Does my dog dig his heels in? The lamppost. Simple enough to walk around. Yet, if my dog passes one side and I the other, with the lead wrapped around the post, my 12kg dog becomes a 100kg anchor. Getting him to come back around the lamppost to unwind the lead is as likely as me finding a tap-dancing oyster. ‘Lamppost etiquette’ in dog lingo means whichever way he walks around it is sacrosanct, and it is I who needs to change direction. This refusal to move is indeed a canine unwritten law, as on my walks I see other owners being forced to do the same thing and unwind themselves for the benefit of their pooch.
Toys.
You may have bought your best friend two dozen balls, but the one he insists on playing with is the one stuck under the sofa. This uncanny ability to make me get up and lie prone on the floor, with my arm stretched out under a heavy sofa, my fingers only touching the errant toy, always results in me turning into a removal man and lifting the sofa. The rescued ball immediately ends up behind a chest of drawers Hercules himself would consider beyond his twelve labours to move.
Taking a leak.
It is a well-known axiom that the more in a hurry I am, the less hurried my dog is in taking a pee or a poo! Phantom leg raises and half-squats, each producing no results, are always accompanied by a look that says, “Fooled ya! Not yet. That shrub over there looks promising. Let’s try that.”
Selective hearing.
I can shout loud enough to be heard on a different continent for him to come inside, yet he will turn, give me a look as if to say, ‘in your dreams,’ then walk away.
However, if I lift the lid on his treat tin, the slightest squeak as the top comes free might as well be an air horn as he can detect the sound two postcodes away.
There are days when I wonder if I should invent a way to get my own back. Take out a tin of food. Put it on the table. Walk away. Come back. Open it. Walk away. Pour it out. Walk away. However, unlike my dog, I simply don’t possess his blood-mindedness and always cave when he gives me the eye as soon I get a tin of food out. I also suspect he is saying…
“You open that now or forget about ever finding your slippers—but you might find a discreet poo in the living room…”
And yet, the love I have for him and his brother is boundless. Sad, but in truth, I think I am his pet. So long as he doesn’t send me off to be neutered!
Why...
Did our forebears not only display deep wisdom but also a sense of humour dealing with the law? I am not advocating chopping a baby in half, as suggested by King Solomon, as an optimal solution to a disagreement. However, the slap of common sense across the face of the ‘litigators’ was what worked.
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Why...
Is there so little thrill and danger? By far and away the moments of my life that sparkle in my memory are those of danger, wonder or excitement. Often all three. (These of course include marriage ceremonies). If, as they say, life’s key moments will flash in front of my eyes just before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I am damn sure mine will not include any snippets from work, religious services, group sessions of any description, let alone earnest social or political discussion. I suspect those fleeting last moments will feature marriages, my beloved wife, kids and grandkids… yet interspersed with: Screaming in fear bulleting solo down the Cresta toboggan run in St. Moritz Jumping off Annapurna on a hang-glider in Nepal (following my wife) Hand feeding a Tiger shark (admittedly wearing a butchers chain mail glove) scuba diving in the Pacific near Tahiti Sideways out of control in an eyewateringly expensive classic Ferrari around the UK’s famous Goodwood race track Avoiding a stampede of screaming girls at a Beatles concert at the Hammersmith Odeon Jumping out of a plane at 14,000 feet over Nelson, New Zealand (again following my wife) Accidentally getting airborne solo in a glider whilst still a schoolboy. Munching fugu (deadly poisonous puffer fish) in Tokyo Working with lions the size of Buicks on a movie shoot in Africa, certain I smelled like a tasty chicken Discreetly exiting the boudoir of a lady who failed to mention she was still married until her husband returned early from a business trip. As I look at current generations it would appear most of their thrills are vicarious, living through an Avatar in some video game or fantasising about men in Spandex in f/x laden movies. For real spice a few dawb paint at some middle class location like a museum, Wimbledon Tennis, Ryder Cup Golf, or Test cricket beseeching me to Stop Oil. Safe sensible places where the public might tut-tut displeasure. To me, that’s about as exiting as watching toast get cold. Danger and risk of injury is what makes you feel alive. If protestors want to raise their heart beat and get real press, try that kind of malarkey as an MMA event or NSCAR race and see what the crowd think of you.
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Why...
Do common sense and dress sense also take a holiday when people fly? There was a time when people actually dressed up when they travelled, especially by air. It was glamorous and everyone wanted to get in on the act. Huge dark sunglasses and silk scarves wrapped around heads like Grace Kelly and men aching to look as cool as Sinatra, Davis and Martin in snappy suits or slacks, pullovers, and penny loafers Over the decades travel started to go down hill and the glamour was traded for cattle herding. However, there was still some point in looking good instead of like a refugee from an all-nighter, as you might get bounced up a class if you looked the part. But even that glimmer of hope has gone as check-in would rather upgrade a plastic influencer with an IQ to match their shoe size than a Nobel prize winner. Nowadays, unless you can hop on a NetJets, you are just a hunk of meat needed to be cattle prodded from airport point A to airport point B. And a vast number of travellers display the same sense of behaviour as our bovine four legged friends.
