postal Services. They, like so many of you, are in a spot of bother, money-wise. Apparently, more people are not sending post more often than they used to not to, and now the poor postmaster is wringing his hands in despair. I sympathise, I do.  However, I was more than alarmed when I read of his plan to remedy this situation.

No Saturday deliveries.

Did your heart miss a beat when you read that? Mine surely did (when I watched Christopher type it.) It’s clearly a decision that reeks of bigotry (there’s so little Jews can do on the Sabbath, why deny them the pleasure of receiving some post?). Even more disturbing is the plain fact that eliminating Saturday mail delivery goes against everything that great nation stands for.  Postmaster General Donahoe might as well have said he planned to set alight the old Stars and Stripes, because both acts are identical in terms of their anti-American sentiment.

The reason the Post Office is so symbolic of the very nature of American goodness is because of the way it benefits all Americans, even those poor unfortunates. In fact, Benjamin Franklin first laid out the concept of a United States Post Office in 1775 as part of the country’s first truly social service. In his initial proposal, he wrote:

While we hope that starting this war with England will cut down on some of our population declared of unsound mind, I am concerned that we will still be left with some undesirables, loitering the streets and distressing our womenfolk. Let us invent an institution where they can stay busy doing something productive, without us having to engage in any prolonged interaction with them.

And so the Postal Office was born and has been providing work for mentals for well over 200 years. All people, whether rich or poor, black or white, educated or illiterate, could share in the joy of relaxing on a Saturday afternoon while reading one’s post (though admittedly the illiterate probably found it slightly less satisfying).  Saturday delivery told the average American that the government cares about him as an individual; it was if US Mail were saying, “Just because the work week is over, pal, don’t think we’ve forgotten how important your Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue is to you, ol’ buddy.” And now not only is the Postmaster going to denying that individual his early Saturday afternoon wank, but he’s also rubbing salt in it by effectively spitting in his eye. Disgusting.

Of course my greatest personal concern about this shocking business is my American fans. As hard as it may be for some of you to imagine, I have a rather colossal following among non-Internet users, including but not limited to geriatrics. Each Tuesday, I send Christopher to the post office to mail off the previous week’s updates in paper form. This allows said fans to receive said paper updates on Saturday afternoons, so that they can peruse them while they are at home waiting for that phone call from the grandchildren that will never come. When the USPS desists Saturday delivery this August, I may have to start sending Christopher out on Mondays, which is the day that he drives me to my Jazzercise class. I can’t believe that I will be required to rearrange my entire life because one selfish government service cannot keep its books in order.

It surprises me that the PO has missed the blaringly obvious solution to this dilemma: eliminate all restrictions on what can be sent through the post BUT add a hefty surcharge to such packages. Think of all the potential revenue. A wedding guest unable to attend would gladly pay a little extra to send a bottle of intoxicating liquor (or a bag of hashish, if that’s their thang) to the bride and groom. An absentee dad in Cali who’d like to send his east coast son a hamster would find no trouble accepting the higher cost to be able to bring a smile to his little boy’s face.  Someone who is really into knives might want to send some knives to someone else who is really into knives. The possibilities are endless.

I don’t doubt this suggestion will be ignored by Patrick R Donohoe, because I hear he likes nothing better than watching fatherless children cry. But I hope he knows just how really, really cross I am with him.

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No Raccoon Has Ever Lied To Me

2 Feb

Raccoons-bite-baby-sleeping-in-cribI’ve never seen a raccoon in England. If you’re not familiar with them, they’re furry grey animals with fluffy tails. A bit like squirrels except less squirrel-ish and more raccoon-ish. Their most distinct feature is the black mask across their face, making them look like fluffy bandits. Cute! What I like most about raccoons, though, is that they are incredibly trustworthy.

This may come as a shock to you, but as a child, I lived for eight months in Canada. My mother led me to believe that this location change was due to my father’s draft dodging. Alas, I was too young to realise that not only was the draft not enacted at the time, the US was not even at war. Nonetheless, to this day, I still see my father as a conscientious objector, and I look back at those months with great fondness.

