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A World of Tears

29 Oct

In this day and age, it’s difficult for small businesses to survive. Everyday a small shop or local service closes down because large corporations are taking over. Upsettingly, in the US, corporation personhood exists, where essential corporations have “rights,” and if Trump has anything to do with it, those who aren’t millionaires will find life even harder. This is crazy. When I was a child, we were taught to respect those people who set up their own little businesses—we bought our produce from a farmers’ market, we bought our dresses from a local seamstress and the very first cocktail I ever drank was produced by a neighbourhood bootlegger. Small businesses were at the heart of economy and the community, and I stand behind any campaign that supports them during this difficult time.

That said, if the man who runs the news agent’s at the end of my road does not change his attitude sharpish, I will do everything in my power to have his shop shuttered for good.

I am a reasonable woman and a reasonable consumer. I do not make ridiculous demands, and I accept that accidents do happen. I have visited the shop when his stock of Parma Violets was low. Occasionally, the clerk has given me imprecise change. Once, I had to wait nearly a quarter of an hour until the shop re-opened, even though the sign clearly said “Back in 10 minutes.” I have never complained about any of these things. Unfortunately, the owner has now taken things too far.

When I woke this morning, I came downstairs to enjoy my cup of tea, boiled eggs and wheat soldiers—lovingly prepared by Christopher—as I do every Sunday morning. As he had gone for a boys-only night out last evening, Christopher began to tell me of his adventures. I quickly grew bored and interrupted him to ask for my Sunday papers. This is when Christopher shared with me the devastating news: they had not been delivered. After recovering from the initial shock, I dressed and walked up to the news agent’s to see whatever could have been the problem. To be honest, I could only presume that some horrible disaster had occurred. What else could cause the man to have let down a loyal and lovely customer whom he knows relies so much on her daily newspapers?

A horrible disaster had occurred but it wasn’t a flood, fire or foul play, but an injustice beyond belief. I was told that the shopkeeper had not received my cheque; therefore, he told the paperboy to cease my delivery. Anyone with any sense knows that I always pay my debts. In fact, this man knows: I have been paying for newspaper delivery the 1st and 15th of every month for as long as I have lived in this village. However, despite my reputation of responsibility, when my payment was not there in his grubby little hands by the end of the day, he simply crossed my name off the list, as if I weren’t a person with hopes and dreams, as if I didn’t matter at all. And to add salt to the wound, I had visited the shop yesterday and had chatted with said man. Never once did he utter a word about the state of affairs. Had he done so, it would have taken just a matter of moments to explain that when I realised that I was out of sealing wax, I put a note on the table asking Christopher to purchase some when he dropped by the news agent’s to settle my account.  When he found out that they did not carry my preferred shade, he went on to another store, neglecting to pay the man.

Perhaps one could argue that Christopher was in the wrong. However, could one not also argue that the shopkeeper’s poor selection of sealing wax was ultimately to blame? Regardless, if this man’s conduct is indicative of the way other small businesses are run, it’s no wonder the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket.

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Ten Days In

30 Jan

It’s a difficult time to be hopeful, isn’t it?

It really doesn’t matter if you’re a Republican or Democrat, if you’re American or not (yes, Americans, other countries have people, too!). If you’re a human, this is a tough time. You don’t have to be a frequent tinfoil hat wearer to see conspiracies and have doomsday worries.

Because this is kind of how the end of the world’s likely to start.

In the simplest terms, a powerful nation has elected a man who knows fuck-all and for whom power is nothing but wank fuel [insert small hands joke here].

