And now...two jokes

I have a load of maps on the wall of my office. I do like a nice map.

I just turned my head to look at one and my eyes immediately alighted on the part of Egypt shown to the left.

Sacre bleu! So Dora the Explorer is really set on the Suez Canal.

Bridge, Crocodile Lake, Abu Sultan.

Say it with me: Bridge, Crocodile Lake, Abu Sultan.

So you tell Dora... [And so on]

I'm now looking hard for the real-world locations of Wizzle Mountain and the Dancing Forest.

Moments later - out of the window this time - I saw that First Group have a bus called "Chris Moyles".

I'm pretty sure there's a joke there somewhere, but I will leave you to fill in your own details.

A Tribute to Dora the Explorer

We seem to be at the stage now where neither of my kids want to watch Dora the Explorer any more. 

Despite Tancred being a mere two years old, he has decided that it is too babyish for him.

He’s probably just copying Roger Jr on that, but it raises the prospect of waving goodbye to one kiddie programme I’ve become quite fond of.

To begin with, I was just as horrified by Dora as I was by all the other offerings of CBeebies, Nickeloden and whatnot. And yet, it soon grew on me enormously.

Not to the point where I would choose to watch it by myself obviously.

To the point where:

• It doesn’t do my head in completely.
• I will happily sing along with songs on it, even in the presence of adult visitors.
• In general, I find myself hoping that there’s another episode on next, rather than something else.

In all seriousness, Dora is a brilliant role model for all kids:

• She’s a minority-ethnic character but that’s just one aspect of her. It doesn’t define her completely. This is how kids think about “difference” and it’s how we should encourage them to carry on thinking about it.
• Similarly, she’s a girl doing traditionally non-girly things. That she’s a girl is just a fact about her, unlike 95% of other girls in kids’ media, where being a girl necessarily entails adherence to some kind of pink princess-fantasy. We have two boys and if you don’t have kids, you’d be astonished at how quickly little boys can become raving sexists. I think that Dora has had a positive on their perception of “geee-uuuuuuuurls”.
• My god, it took some getting used to, but she’s so bloody NICE! Dora never gets angry, she’s never rude and she always wins over baddies by being reasonable. I wish I could say that she’s influenced our kids in this way as well...

Of course, the voices are tremendously irritating and I’d rather my kids were a little older before the American cultural blog absorbed them fully - although having said that I don’t think the five voice actors who overdub EVERY SINGLE non-UK produced kids TV programme with British accents need any more work.

And yes, we have occasionally found ourselves in the odd situation of our kids knowing the Spanish word for something and not the English. It’s pretty weird to be told “Daddy, look an arco iris!”

But I will genuinely miss Dora the Explorer if the kids are giving up on it. For myself, I will continue to say “Oh Maaaaan!” in the manner of Swiper the Fox until the day I die. 

Isle of Sodor Railways loses franchise

"Eccentric" Hatt

PRESS RELEASE

Department for Transport, 12/10/12

Transport Secretary Patrick McLoughlin will announce this morning that the Isle of Sodor Railway Company’s franchise for operating passenger and freight services will be not be renewed and will come to an end next April.

Mr McLoughlin cited Isle of Sodor Railways’ appalling record on punctuality and safety – derailments on the network total 255 for the last year alone – as the decisive reasons for rejecting the bid put in by eccentric chairman, Sir Topham Hatt, better known to the public as “The Fat Controller”.

Many critics have laid the blame for the company’s performance on Sir Topham’s “Very Useful Engine” artificial intelligence system, which allows locomotives to make their own route planning and other decisions – frequently in competition with one another.

The Secretary of State also pointed to extensive financial irregularities within Isle of Sodor Railways, which is incorporated in the neighbouring tax haven, the Isle of Man.

Concerns have frequently been raised about the amount of rolling stock and track maintained by Isle of Sodor, which is vastly out of proportion to the needs of an island no more than five miles in length.