One afternoon I decided to head out for a long walk in the Canadian wilderness. I went out with one of my brothers (or sisters, I don’t remember exactly, and does it really matter?). We hiked through the woodland, making small talk and pausing frequently for me to capture nature with my Kodak Instamatic.

It was mid-July. While most of us tend to think of cold when we think of Canada, I can assure you it was well hot. After an hour or so, my brother (or sister) and I were regretting not bringing drinks with us and decided to head home. However, we had lost our way and raccoon-wallpaper-10-752390neither of us had a compass with us. As we were plotting out our plan back to safety, I noticed a little raccoon with her kits in a nearby tree. I stood up to take a snap (even in times of danger, I am committed to my work as a documentarian) when I swear the mother beckoned me towards her. I cried out, and she and her babes scuttled down the tree and took off. We ran over to where the raccoons had been, and spelled out in pebbles at the root of the tree was the word “wow.”

“What do you think it means?” my puzzled sibling asked me.

I walked slowly around the message. From a different angle, it spelled out “mom.” So I determined that the raccoon was either directing us towards something worth seeing or leading us to our mother. Either way, we decided to follow and took off in the direction in which the animals had fled.

We quickly caught up with the raccoon family, primarily because they had thoughtfully stopped to wait for us. Again the mother used her little paw to urge us forward. As we made our way through the trees, we began to hear the sounds of a waterfall and then of gleeful laughter. We were almost home safe!

As we rounded a corner, though, it quickly became clear that we were not at the Whitt-Wellington homestead but rather the raccoon had led us to a park for nudists. My brother (or sister, whatever) and I stood transfixed as we watched the nudie grown-ups frolicking in the water, lying in the sun and bending over to pick flowers. For a few moments, we were frozen in our tracks. Then, we turned our heads away from the spectacle and saw the raccoons running away, so we followed again for quite some time until we ended up behind a police station. We went in, our folks were called, and eventually we got home. Neither my sibling nor I mentioned the nudists to the cops, our parents or each other. That day I learned what a naked man looks like, and all I could say was “wow” (read whatever tone you want into that). The other thing I learned was that raccoons can be trusted.

I bring this up today because it is 2 February, also known as Groundhog Day in America. In Pennsylvania, a whole bunch of people get together to listen to a groundhog called Punxsutawney Phil predict Groundhogs are Liarsthe weather. (If you’re not familiar with groundhogs, they look nothing like raccoons.) If Phil sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of winter; if he doesn’t see his shadow, an early spring is coming. The problem is, of course, that groundhogs are notorious liars, and Phil’s predictions are usually wrong.

Don’t go to groundhogs for your information. If you want the truth—however harsh, wrinkly or dangly it might be—a raccoon will lead you to it. If you want to know the weather, however, simply look out your window.

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When You Wanna Know If It’s Wild and/or If It’s Real

26 Jan

I had an interesting incident with Christopher this afternoon.

I found him in the garage underneath the car. He had his portable hi-fi on with the volume up to 11.  I almost had to raise my voice to get his attention (I needed another drink making), and I don’t need to remind you that I do not like raising my voice (it’s just not ladylike, is it?). When I finally managed to pull him away from whatever was so damn interesting under that car, he emerged with his shirt untucked and opened to the waist and his face and chest smeared with oil; he was dirtier than I’d ever seen him before.

This was quite a sight to behold.

While not unmoved by his rather rough appearance, I was also a bit cross due to my extreme thirst. He quickly cleaned himself up and satisfied my need. I tried to get him to talk about what had brought on this unusual behaviour, but he was reluctant to “share.” However, one thing he did confess is that he was feeling trapped and thought that working on the car might help remind him of all the places he wanted to go in his life. (Isn’t it cute when young people use metonymy?) In all honesty, I think the root of this reaction is not unrelated to a falling out he had with his mate, Georgio, who last week moved to Mykonos. Nonetheless, I gave him my time, a couple Bacardi Breezers and a bath, and he seemed right as rain again.