His global abortion gag rule will affect women all over the world, but he doesn’t care. I mean, literally, he doesn’t care about abortion; this isn’t a moral issue for him. A White House leak claims his words on the topic were: “It doesn’t effect me, so why should I care if it exists?” (I’m going on the assumption that even when Trump speaks he misspells words.) He pushed forward on the DAPL, despite Native Americans’ and environmentalists’ objections. The following day 138,600 gallons of diesel fuel spilled from a pipeline in Iowa. Of course, Trump doesn’t live in Iowa, so why should he care, right? Some of his cabinet picks, though, do care about the pipeline’s success. Coincidence? He put gag orders on government agencies, telling them not to speak to the press. He began plans for the Wall. And he initiated the Muslim ban Muslims-from-countries-that-do-not-benefit-Trump’-companies ban. He did this on Holocaust Memorial Day, when he also released a statement that did not mention Jews. I’m sure this has nothing to do with Steve Bannon, whose power in the White House continues to grow.

Basically, in his first week, Trump has illustrated that

  • American ideals mean literally nothing to him
  • many Americans themselves mean literally nothing to him
  • issues that affect the stability of the entire world mean literally nothing to him.

It is tempting to lash out at the people who voted for Trump, even the ‘good’ ones who didn’t agree with his horrible actions and words before the election but focused on potential economic benefits. It’s tempting to remind them of all the times they said wait and see or just give the guy a chance.

It’s also tempting to get sucked into every ‘alternative fact‘: the size of his inauguration crowd or his obsession with voter fraud. It’s tempting to retweet and post evidence that proves the President of the United States is a delusional liar.

It’s also tempting to put on a foil cap, curl up in a corner of a cellar, and pray you’ve stockpiled enough food and water to make it to the other side.

All these things are enticing, and I wouldn’t judge anyone who gives in. However, there are other things we can do.

Thousands of people are taking action around the world. Some US government agencies have set up ‘alt’ social media accounts. A few politicians are stepping up — lawyers and protesters showed up at airports, and shortly thereafter, a federal judge issued a stay against Trump’s ban. Millions of people are marching and making donations.

This is good. This is all good.

But it’s also all tiring, and we can’t pretend it’s not. We have to take care of ourselves as we do our best to take care of the world. We don’t know for sure what will or will not work. If at the moment all you can do is sign a petition, that’s all right. If you can’t afford to offer financial support, that’s okay. If you need to take a break from 695b5edf289e965571216ccf3acd3361social media, do it.

But promise yourself that you’ll do everything you can to stop Donald Trump. Because in high school history class, you probably wondered what you’d have done during the early days of Hitler’s reign.

Now is the chance to find out.

 

 

 

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There Will Be Blood

9 Aug

There’s an old cowboy song called “Red River Valley” that includes these lines:

For a long time, my darling, I’ve waited
For the sweet words you never would say
Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished
For they say that you’re going away

Y47AjNow history tells us the title probably refers to the Red River in Manitoba, but as someone who almost completed a minor in Feminist Literary Criticism, I can tell that this is a lyrical explanation of the mood changes that can be caused by menstruation.

Menstruation. It’s a word we don’t say very much in polite society. Is it because of that weird u that doesn’t really get pronounced even though it seems like it should? Is that why we rarely say it despite close to two billion people on earth spend two months a year doing it?

Of course, that’s not the reason. It’s more likely because it has to do with downstairs lady parts and even though there’s about three and a half billion of us walking around with said parts in our pants, they don’t come up too frequently in conversations, until a scared man gets called one or a strong man feels like pounding one.

Isn’t that lovely?

Anyway, I am going to talk about menstruation for a moment. It’s relatively simple: the uterus has a lining where an egg, if fertilised, hangs out to get nutrients and whatnot. Now uteri like to keep a tidy shop so if there’s no blastocyst in need, it cleans house, abandoning that lining and getting to work on a nicer one with a little more kerb appeal for the next month’s possible buyer. (Please note: this is a metaphor. Do not consider burning candles or baking bread in your uterus to increase the chances of a fertilised egg moving in.)

That’s all menstruation is, the shedding of the uterine lining. Nothing magical or mystical or mysterious about it. Just like we shed thousands of dead skins cells each day, women’s bodies are just eliminating something that is no longer needed.