Mr McLoughlin will later today hand the franchise to the US-based Consortium For Putting in an Offer for Running Sodor’s Railways – SodOff.

Chuggington: Safety concerns

One of the lead backers of SodOff is the Arizona city of Chuggington. Commentators have noted that Chuggington’s record on accidents is just as bad as Isle of Sodor’s.

Confronted with these concerns, the Secretary of State said in a statement: “They offered shit loads more money.”

Asked for a comment, senior partner at transport engineering consultancy Pig, Rabbit and Cat, Ian “Daddy” Pig said: “Oh. I didn’t expect that to happen”, before jumping up and down in a muddy puddle.

NOTES FOR EDITORS

• Sir Topham Hatt is the brother of rogue investment banker Sir Stetson “Cowboy” Hatt, the former chief executive of RBS, who has not been missing since 2009. Sir Stetson was last seen leaving Claridges and getting on board Bertie the Bus with 15 teenage Lithuanian prostitutes.
• Sir Topham first developed the “Very Useful Engine” system in the late 1930s. He spent much of the previous decade in Italy observing how Mussolini made trains run on time. That period is widely believed to be the source of the ardent anti-communism which inspired his desire to run a railway without workers. His feelings about the labour movement led Sir Topham to become a dedicated supporter of Sir Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists, and he was interned for much of the Second World War on Zingzilla Island.

Missing banker Thomas Goldstein

• Although Isle of Sodor Railways maintains that “Very Useful Engine” is a closely-guarded software secret, allegations that trains are animated with the souls of dead business partners of Hatt, revived by unspeakable necromantic rites, have continually depressed share prices. Longstanding acquaintances of the Hatt family have claimed to see uncanny similarities between certain company assets and the renowned German financiers, Thomas and Percy Goldstein, who vanished in 1936.
• Spokesman for SodOff, Tinkie Winkie the Teletubbie commented on the DfT’s decision: “Tinkie Winkie bag!”. The FTSE100 and Dow Jones both immediately rose by 100 points. 

Contact DfT press office for further information.

Boris the Baptist

As you could tell from the London Olympic opening ceremony, we now have a post-modern public culture. We are ironical, eclectic, genre-subverting, fusion-cooking, mixing up Chelsea Pensioners and lesbian kisses. We are high-brow and low-brow at the same time. The only politician who ‘gets’ any of this is Boris. He can mix Virgil and James Bond, a posh accent and street cred, conservative politics and a liberal spirit. Mr Cameron is the moderniser, but Boris is the post-moderniser.

So sayeth Charles Moore in the Telegraph this weekend.

There are many people who understand post-modernism better than me; people who have written whole books about it. And to them I say “Big Mac and fries please”. HA HA.

Whatever it means, Moore is right. For example, the generation which includes the prime minister has its idea of the 1980s defined as much by Five Star as by Margaret Thatcher, and as much by Five Star being called “fucking crap” on Going Live as by System Addict.

And every generation younger than that is similarly drenched in post-modern irony.

We are barely able to take listen to someone making a political or moral argument without writing them off as a fanatic or a hypocrite because relativism has become such a thoroughly ingrained habit.

Can you take seriously someone who sets themselves up as infallible, motivated only by noble desires, dedicated to nothing but public service and bettering the lot of their fellow men?

No, me neither. I am too silly, too overwhelmed by schadenfreude, too lazy – too post-modern – to regard that kind of a template for a human being with anything other than contempt.

Celebrities, on the other hand, are human - all too human.

So along comes Boris, the celebrity politician, and he is literally able to have a crowd of thousands chanting his name, surrounded by flags and flames – like the 20^th Century NEVER HAPPENED!

If everyone didn’t think Boris wasn’t serious, that would have been terrifying. So what was is he?

Boris Johnson is not a “one-off” or someone to whom the political rulebook doesn’t apply - he is a mutated virus. Along with Louise Mensch, he is the prototype of the next generation of celebrity politicians - he's John the Baptist for whatever kind of Jesus is coming next. By approaching us as celebrities, they are penetrating the defences we have put up against “politicians”.