Like Christopher, I’ve had my moments of wanting to get away from it all. I’m sure we all have. It reminds me of a little song a good friend of mine penned many years back. When I was quite young, I spent a summer working with a group of carnies near Long Branch Beach in my home state of New Jersey; I worked primarily as a magician’s assistant, though I did manage to earn a few bob telling fortunes on my nights off. The Boss of the gang was called B Fred J, a lovely though short man. (Yes, he was in love with me.) After work, we would all sit around on the sand, and B Fred J would sometimes get his guitar out and sing to us.  He had written a beautiful ditty for me called “Born to Run.” I’d like to share it with you now, along with an explanation of its meaning (and my mother said that that minor in Song Lyric Interpretation would never come in handy).

____________________________________________________

In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream

(We did do it a lot in the day but never actually  in the street.)

At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines

(Our most popular attraction was called the Suicide Machine—B Fred J  later sold this to a crazy eyed doctor called Kevorkian who, I believe, went on to make big money from it.)

Sprung from cages out on Highway 9,
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected, and stepping out over the line.
Baby, this town rips the bones from your back

(I believe a childhood spinal injury may have been to blame for stunting his growth.)

It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap.
We’ve got to get out while we’re young.
‘Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run.

(“Tramps,” in this context, means neither sluts nor hoboes, but rather “sexy people.”)

Wendy, let me in, I want to be your friend,

(Scansion, I’m afraid dictated the change from Agatha to Wendy.)

I want to guard your dreams and visions.

(LSD doesn’t always have to be dangerous.)

Just wrap your legs round these velvet rims
And strap your hands across my engines.

(Vehicular imagery for sexual activities.)

Together we could break this trap.
We’ll run till we drop, baby we’ll never go back.
Will you walk with me out on the wire?

(The Wire was the “Lovers Lane” of Long Branch, so called after an unfortunate accident involving a very lonely lad and a loose electrical wire.)

‘Cause baby I’m just a scared and lonely rider

(Vehicular imagery for masturbation.)

But I’ve got to find out how it feels.
I want to know if love is wild, girl, I want to know if love is real.

(Alas, it wasn’t. I left that September, never to return.)

Beyond the palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard.

(A clever double meaning here: hemi-powered engines do exist, but, of  course, this also rhymes with semi-powered, and trust me, most of the screaming that took place that summer started off with a semi.)

The girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors
And the boys try to look so hard.

(As a result of their semis, obviously.)

The amusement park rises bold and stark.
Kids are huddled on the beach in a mist.
I want to die with you, Wendy, on the streets tonight
In an everlasting kiss.

(Again, I’m afraid B Fred J saw our “relationship” a little differently than I did.)

The highways jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive.
Everybody’s out on the run tonight but there’s no place left to hide.
Together, Wendy, we’ll live with the sadness.

(Do you see now why this didn’t work out? Who wants to live with sadness?)

I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul.

(I don’t think so.)

Someday girl, I don’t know when, we’re going to get to that place
Where we really want to go, and we’ll walk in the sun,
But until then tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.Bruce-Springsteen-Columbia-Records

(Sadly, I don’t believe he ever got to the place he wanted to go. I, however, have been every place I wanted to go. If you really are born to run, you run. You don’t quit the carny business to become a real estate agent in Asbury Park.)

____________________________________________________

If you ever find yourself feeling trapped and lonely, don’t dismantle your employer’s car and get oil on her tea towels. Pour yourself a drink, turn down the lights, and sing “Born to Run” to your heart’s content.

Then turn on the lights, look in the mirror and grow the hell up.

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Happy Inauguration, Mister President

21 Jan

An inauguration day is a pretty big thing in the lives of most people.  I’ve never been President of the United States, mind, but when I was young and foolish, I briefly held the presidency of the Anti-Yogurt League and the day of my inauguration was a splendid affair: after we trashed the dairy section of a major supermarket, we partied like it was 1999 (it wasn’t) all night long at the Elks Lodge (I didn’t even care that my dress got ripped).

Obama Official PortraitToday is Barack Obama’s inauguration, and I hope it’s just swell. It’s his second one, of course, and bound to be slightly less exciting, but I’m hoping he and his family enjoy the festivities (though why so-called Lady Gaga had to get involved, I will never understand).