Except it’s not quite as simple as that, is it? No.

Firstly, because it’s gross. Let’s be fair, it is. The endometrium is a mucous membrane, and when the word mucous makes an appearance, it’s never pleasant. What’s expelled each month is basically blood and tissue, which is, for most people, kind of disgusting. And painful too. Unlike with a nose, a good blow won’t clear this passage. It often takes uterine contractions, and those can hurt.

So what comes out and the process of getting it out aren’t the nicest. Plus the place out of which it comes is generally a private, members-only club, so could that be why people (and when I say people I mean men) struggle to talk about it? No, because those things could describe urine and excrement as well, and god knows, men love talking toilet business.

What makes menstruation different is because men know hormones are involved. Some men get confused by the concept of hormones. They think there are two hormones and each functions only as an excuse: the male hormone makes them think about sex at inappropriate times and the female hormone makes women bitchy once a month (or when moderating presidential candidate debates).

Some men think this because they are idiots.

The human body is pretty fucking complicated. With the greatest respect for and the least amount of interest in the complexity of science, let’s just boil it down to this: the human body is full of chemicals that move around our bloodstream telling different parts to do this or not do that. Essentially, they regulate us — all our systems, our sleep, our growth, our metabolism, our behaviour, and our moods. There’s a whole mess of them in there, and they control a lot.

So yes, sometimes oestrogen can affect a woman’s mood. It’s true; sometimes you’re just going to have to keep waiting for those sweet words I’m not going to say. But guess what, men? You’ve got oestrogen in your body as well. So there. And that testosterone you’re so proud of? It does more than just explain your boner, you know. Just to pick one example purely at random, some studies have shown a connection between testosterone and risky financial decisions. And women have testosterone in them as well, which may explain why I gave Christopher twenty pounds for his taxi ride home even though there’s a chance I’ll never see the change from that. Perhaps it was testosterone what made me do it.

Except probably not. Because even though our hormones do affect the way we act and feel, there are some things that we can control. For example, in stressful situations, our autonomic nervous systems use hormones to prepare a fight-or-flight response, but most of us don’t punch the television or run out of the room and hide just because the news upsets us. We don’t always eat when we’re hungry or leave the Sunday sermon early just because we’ve had a rush of sexual arousal (except that one time, but he was flying back to Uruguay that afternoon so time was of the essence). Even if my oestogen levels are playing havoc with my mood or I’ve got blood coming out of my wherever, I’m still a professional at work, and I will keep signing books until that queue is gone or I’ve at least earned enough to cover the costs of this new dress.

As you all know, I’m no scientist and the few I’ve slept with didn’t do a lot of talking while we were together, so I know my explanation does not reflect the full intricacies of the human body, its processes and their effects. However, I’m hoping I’ve at least made you realise that menstruation, while not the loveliest part of a woman’s experience, is natural and nothing to be afraid of.

Unless you’re a misogynist billionaire racist. But if you are, I imagine you’ve got quite a few items on your list of things to be worried about, like maybe why do I continue to embarrass myself and other Americans on an international stage or if it’s really true that the taller the tower, the smaller the penis. How about you get those other issues sorted before you start sharing your views on menstruation, yeah?

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Darling Buds of May

1 May

As we turn over our calendars to expose the new month, we are unsurprisingly greeted with May 1, known as May Day in many cultures. People celebrate it in a variety of ways, but most festivities involve weaving flowers into one’s hair, dancing in an inordinately silly manner and/or the bashing in the brains of factory bosses. May 1 holds meaning for me as well, though I cannot bring myself to think of it fondly. In my family, May 1 is remembered only as the Day of the Incident.

It began, as so many unhappy stories do, with my mother’s Bridge Club. I’m afraid the competition between the women players extended far beyond the card game. The ladies were always trying to outdo each other in their personal lives: a husband’s promotion, a son’s sporting triumph or an exotic accent belonging to a cleaner—all were fodder for the rivalry. While often the bragging was greeted simply with patronizing nods, sometimes the afternoons would end with bitter silences and, on one occasion, actual bloodshed.

