Seven Pieces of Folk Wisdom Debunked (that will blow your mind)

You must excuse my recent lack of blogging. I have mostly been working in the medium of Facebook status updates of late.

Today, I want to debunk, puncture and lampoon some bits of folk wisdom, which people continue to say, despite being manifestly and demonstrably untrue.

Why? I dunno. Attention maybe?

Muscle is heavier than fat

I have comforted myself with this for years. Whenever I start an exercise regime, and the immediate results are weight gain – I reassure myself that this is the reason.

It may be true for the same volumes of the two substances (look it up yourself – what do you think I am? Wikipedia?) but my problem is not a giant rubber ring of muscle around my abdomen.

He won’t get there any faster

I don’t know if real people actually say this or if it’s just something that old women in sitcoms say when someone overtakes them.

This is just wrong. All other things being equal, he will get there faster - because he’s going faster. There might be traffic lights ahead, but if he goes really fast, he’ll get through them before they go red.

Bullies are really cowards

Now, I know that this one has an educational or moralistic purpose behind it – but again, it’s just not true. Picking on someone weaker than oneself does not necessarily mean that you’re a coward.

It might mean you’re an arsehole, but that’s not the same as cowardice.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

Derived - I’m told - from Nietzsche, this has been debased into what “Loose Women” might deem philosophy. That is, it is bollocks that people repeat without thinking how completely false it is.

A life-threatening illness or injury will almost always leave you more susceptible to future ill-health. Nobody increases their resistance to bullets by shooting themselves.

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight

While I have found that a red sky at night does indeed usually presage pleasant weather the following day, I think it is probably ascribing an unfairly restricted set of interests and concerns to shepherds to say – without qualification – that not getting rained on is a source of “delight”.

Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning

Shepherds are often up and out before sunrise and are therefore fully aware of weather conditions. No warning that comes too late is worthy of the name.

Also, very few people are shepherds. The amount of folk wisdom that applies directly to them is entirely disproportionate to their social, economic or demographic significance.

Don’t play with it or it’ll fall off

This is actually true. 

The Cat Who Let Himself Go

Rufus is our Maine Coon cat. He is nine years old. Or ten. I can never quite remember.

Anyway, he’s quite old by cat standards. Middle-aged at the very least.

Late last year, Rufus’ long-term companion Dudley died and we got a new cat, Simba.  

Dudley was of indeterminate but great age. He was fully grown when we got him and he lived for at least twelve more years. My wife may correct me on these details – the point is not the precise number. The point is, he was spectacularly old.

Anyway, imagining that (i) Rufus would be lonely and (ii) that this time (contrary to all previous experience) the kids would be interested in a new animal for more than a couple of days and that the new animal would not spend its entire life in hiding from the kids, we got Simba.

That was the name he came with, and the children insisted we keep it.

Anyway, Simba is now around two years old. So he’s a lot younger than Rufus.

New boy Simba

As you might expect, they do not get on brilliantly. Although they have settled into a tolerable routine, it is premised on Rufus bullying Simba whenever he gets the chance. He has even started to bully the dog a bit, sitting in her beds for pure wind-ups. 

At the same time as this new side has come out in Rufus, he has also pretty much DOUBLED his weight in the last six months. The long hair (semi-long hair, Elvira would correct me) in the picture above conceals it a bit - but it's basically the same thing as an enormously fat man wearing a even-more enormous football shirt to conceal his blobby contours. 

Rufus was never much of an athlete, and he still isn’t. So it’s not like he has stopped exercising.

The only thing it can be is that Rufus is eating EVERYTHING he gets the chance to eat.

The question is, is he doing this to intimidate Simba or to protect himself? Or, has he just decided, “Look at that young guy – I can’t keep up with him. And as I had my balls chopped off nine (or ten) years ago, what’s the point?”

I literally don't give a toss

Calpol – The Miracle Drug

I have often wondered which medical speciality would be the quickest to learn, and whether other consultants look down upon their colleagues in the “easy” departments.

For many years, I presumed it would be something to do with feet. How much can go wrong with feet that you can’t blame on some other part of the body and make some other specialist responsible?

However, since becoming a parent I have come to the conclusion that training to be a paediatrician must be easier even than foot doctoring, because 95% of childhood health problems have one single cure – and that is Calpol.

For those of you not in the know, Calpol is paracetamol in a pink sugar solution. And it cures LITERALLY EVERYTHING.

When you are an adult, you wouldn’t dream of taking the same medicine for – say – a headache, an upset stomach, a cold, skin complaints, trench foot, hammer toe etc. And yet, Calpol sorts all of these out in children.