It’s quite nice that this time round the inauguration falls on Martin Luther King Jr Day. It’s hopeful that the US is closer to Dr King’s dream of a nation where people are judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character (though it’s still obviously swayed by the size of their wallets).

In fact, even racists should appreciate the timing of the inauguration: they’ll be able to bitch about having a holiday honoring a black man while watching a ceremony honoring another black man. Two black men in one day? Why, that’s surely evidence that the white race is being destroyed, and there’s nothing racists love doing more on their days off work than frothing over conspiracies. Everybody wins!

Even though England doesn’t celebrate MLK Day, I still honor it as a day of service. I’m off this morning to read to some old folks at the community centre and then I’ll nip into the primary school to give a brief lecture on the American Civil Rights movement (don’t worry, I’ll be giving them the G-rated version of my experiences at the Million Man March), but I’ll be home in time to watch the inauguration. Christopher has enthusiastically embraced the spirit of the day himself and has promised to service me later this evening so all in all, 21 January 2013 will be a real celebration of freedom, duty and foot massages—three things that I, as should all good Americans, hold dear.

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A Weather Advisory

14 Jan

Hotter:ColderAlthough admittedly my certificate in meteorology is from a non-accredited correspondence course, I am in possession of some important weather facts. I would like to share these with you now to help you avoid embarrassment in future interactions with humans who have, at some point, traveled outside of the British Isles.

England’s weather is generally pretty mild. Why you refuse to accept this, I do not know. It’s not a bad thing, we don’t mean it as an insult. For those of us who have ventured the world, mild weather is often a blessing. It keeps us from having to purchase entirely separate wardrobes for each season, and it allows children to be left out in the garden for the better part of the day without fear of sunstroke or frostbite. Mild weather is something to treasure, and I can testify that I do.

England can get hot in the summers, this is true. Why, I remember that I almost broke a sweat while sharpening my secateurs one July afternoon! Heat in England is lovely because it means the sun has come out. Alas, sunny days in England are too few but when you’ve got one, you should surely make the most of it. Sit in the garden, cool yourself with fan, but for goodness sake, do not whinge about the heat. Try telling the people of El Azizia that you feeling a bit parched by an English swelter and see how much sympathy you receive.

Let me also assure you that, despite what some people are saying, Britain is not suffering from arctic weather.  Would you like to know why? Because they’re stupid. I was raised in Trenton (NJ), which is hardly a hotbed of frigidity, but even Trentonites know that 2C is next to nothing (in fact it’s two degrees next to nothing). The average temperatures in January in my hometown range from -4C to 4C and we once even dropped down to -26C. I’m not saying that makes Trenton (NJ) better or worse. I’m just saying, keep perspective. When it feels like this in your sitting room, then you will know the true meaning of arctic.

Now, yes, today you probably had some snow outside your front door. I grant you that. The problem with snow here is not the snow itself, but the inability of people to cope with it. Here’s the scoop: the climate, my friends, is changing, so we should probably just accept that in winter snow will fall and figure out some way to make sure the roads are safe. Maybe this is something David Cameron could get Nick Clegg on: sort out a community response to snow so that everything doesn’t go all haywire. Just a thought, Dave. You’ve got your priorities, I’m sure.

Let’s all just try to stay sensible whatever the weather reports say, yeah? Overall, Britain’s weather is not too bad, and having to deal with extremes every once in a while is probably something we can all manage. Try to make the best of it: I insisted Christopher shovel the walk three times today and can honestly say I enjoyed every moment of it—sitting at the window watching my little snow bunny heaving the white stuff around. I managed to get through a pot of tea and a whole box of bon-bons.

It was lovely.

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It May Be “Cute” But It Should Be Illegal

14 Jan

Today is “Dress Your Pet Day.” Don’t ask me why this is or why the so-called people who invented are not now in prison. I have a pretty strong feeling that if I’d receive a knock on the door from the coppers if I started advocating “Push Over A Granny Day,” but apparently animal abuse is tolerated as long as you dress it up as a special occasion.