One Tuesday, something said really set my mother off. It came from the mouth of Deborah Bullwinkle, a relative newcomer to the group, who was married to a dentist whose hygienist’s attitude my mother found objectionable. This particular afternoon, Mrs Bullwinkle came in with the story of her daughter’s first menstrual period, a tale so fascinating that no one could deny that she had “won” (not at cards, of course—my mother almost always won at bridge because she is famously a cheat).

When my mother returned home, she was fuming. She began to pick on me—why hadn’t I cleaned up my room, swept the back porch or started dinner? She demanded to see my homework, something she rarely did as by then she had realised that my intellectual abilities had surpassed her own. She criticised my handwriting and noted that my dress was wrinkled. This abuse continued until she confessed that what was really upsetting her was the fact that I had yet to shed my uterine lining.

Now when my mother came back from bridge, she was usually pretty loaded so there was no point in trying to introduce any logic into the conversation. At the time, I had yet to reach double digits so my lack of menstruation was hardly my fault. But my mother was determined that I should be able to outdo the Bullwinkles. She then announced that the next day—May 1—I would not be going into school but instead she and I would be heading to Gatsby’s Department Store. She would become the first of the Club to buy her daughter a proper, grown up lady’s brassiere.

I shan’t go into great detail about the excursion, partly because I do not want to frighten my younger readers but also because the clerk has served her time and paid her debt to society. Suffice it to say that my mother was not amused by her suggestion that we start off with a training bra. My mother had not allowed me training wheels for my bicycle when I was learning (as evidenced by the still-visible-today scars on my knees), and “my daughter got her first training bra” would not earn her the respect she was expecting at next month’s bridge game. So the clerk, my mother and I bundled into the changing room with a pencil, a pad of paper, and a measuring tape, leaving little space for my dignity.

Ultimately, my mother’s bragging about my early entry into the world of intimate apparel gave her the triumph she had hoped for. The fact that my bosom didn’t properly fill the cups until quite a few years later was irrelevant. My mother had turned my tender breast buds into a weapon, and it’s a testament to my moral fiber that I was able to overcome such trauma and go on to develop the magnificent bustline that I still maintain today.

So this May Day be assured that I’ll be remembering the Incident and the hurt that it caused. Whether you’re dancing around with ribbons or demonstrating around a bonfire, you know I’d appreciate your taking a moment to think of me. Then, if you aren’t already doing so, think of my breasts.

Nice, aren’t they?

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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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No One Is Entitled To An Opinion

1 Oct

My goodness, there’s a lot of shite talked on the Internet!

Of course, there are websites where important information and clever discourse are shared, but alas, they are few and far between. Most of what the Internet shares is neither big nor clever, but rather the kind of bollocks that comes out of the mouth of Jonny Chav after a night of drinking Special Brew and kicking the shit out of someone’s granny.

There’s no better place to see this ignorance in action than in the Comments section of pretty much every site on the web, regardless of the publisher’s own purpose.  If you don’t believe me, spend a quarter of an hour browsing a few.  Take the bullets out of your gun before you do, though, because you’re likely to have lost the will to live within minutes of reading.

I was really hoping when President Obama came into office promising to change our world for the better that he’d be able to clean up the Internet. However, I appreciate that he’s got to have priorities, which explains why he’s not gotten to it just yet (but not why he hasn’t closed Guantanamo Bay). Until it’s all sorted, I propose some basic rules about making comments on the web. I, of course, do not control the world (yet), so at this point, please consider them suggestions rather than requirements.  I suppose I am appealing to people’s common sense, which I know is problematic as not all people possess common sense (I need look no further than my publisher’s recent edit suggestions to know this—absolutely outrageous!), but we’ve got to start somewhere.