They are reframing the terms of political discourse. The political parties are surely watching their apparently unique charisma at work and attempting to work out how to bottle it and routinise it. The question is, when the medium changes, what messages will we suddenly become susceptible to all over again?

100 posts...and for what?

So, this is the hundredth post I have written here on Oh Dear. How Sad. Never Mind.

Let’s take a look back over the highlights.

...

Errr

...

In March last year, I posted a picture of Peppa Pig, which was a HUGE HIT.

That’s it.

Did you enjoy it?

Scott - One hundred years on...

Last week saw a strange coincidence. Firstly, I finished reading "Scott’s Last Expedition" – the diary of Captain Robert Falcon Scott, who died on the way back from being the second person to reach to South Pole.

Secondly, I watched Blue Peter presenter Helen Skelton’s attempt to become the first person to reach the South Pole on a bicycle. For charity. 

Now, I call it a strange coincidence but it’s not really that strange. It is now almost exactly a hundred years since Scott himself died of starvation and cold, eleven miles away from a supply depot. Right now, we are somewhere between the centenary of Captain Oates going outside to his death (pictured above, as imagined by JC Dollman) and the remaining three members of the South Party (Scott, Wilson and Bowers) dying a couple of weeks later.  As such, the country is full of Scott exhibitions, memorabilia and whatnot.

Naturally, I will blissfully ignorant of any of this until I started reading the diary. Indeed, it was this very blog which led me to do – as in December I said that there were no British explorers whose memoirs were free off of the internet, in defence of my reading Norwegian hard-case Fridtjof Nansen’s account of not actually reaching the North Pole in the 1890s.

Having made this categorical statement, I checked the facts of the matter some weeks later – and found that Scott’s Last Expedition is indeed free on t’internet. Don’t worry about it being “Volume 1” – Volume 2 is just all their scientific findings, and dating as they do from a hundred years ago they are all probably completely (and, to our eyes, insanely) wrong.

So, as I said before, I’ve just finished reading it. The main conclusion I reached is that I have now wasted quite enough of my life reading diaries of historic Polar expeditions.

Nansen at least had the decency to go through typically Scandinavian moping bouts of theatrical depression, which he kindly set down in print.

Conversely, the consistent tone of Scott’s diary is one of primly-stiffened upper lip. “The horses have all died. It is probably for the best” – that sort of thing.

Ah yes. The horses.

Now, I am far from an expert in such things, but as both an ENGLISHMAN and a BLOGGER I’ll be DAMNED if I will let that stand in the way of me reaching conclusions I cannot be swayed from that are based purely on my own opinions.

Many people have suggested that Scott’s decision to rely on horse transport was a fatal error. Firstly, it gave the race to the South Pole to Amundsen by making it necessary to start much later that he did (going by dog sled). Secondly, it slowed them down on the way, what with carrying all the necessary hay and other horse food, picking them out of crevasses and getting naughty horse Christopher into his harness every day.

Apparently, Oates himself (the resident horse expert of the expedition) thought that the particular horses they had were dreadful – begging the question, precisely what kind of horse should one expect to be good at climbing over sea ice in a blizzard.

Also, it is in respect of the horses that Scott comes closest (not close, but closest) to admitting that perhaps his preparations were not 100% perfect – when he mentions that they only had one pair of horse snow shoes for the whole party and that they hadn’t actually practised making the horse walk while wearing them. 

Despite, I should add, having had NOTHING TO DO for the preceding six months.

From my own experience, I have noted that horses always look bloody miserable in snow - while dogs absolutely love it. Sadly, nobody asked for my advice, even though it could have saved them. 

I don’t blame the horses for Scott’s failure. Indeed, they were all dead and eaten long before then. But they are indicative of Scott’s attitude – which brings me back to Nansen.