All of these kittens are dead. Not so cute now, eh?

All of these kittens are dead. Not so cute now, eh?

As you know, I adore animals and find the human-beast relationship surely one of the most intriguing and satisfying of the many I have had. However, I am appalled by those people who feel compelled to dress their animals in human clothing. I was discussing this with my dear friend Billy Bremner, former manager of the Doncaster Rovers, and he was literally distressed even imagining why a person would want to pop a cat’s head through a polo neck jumper or slide a tiny pair of denims onto a Chihuahua’s hindlegs.

I suppose many anthropomorphize their pets into the children that they clearly are unable (and quite frankly should not be permitted) to give birth to themselves. Infertility can be a bitch, but what’s more terrifying is these people’s refusal to accept their “children” as they are. Instead, they use clothing to make them “better,” to live the childhoods that their human parents never lived. So the woman who got knocked up at sixteen and has spent the last twenty years raising children for the seven different men who at various times called her “princess” resorts to what I clearly feel should be criminal. Peter Poindexter can’t get women so he hopes that projecting his fantasy on to poor Fido will allow him to live a more exciting life.

NUN DOGOthers, I’m afraid, mistreat their animals in the name of religion. You don’t get a free pass through St Peter’s gates by forcing your dog to convert. Additionally, Rabbi Dogsalthough I know animals possess personalities and emotions, I simply find it difficult to believe that a Weimaraner and a Dachshund understand enough about Talmudic law to live as orthodox Jews. And I don’t know about you, but whatever your definition of jihad, there must be some restrictions on whom Allah would prefer to fight the good fight.

Whatever their pathetic justifications, these people need to be given a right ass whooping. No one should be permitted to take advantage of animals’ innate desire to please humans by dressing them in little outfits. In all honesty, I believe they should be given fines on the spot: I don’t pay my taxes for the RSPCA to sit around doing nothing about this.

And if I could just speak directly to the animals for a moment: know that there are humans in the world who respect you for who you are, regardless of your having four legs instead of the regulation two like we do. I am personally willing to fund any therapy and/or legal advice you may feel you need if you’ve been a victim today.

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In Praise of City Centres

5 Jan

I had the pleasure of escorting an American friend on a sightseeing trip today. He was traveling to Newcastle for a conference on the literary implications of nose-blowing, so I took the train up to meet him. Instead of hitting the usual tourist spots, we simply wandered around the City Centre before he nipped off to deliver his paper, Congestion in Nabokov’s Novels. (I unfortunately was unable to stay to hear his  fascinating research, but I’m sure it went down a storm).

One of the things he commented on was the exciting array of pedestrians in the City Centre. He took great pleasure in hearing apologies from the number of elderly ladies who ran over his feet with their shopping trolleys, and he was particularly impressed with the teenagers pushing their babies’ prams, dodging the dedicated charity workers desperately harassing the early morning shoppers in the name of a good cause. While he was slightly less thrilled by the young lad taking the piss in front of McDonalds (I mean this, unfortunately, literally), he had to laugh at the good-natured way said lad dealt with the restaurant’s manager who attempted to shoo him from the premises. He even maintained his smile as he gave his witness statement to the police.

City CentreI do love showing my American friends around English city centres. They are such hot beds of activity, so much of it so very English. I myself still adore wandering through the markets; their mystery I initially approached as a novelty, but even after this long, I do my best to support as many stalls as I can. This may explain why I have a cupboard full of striped knee socks and bags of outdated, non-brand-name crisps which will never see the light of day. But I feel I’ve done my part to support my community by purchasing them, and that’s all a citizen can do.

The other thing I love about city centres is the great pride people take in them. The pedestrian areas are clean; litter seems to immediately be snatched up by the thoughtful and conscientious beggars who then feed it to their dogs. What community spirit! While we have to face the fact that city centres often do have problems, I am so chuffed when I see locals taking an active stand about the unfortunate but sadly inevitable crimes that often take place in urban areas. I take my feathered hat off to the commitment these men and women make to maintaining their municipal duties.