1. If you feel a strong reaction to the piece you’ve just read, consider who wrote it. If they are a twat, do not write a comment. Twats will never learn, no matter how reasoned your argument may be. Instead of trying to right the wrong through an Internet thread, go out and actually try to right the wrong. You probably won’t accomplish any real progress, but you might meet some new people and/or get some sun on that pasty face of yours.

2.  If you feel a strong reaction to the comments about a piece you’ve just read, do not write a comment. Firstly, there apparently exist some people who say upsetting things on comment threads just to rile or hurt others. In a civilised society, these people would either be locked up or employed as pastors in Florida.  Don’t engage with them. If you think a person genuinely believes the upsetting things they’ve written in their comment, they are most likely a twat (see #1).

3. If you do not already possess some knowledge of the topic being discussed, do not write a comment. Instead go learn more about the topic. There are laws (or if there aren’t, there should be) which prevent two-year-olds from walking into an oncology conference and taking the podium to make claims about the latest bone marrow transplant breakthroughs—offering up an uninformed opinion on a comment thread is equally useless (and will confirm to others that you still make poo poo in your diaper). If you think you already possess some knowledge of the topic being discussed, be pretty damn sure before you write anything. If you feel compelled to use phrases like “My mate told me. . .” or “I think I read somewhere that . . . ” you probably don’t know enough about the topic to contribute to a worthwhile discussion. This isn’t a criticism (well, it kind of is); but seriously, it just makes sense.

4. Godwin’s Law proposes that all Internet debates will eventually lead to someone making a comparison involving Nazis and therefore the debate becomes null and void. Sadly, this is likely and not restricted to Internet-only disagreements.  The new protocol is that unless a person can appropriately and critically explain all of Hitler’s political ideology (and no, being able to recite Mein Kampf word-for-word is not the same thing), they are prohibited from references to Nazism.

5. In the same vein, do not include any word or phrase in your comment that you cannot properly define.  Particularly tricky terms include (but aren’t limited to) socialism, political correctness, middle class, immigrant, right, wrong, freedom and your.

If you’ve followed these guidelines and still really want to make a comment, go ahead and write one.  Write the best, most brilliant comment ever written. But don’t hit submit. Instead consider how much time you’ve just spent at the computer. You’re not getting any younger, you know. Don’t waste what’s left of your life making a mockery of the art of intelligent conversation on a global stage. Use your time more wisely.

And if you still want your comment to appear on the Internet, I can’t stop you. But realise it probably means you are a twat. Or a Nazi. Or both.

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Memo to All Idiots: Stop Being Idiots

10 Aug

This morning a friend sent me an email letter to which was attached a ‘hilarious’ photograph of something she saw on her travels across the US (I won’t say which state it was in, but if you assumed it was a Midwestern one, you would not be wrong). It was of a bumper sticker that read:

If I pass you on the right, your in the wrong.

The car displaying this sticker was unsurprisingly red and had hubcaps on its wheels which spun even when the vehicle was stationary.

Unlike in England where two-way roads are so narrow bicyclists barely have the space to travel down them, most roads in America are multi-laned in each direction. Americans drive on the right side of the road (and before any Britons assume that I mean right as in correct, rest assured I mean right as in not left: you will not find me in any motoring-based morality arguments like that). The general rule is that those driving the speed limit should drive in the right lane, and that the left lane be used only by those who are speeding (which happily makes it quite easy for coppers to spot lawbreakers).  The left lane therefore is also known (by twats) as the ‘fast lane’.

Clearly the driver in the red Ford displaying said bumper sticker feels strongly about this guideline. He is clearly so outraged by those in the left lane travelling at the speed limit that not only does he feel the need to overtake them, he also takes the opportunity to remind them that they are in fact ‘wrong’. I can only deduce from his placing of a non-removable decal on his vehicle (not even on the bumper, mind, but across the rear window) that the ‘fast lane’ issue is a passion of his, something he feels in the very pit of his soul.