Clearly Scott had read “Farthest North” - he mentions it somewhere. OK, the Arctic isn’t exactly the same as the Antarctic (fewer penguins, more polar bears for starters), but Scott seems completely wilful in his disregard of the lessons on “how not to die while travelling across Polar wastes” that Nansen had released some 20 years earlier.

Did Scott and his party die because of British chauvinism?

Ah yes, I have found the angle for my Guardian column! Certainly, there are a lot of references to the virtues of tea throughout the book.  

Firstly, the Terra Nova expedition took about 40 dogs to pull sledges, but sent them back fairly early in the attempt on the Pole because Scott didn’t believe they would do any good. On what basis, the diary does not mention.

Guess how Roald Amundsen got to the South Pole before him? Guess how Nansen got back from Farthest North? Dogs. Not horses. Or walking.

Secondly, Scott seems to regard skiing as a bit of a novelty – something he could do, but which he didn’t regard it as essential for all the members of his party to be any good at. As far as I can tell, Henry Bowers didn’t ski at all and walked the whole way. 

Thirdly, Nansen went on about how they were far too hot in their fur gear (“wolfskin capes” to be precise). What were Scott and co wearing? Seemingly stuff they’d bought from Milletts. I might also add that as you can see NONE OF THEM had the sense to GROW A BLOODY BIG BEARD as a means of warding off frostbite of the facial areas.

And yet, all those lessons had been available for almost 20 years. Amundsen followed them and he got to the South Pole first, and he got back alive - here he is, feeling the benefit. Scott didn’t follow them. 

Was this the product of the belief that while things like riding on dog sleds, wearing fur, having an inner life etc might be alright for silly foreigners, it was quite unnecessary for British people to do anything quite so dramatic, and that a combination blind optimism and good old amateurism would see them through just fine?

And it’s not just Scott. Let the record also show that Lawrence Oates – who plenty of people right now would canonise – did not regard having had his thigh bone shattered in the Boer War some ten years earlier and one leg shorter than the other as likely to represent any kind of an impediment.

I don’t know. The last section of the book is genuinely moving, particularly the account of Oates’ death.

Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates' last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects. He did not—would not--give up hope to the very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning--yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, 'I am just going outside and may be some time.' He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since.

So, some 48 hours after having read this, to see Helen Skelton refusing to kite surf on her way to the South Pole because it was too easy and insisting on riding a bicycle instead made me realise just how much the world has changed in a hundred years.

Again, the strange coincidence of the opening paragraph is perhaps not so strange. She was raising money for Sport Relief, and of course, as the sun begins to show its face for more than a few minutes before and after work, the season of aggressive charity fund-raising is upon us. And I expect she probably chose this particular challenge not entirely without reference to the Scott centenary.

Had Scott taken her route to the South Pole, I think he’d almost certainly have succeeded. Seemingly it was completely flat and the weather was lovely.

That’s not to denigrate Helen Skelton’s achievement. Well done to her indeed. But – and here my Guardian piece turns into a Daily Telegraph piece – doesn’t the world seem a lot smaller when the unconquered wilderness that made heroes out of those who died trying to tame it is now a tourist attraction where people go for an “experience”?

I will say it again. After setting the world record for the fastest 100km kite surf, Helen threw away her kite and decided to carry on by bike – because kite surfing wasn’t hard enough.  

That must have been one hell of a hundred years. 

The Czech is in the post – pt 2

Here’s the second instalment of my guide to Prague for people who share the exact circumstances my wife and I found ourselves in last week. For everyone else, there’s always Tripadvisor.

Czech Language

This is probably historically a highly tasteless remark, for which I apologise in advance - but Prague is basically a German city inhabited by people who speak a language that bears no resemblance to German.

Everything I saw pointed to either Vienna (if it was less than 400 years old) or that whole kind of Brothers Grimm medieval Germany thing (if older).