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Why...
Do airport managers spend so much time thinking of ways to make a journey through their fiefdom so unpleasant? I dislike intensely zigzag queuing but understand that it’s an efficient way to stack a lot of people in a confined space. However, when there are no queues, zigzagging like some demented pinball to achieve going forward twenty feet by a walk that would be an Olympic long distance event, is completely daft.
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Why...
Are we obsessed with accessories? It doesn’t matter whether it’s macrame or motor cars, fishing or falconry, shooting or skateboarding, any hobby is really about the kit. I have been a scuba diver since before I got my driving license. I was actually taught to dive by the crew from Jacques Cousteau’s Calypso while on R & R anchored in Bandol in the South of France My equipment consisted of a horseshoe like vest that was the precursor to a BCD jacket. I had a depth gauge, mask, fins and a crude weight belt with a simple hook and eye clasp. Tank was hung over my back with a webbing like belt. Didn’t even have an air gauge. Just a coat hanger like lever to pull when air got tight and that was my safety reserve! I was diving here in Malta last week in balmy autumn weather with people looking like knights in suits of armour. Dry suits, rebreathers, knives, torches, compass, dive computer, electric dive scooter, emergency tank, booties, gloves, and I’m sure a couple of people added a kitchen sink to the dive bag attached to their waist. All this clobber was there for one reason. Kit. Every time a diver enters a dive shop there is always something there ready to separate you from hard earned cash. New kit is katnip. It can be as simple as a ball on a rubber ring that fits around your tank and you can flick to make a banging noise to attract attention right the way up to a full face mask with radio walky talky ability. I’m amazed that Deliveroo are not on speed dial to deliver extra goodies while hanging around at a decompression stop. The same endless list of goodies are available to snowboard and winter skiers, parachute jumpers, golfers, fishermen, classic car enthusiasts and cooks. I have drawers stuffed full of kitchen gadgets that at one time or another seemed essential but are now just future landfill.
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Why...
Do fancy restaurants insist on the loos being as dark as a coal hole? My wife complains she can never find anything in her handbag, let alone have enough light to touch up her war paint. As for me, after a few glasses of Bordeaux, these black holes are an obstacle course. More than once I have returned from turning wine into water with a bruised leg or burgeoning black-eye.
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Why...
Are people so keen to lie in 40c (110f) sun to turn their bodies the colour of condemned veal? Global warming is at last having a visible effect we rich westerners can relate to. Over-hot summers. We still flock to destinations that should only appear in Lucifer’s holiday brochures. But for how long?
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Why...
When we can create such marvel’s as the Hadron Collider, the Millau Viaduct, eye transplants and microwave popcorn, can we not create tamper proof voting systems? My American niece’s partner is in the election business and has a brain the size of a planet, so I only understand about ten percent of what he says. But if I grasp the basic gist you could make things 100% foolproof… but no one agrees unanimously to the system yet! As you all know I steer away from any personal political stance on these missives, but I would have thought life in the US, Venezuela, Iran, Russia, China and India might have been less bumpy if there was 100% confidence in the X cast for a vote. But of course outside of the first example I presume the people in power in the other countries listed don’t really want a foolproof system. They want one they can manipulate. There are those who say the same for the US… but that’s a dangerous path I don’t want to go down. Rather like playing hopscotch on a mine field.
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Why...
Does everyone who has previously won an Olympic bid then say it was never worth it, yet countries queue up to host it? The Moaning Minnie list of previous Olympic hosts is longer than the ribbon gymnasts wave about on their floor exercise. (Quick question here. In an age of equality why are only women allowed this exercise?) The Australian grumble about how the Olympic village outside Sydney was originally a rubbish tip and at least they have returned it to that. The bird’s nest stadium in Beijing might as well be birds nest soup and the Olympic structures in Rio crumble like rocks of cocaine that are sold there. I read today in the London Times that before Paris has even fired a starting gun there is much mooching and shrugging of shoulders of unhappy Parisians. The hoteliers are complaining that the hotels are at only 70% occupancy as so many tourists have taken to Airbnb. Restaurant bookings are down as again those in Airbnb are cooking in. “Pourquoi”, (why) cry our French cousins, the stub of a Gauloise cigarette screwed into the corner of their downturned mouths. GREED is the answer. The simply ridiculous price hikes by the cheese eating surrender monkeys, as Homer Simpson once described the French, are just one step too far. Add to that the by-the-throat greeting by Parisians to foreigners and you have a recipe for attendance disaster that even Escoffier could not have whipped up. Of course as an extra ‘amuse-bouche’ to this PR meal disaster is the fact the French have had an election with change in direction that makes a weather vane in a tornado look stable. With a two part vote the first set swung France to the right. “Quelle horreur” the media all wept as they ran around hands on cheeks like the figure in The Scream by Edvard Munch. So they then get every single other party to co-operate on candidates on tactical voting to beat Marine Le Pen and instead end up with a far left Government who want 90% top rate of tax, retirement dropped from 65 to 60 and unlimited immigration. And who think the Olympics an outrageous waste of money. Do I see conflict of interest raising its head here?
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