Perhaps I should admire his commitment. However, I do not. Because he is clearly an idiot, and idiots do not deserve admiration for anything they do.  There is one simple clue to his idiocy—though I’ve no doubt there’s plenty more evidence available—and I trust that you all spotted it instantly within my unbiased description above.

It’s the word your.

Not driving fast in the ‘fast lane’ may be frustrating and naive, but if you need a clear cut example of something that is across-the-board, out-and-out wrong, you need look no Stop Sonfurther than the word your.

Your means ‘belonging to you’. I assume the driver meant you’re, meaning ‘you are’. While I acknowledge the two words sound the same, they are in fact two completely different words. The bumper sticker might as well as read ‘tomato in the wrong’. Tomato does not mean you’re and your does not mean you’re.

God gave us the English language to use to communicate with one another. It’s a great language. It’s got words like crumbly and delicate and trumpery, fantastic words that incorporate a range of sounds and many shades of meaning. But the language only works when used correctly. Using words incorrectly destroys marriages (my darling, our love is so holey) or results in incarceration (I have the head of that old dear hanging over my fireplace).  Using words incorrectly is wrong.

If I ran the world (which as of yet, I do not), people driving slowly in the left lane wouldn’t give me much pause. But people who say your when they mean you’re would immediately be banished to Idiot Island (formerly Molokai) where they would be exiled until they learned to speak correctly. If that took their entire lifetimes, then so be it.

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Hooray for Freedom!

4 Jul

Let’s celebrate the Founding Fathers’ commitment to ensuring the freedom of speech and religion of all corporations!

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A Rose By Any Other Name

1 Jun

What’s in a name? you may very well ask. In fact, I will pause and wait while you do.

. . .

Now that you’ve asked, apparently “scientists” claim there’s quite a bit in a name. According to some clever clogs in Pennsylvania, boys with common names are less likely to commit crimes than those with less common names. (First let me clarify that as we’re talking about America, common means “more frequently found.” Therefore, a common American name is John Smith, a less common American name is Chucklenuts McGee. In England, I appreciate, common denotes something which would imply a distinction between the names, say, Wayne Rooney and Perciville Wilberforce DeMontford.)

So “science” tells us names can lead one to criminality. What I found quite interesting about this particular research is the selection of bad, uncommon names, particularly Ernest and Ivan. For, in my vast experience of male-female relationships, I have known (biblically) both an Ernest and an Ivan. And, I can assure you, they were far from bad. They were good, quite good, if you can catch the meaning of my drift.

Ernest was a boy from Louisiana whom I met one day in New York City as I was meandering through Central Park Zoo. We were both watching the mini Nubian goat kid being tended to so lovingly by its mother.  Although the zoo was bustling with children (as it so often unfortunately is), it felt like he and I were alone in this scene of nature’s beauty. I turned my delicate face towards his and noticed a single tear making its thoughtful way down the contours of his rugged but not unlickable face. His eyes met mine and, for a moment, we stood in silence, before quickly making our way to the nearest hotel. After, he said his name was Ernest and I felt that there could not have been a more perfect moniker for such a sincere and thoughtful lover. During the week that we spent in each other’s company, I was able to discern, with the help of a UN translator, that he had moved north from the bayou to learn how the big city folk lived and ended up the head of a charity devoted to protecting city pigeons from verbal abuse. My Ernest was not a criminal: he was a generous and compassionate do-gooder, who definitely could do it good.

I didn’t meet my Ivan until much later when I was touring the rugged landscapes of Montana. My expedition was hoping to reach Sacagewea Peak but got stranded without enough provisions. Ivan, as I’m sure you can imagine, was originally from Russia and had come to Bridger Range to do some skiing. He intercepted our calls for help and immediately rushed to our aid. After my group came back down the mountain, I felt I wanted to thank him personally before leaving town. He was staying in a little place near Devil’s Backbone and was delighted to entertain for me for the weekend. A lady, of course, does not like to kiss and tell, but, suffice it to say, the only crimes Ivan committed were against nature but they were so, so forgivable.