City centres often get negative press but I, for one, find them absolutely delightful. I would happily spend a day wandering any English city centre, as long as I can get out of there before dark. I’d kill myself before I went into a city centre at night. I have civic pride, but I’m not a fucking idiot.

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Let’s Wrap the 2012 Quiz Up Now That It’s Technically 2013

1 Jan

new year 2012If you missed the second half of my fabulous Large, Chubby Quiz of the Year 2012, the questions are listed below. If you’d like to compete against thousands to win something (I’ve not decided just yet), please send you answers (written coherently, please) to onagathasbehalf@gmail.com by noon GMT, 2 January 2013.

17. Who was Mr Heron Williard?

18. For what did David Cameron say he was “profoundly sorry” in September 2012?

19. About what did Nick Clegg say “when you’ve made a mistake, you should apologise” in September 2012?

20. What is title of my newest book, which “dropped” 20 December?

21. Where did Felix Baumgartner land after becoming the first person to break the sound barrier without vehicular power?

22. Complete Mitt Romney’s presidential debate phrase: “binders full of __________.”

23. Complete Barack Obama’s presidential debate phrase: “Well, Governor, we also have fewer __________ and __________.”

24. In October 2012, Silvio Berlusconi was sentenced to prison for which crime?

25. What was different about the Queen’s message this afternoon?

26. Whose effigy did Edenbridge Bonfire Society burn on Bonfire Night 2012?

27. After how many days in the job did George Entwistle resign as Director General on 10 November 2012?

28. What did David Beckham do for the last time on the first of December 2012?

29. What is hyperemesis gravidarum?

30. What was the first video to get over 1 billion views on YouTube?

31. Which country had the best performing stock market of 2012?

TIE-BREAKER:Why am I so lovely?

Click here to display the correct answers.

Alas, I’ve had to declare no winner in the quiz. Unfortunately, the entrant with the most correct answers is someone I once slept with, and I was afraid I’d be accused of rigging it in his favour, if you know what I mean. So I’ve declared a mistrial, and we’ll have to do it all again in eleven months.

But well done to you all!

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Hair of the Dog That Bit You

1 Jan

If you’re feeling inspired and came here for some advice on resolutions, don’t be a fool. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions and neither do you; you’re just pretending. What you’re describing as inspiration is guilt.

That’s the problem with most of us: we get confused about our feelings. We say we love our partners, but if we’d just look a little more closely, what we really feel is hate. We say our friendships are motivated by loyalty, but they’re not: it’s usually envy (how you may feel towards me) or pity (how I may feel towards you).

I’m guessing that a fair few of you are waking rather “hungover.” You probably would describe it as a headache or tummy upset, and I’ve no doubt you are ascribing it to the copious amounts of liquor you lapped up during last night’s celebrations and/or commiserations. Of course, alcohol can eff your body up good and proper, but what are you really feeling? Regret? Shame? Impregnated?

These are the symptoms no hangover cure can help you with.  Fortunately, my insight into the true workings of the human body (including the mind) can. Follow these directions—to the letter—and you’ll feel better.

1. Look yourself in the face (you will probably need a mirror to do so).

2. Notice the regret in your eyes (indicated by a red tinge, drooping eyelids or dark circles).

3. Consider what caused that regret (this may be a specific event or just an acknowledgement of your general failure as a productive human being).

4. Notice the shame on your face (indicated by blotches on the skin, hickeys on the neck or the red itchiness around your mouth as an HSV-1 blister prepares to burst forth).

5. Consider what caused this shame (make a note to call for an STD/pregnancy test on Tuesday).

6. Comment aloud about how unattractive regret and shame look on you. If you live with someone, get them to tell you you’re hideous.

7. Drink one litre of freshly juiced kale, lemon and garlic (if items are not available—and they probably won’t be because you’re not one to plan ahead, are you—drink eight ounces of milk that has gone off—which I bet you’ve got at least a pint of in your fridge).

8. Vomit.

9. Splash cold water on your regret- and shame-stamped face.

10. Get into bed and think about things until you weep yourself to sleep.

I guarantee tomorrow you’ll wake up renewed and ready to change your life. Or at least your sheets.

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