Anyway, as well as excellent English and German, the Czechs speak a language called “Czech”, and this is a Slavic language. As such – and again I apologise for any cultural insensitivity here – it is a lot like most other Slavic languages, from Russian, to Polish, to Serbian and so on.  For example, the Czechs say “dobra den” and the Poles say “dzien dobry”. PotAYto, PotARto – DUMPling, DIMPling.

Mercifully, the Catholics got to the Czechs before old Cyril and Methodius, and they use our Roman alphabet.

However, this is of little advantage when your find yourself confronted with repeated storms of consecutive consonants, which really do not lend themselves to English tonguing. Elvira and I struggled to ask for “Trdelnik” when we found it, and ended up rendering it like Dora the Explorer saying “turtleneck”.

And here I must insert a little linguistic rant of wider relevance. English has its faults, but it makes do perfectly well with 26 letters. If you need all those goddam accents to cover all the sounds your language makes – perhaps you need some more letters. I’m just sayin’ is all.

Anyway, I can only begin to imagine how Czechs play Scrabble. They are not, however, above a bit of Engrish.

Czech Money

The Czechs are not members of the Eurozone, which means that you can still have loads of fun wondering what the hell is going on with a currency you cannot get your head round - which in turn means that your holiday descends into a purgatory of near-constant mental arithmetic.

Their money is called the “koruna” and £1 is worth anywhere between 25 and 31 of them – which makes for very confusing “value for money” assessments when shopping.

Here’s a piece of useful advice (by my own low, low standards). Get your koruna in the Czech Republic, not in the UK. You get a much better rate (worst case, +3 more koruna to the pound) and you will not be slapped around the face for waving euros around, at least in the vicinity of the airport and Prague itself. Unless, I suppose, you are being met by Vaclav Klaus, who doesn’t like euros. But nor does he drive a taxi.

 

As well as suitcase-hostile block paving/cobblestones, the streets of Prague are lined with exchange booths, in which tourists swap their home currency for ever-fluctuating korunas.

To your left, you can see an example of Czech language, Czech money and German economic colonialism all in one place.

And that, dear readers, brings me on to a little adventure the missus and I had...

So there we were, standing outside an exchange booth trying to work out whether “we buy” means that they buy pounds off you for that many korunas or they buy that many korunas for a pound, when a man sidles up to us and starts asking if we’re interested in changing money.

Now, this chap spoke good English with that kind of accent which, to UK ears, could place him anywhere from Strasbourg to the Urals. He looked kind of Kazakh, or something else Central Asian. Anyway, he said that he’d give us 32 koruna to the pound – which was the best deal we’d seen.

My suspicions were first raised when he insisted on carrying out the transaction behind a parked car. But I wasn’t too alarmed – he’s probably just trying to dodge tax, I thought, and that is in both our interests... I wasn't going to hold that against him. 

So I say I want to change £100. He suggests £200. I say I’ve only got £100. So he whips out a bundle of notes, and counts through them at Paul Daniels speed – one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, one hundred, two hundred. He has my £100 in his hand when I realise that I have actually seen a one thousand koruna note, and the notes at the bottom of his pile are a different colour. And size. And they had “Hungarian forints” written on them.

Like a panther, I grab my money back, rebutting his protestations that they are real banknotes by declaring - I was very proud of this particular bit of wit - “I can read”. And away we go, very pleased not to have been ripped off. Later on that day, I checked the exchange rates and found that 1000 forints were going for about £2.79.

Elvira was deeply impressed by my display of shrewdness. All I can say is that the deep suspicion and cynicism about other people that condemns me to a life of perpetual isolation sometimes has its upsides.

Coming next...Czech Technology and Culture. For real, this time. 

Peppa Pig betrays feminism

I have disappointing news for women – Peppa Pig has exploded the idea that it is possible for you to have it all.

For years, we have marvelled at the endless capabilities of Miss Rabbit – unmarried mother-of-two and serial entrepreneur. More than any City superwoman, Miss Rabbit showed that you could be a good parent and have a job. Hundreds of jobs, simultaneously in fact, ranging from helicopter rescue pilot and junkyard owner to supermarket checkout assistant and dental nurse.