This quick, wet trip down memory lane has provided ample evidence to prove that said “scientific” theory about names is tommyrot (unless, I suppose, your name is actually Tommy Rot). In my own life, I have had some run-ins with a few Victorias, but they are definitely the exception which validates the rule that one’s name is of very little consequence as to whether one is likely to be unlawful or legit. No child should be condemned at birth simply because of thebaby-criminal name his parents chose for him. What one makes of oneself is what matters. After all what woman hasn’t met her fair share of bad Johns? And while “scientists” David and Daniel may be sitting pretty in their ivory research laboratories, I personally can testify to knowing at least two Davids currently serving rather long prison terms. I will admit to knowing a Daniel who was completely above board, but he suffered from premature ejaculation so I think I’ve proved my point sufficiently.

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Just Don’t Wear Them Backwards

15 Apr

While I was out in the garden yesterday tending to some suckling clover, I was startled by a bit of a ruckus next door. Without any effort of my own making, I was able to overhear a conversation between the lad next door and his mother.  From what I could decipher, some chores of his had not been done (she had asked him to take the bins out the other night at approximately 5.45 and again at 6.30 yet he had left without doing so to go watch Clash of the Titans with that Liam Williams kid whose mother leaves a lot to be desired in the responsibility department). The lad’s defense was simply that he had not heard her request on either occasion or he would have definitely done his job.  A few mild swears were tossed about (coming from both parties so this gives you a sense of the kind of people I have living next to me). I was just about to abandon my activity when I heard Lady Muck make a comment which upset me terribly.

She said, “And take off that ridiculous cap, you look a right twat.”

Having been keeping tabs on this boy for a number of weeks (he is my prime suspect in the case of bicycle tracks through my tulip bed), I know the cap of which she speaks. It is commonly referred to as a baseball cap, and I feel it is an unfairly maligned article of clothing.

I have already spoken extensively about my love of baseball. The intelligence, bravado, and strength that it takes to be a great player, I feel, means that anyone wearing a hat in any way associated with this great sport always commands a certain amount of respect.

The design of these hats, of course, is based on a specific purpose, which is shielding one’s eyes from the sun. This is why you often see cricket players wearing similar caps, though their brims are just slightly shorter (if you know what I mean). Baseball caps also keep one’s hair out of the way, which could be helpful when one needs to focus on driving or performing keyhole surgery. That’s another feature which shouldn’t be sneezed at.

Because of their width, baseball caps are also useful for publicly stating your support in a team, musical group or cause. They come in so many varieties that they are a comfortable and useful way to advertise your philosophy of life to every Tom, Dick and Harry you pass on your way to the off license.

My shrew of a neighbour therefore was completely disregarding the cap’s historical significance and practical application when she made the above comment. And I know the reason she did this. It’s because the baseball cap is symbolic of America. When Britons aren’t fawning over America, they’re dragging it down. (You’re such a fickle country, you are, but I love you.)

True, America’s got its problems. I’d be first in the queue to admit that (well, actually, I’d probably be second behind Jeremy Clarkson). But it’s outrageous to assume that everything American is bad. That’s just racism. Just because millions of drunk, ignorant, and loud Americans sport baseball caps twenty-four hours a day (many of them even wear them while bathing) it does not mean that the cap itself is the problem. I wish my neighbour would realise that her son has in fact always been a right twat and probably always will be, with or without the baseball cap on his head.

Listen to me, England, you are some of the most compassionate and accepting people I’ve ever known. Don’t blame baseball hats for the idiocy of some who wear them. That’d be like blaming hooded sweatshirts for youth crime, and I know this great nation would never entertain a foolish idea like that. Not only should the lad next door be able to wear his baseball cap, he should do so with pride. And he should do so while reimbursing me for the emotional pain his reckless cycling has caused me and my tulips.

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