Well, I'm sorry to have to let you know that far from projecting this progressive message to pre-schoolers (and their reluctantly entranced parents), Peppa Pig has made it abundantly clear that – sorry girls - it's motherhood OR employment.

The episode "Miss Rabbit's Day Off" (first aired October 10 2010, 8.15am on Five, fact lovers) makes it clear that Miss Rabbit and "Mummy Rabbit" are in fact two separate people. Rabbits, rather.

Like many viewers, I had always assumed that the occasional reference to "Mummy Rabbit" was just a functional description – just as Daddy Pig is occasionally referred to as "Mr Pig" by people (anthropomorphic middle class animals, rather) who are not his children.

Well, I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Astley Baker Davis have retconned this inspirational figure into two sisters. And as the episode shows, "Mummy Rabbit" is not fit for the world of work, failing miserably to handle the least demanding of Miss Rabbit's occupations at the supermarket.

How much more clear than twin sister cartoon rabbits could it be that women must choose between the path of economic and personal liberation or sublimation of the self in the family?

I was prepared to forgive Peppa Pig a lot. It's considerably less annoying that most of the stuff Roger Jr makes us watch. Even the class snobbery inherent in the contrast between the "nice" parents and comedy prole Mr Bull (the binman, carny and foreman of the road workmen) is deft enough not to offend.

But this is a terrible betrayal of Peppa Pig fans, womankind and the whole of the next generation.

Fantasy league of nations – part 1

On one of the trains I frequently catch to and from work, there's usually a group of three "blokes" who stand around and talk endlessly about football.

Tedious at any time, I hear you say, and I agree. But these three are particularly tiresome, because they're not even talking about actual football. No, they are talking about fantasy football. So, day in, day out, they discuss how they "got" Gerrard then got rid of him and more shite that I can barely even be bothered to relate.

Yes, they're talking about the effects of things in the real world (man kicks ball) on a little imaginary world of their own (their made-up team scores points). Jesus wept.

Now, as if any more evidence that football is in fact an esoteric financial instrument rather than anything that exists in reality were needed, the development of a derivatives market around it (fantasy football, in case you're not following) is surely the clincher.

My dislike of football will be documented in a future post – it's too detailed to cover here.

However, if it's ok for grown men to make-believe about the exploits of thick chavs – whose evasion of a life split between the pub, the JobCentre and various baby-mothers' councils flats is due solely to the pure fluke of having an innate talent for a fundamentally pointless activity – then why don't we also play pretend governments and political systems? If people didn't imagine political alternatives, the world would look rather like North Africa three weeks ago.

So, here we go. First off, my imaginary UK is a republic with an elected but largely apolitical president. Sorry Mum.

But who better to fill that role than Sir David Attenborough?

He's been around almost as long as the Queen, and I don't know anyone who has anything other than respect for him.

OK, in the black and white days, he did kidnap animals from the wild for zoos, but hey, it was a different time back then. And OK, today, he is a bit of a climate change bore in the quasi-religious vein.

But, he would be the perfect "father of the nation" figure. Hell, I'd even accept him as king if it was a deal-breaker.

My second appointment is Justin Fletcher as education minister. "Who?" says everyone who doesn't have pre-school children.

Yes, when Roger Jr first started watching CBeebies, I detested Justin and Mr Tumble as any sane adult would. Of course he comes across as irritating to someone whose mind is not geared towards the thinking of toddlers. As I came to understand child mentality (or regress, as you prefer), I came to grasp that this is a man who gets kids – and whose work does nothing but good and with whom no one can really disagree. So he's the perfect person to take responsibility for the Youth of Today.

Yes, I realise that this burst of positivity is uncharacteristic and not entirely in keeping with the general tone of this blog. But I don't care. Only he who has high hopes has the right to be cynical when he sees them frustrated.

More appointments to the government will be announced in due course.