This is not just me saying this. I cannot remember a time taking our kids to the doctor (well,  a time of Elvira telling me about her taking the kids to the doctor) where Calpol has not been foremost amongst the medically-mandated remedies.

And kids bloody love it (admittedly, the white version does raise the occasional eyebrow, despite tasting exactly the same and having identical medicinal properties).

Granted, there may be some problems that Calpol can’t solve. But why is the top priority of the entire global pharmaceutical industry not the synthesis of an adult version of this miraculous wonder drug? 

Sometimes the best ideas are hiding in plain sight. 

Self Improvement Through Beer

“Two wrongs do not make a right”, it is often said. And yet I have disproved this axiom through the unlikely medium of homebrew.

Permit me to explain. For my birthday, I was given a homebrewing kit – pictured.

I find the image on the box very misleading, because I don’t think any woman has ever reacted like this to the idea of homebrew. Unless of course she is thinking: “At last! Indisputable grounds for divorce!”

Home brewing is almost exclusively a male pursuit. I suspect this is because “yes, it may taste awful; give me the worst hangover I’ve ever; had AND the shits – BUT there’s 40 pints of it” is a thought which has never occurred to a woman. 

But I was telling you how two wrongs can make a right.

Ever since I have had this homebrew kit my consumption of beer has fallen to virtually zero. Why? Because I haven’t started making the homebrew yet, because I am lazy. At the same time, I refuse to buy any more beer when I have 40 potential pints lying around the house, because I am mean.

So laziness and meanness have joined together to create virtuous abstemiousness. And there you have two wrongs making a right. 

The White Caterpillar – Part 3

In which Roger of Sicily completes his daring journey home. Oh, hold on – that’s given away the ending. CONTAINS SPOILERS. Too late.

Part 4 – The Ramp

Five minutes before we got back onto the correct route for a 671 bus, I had texted Elvira saying that if the bus didn’t speed up, I was going to get off and walk.

Oh! The folly of impetuous youth, dear reader!

Turns out, we were stuck behind two cars that had collided in the middle of the road.

Why is it that by the time you get to the scene of an accident, they’ve always just managed to clear it out of the road?

Obviously, I’m not addressing that rhetorical question to any emergency rescue personnel who may be reading. It’s more directed at the casual sitter-and-waiter in traffic jams.

Into Rodley we headed, and I expected the worst. The road up to the notorious Rodley roundabout (the precise analogue of the Traverse of the Gods on the Eiger’s Nordwand) is almost always jammed up. The road from Calverley to Greengates is always jammed too, so I expected gridlock from this point onwards to the end of my bus journey.

“Hold on”, called the driver as we rounded the corner on the approach to the roundabout. I think he meant it in a jaunty, team-spirity way rather than in a literal, alarming way. But I did, just in case.

Well, the roundabout was indeed jammed – but NOT IN THE WAY WE WERE GOING!

I cannot tell you of the joy that went around the bus as we realised that traffic was coming out of Calverley, but none was going in. If the other passengers or myself had spoken to or looked at each other, I’m sure we would all have shared a very special moment of camaraderie. Still, it was implicit.

And on we sped, unimpeded by further traffic. Now that we were back on route, we started picking up passengers – loudmouthed secondary school gobshites mostly.

What is it about being in a school uniform and in a group that makes young people feel an obligation to shout?

And to shout complete bollocks at that?

We crossed the border into Bradford. Friendly territory at last. The bus pulled up and I barged past the teenage guttersnipes. “Well done”, I said to the bus driver as I disembarked.

Part 5 – The Second Ice Field

I had rested for about two hours by this time, and my clothing – while hardly dry – was at least warm.

I must here take the opportunity to pay tribute to my shoes.

The standard, black leather lace-up, brogue-style ankle boot may not be the most fashionable piece of footwear in the men’s department right now. Especially when it has a rounded toe and a rubber sole with “Clarks” embossed on it.

But by god they kept my feet warm and dry, no matter what I was walking through. And as we all know, wet feet are objectively the single worst thing in the whole universe.

Those shoes are the unsung heroes to whom I must pay tribute.

I hopped off the bus and immediately noticed a change in the road conditions since I had boarded.

The snow was now much wetter and rain-like. The road was covered in slush.

Oh brown slush! Child of snow and mud and sly dog poo - how I had missed you!

The thaw had truly begun.

Thus heartened, I began the final yomp back to Casa Sicily.

Walking on snow is really quite uncomfortable. As I had discovered while trying to haul my bike to a suitable berth, brogues afford relatively little purchase. You are therefore forced to walk with flat feet, splayed outward, rolling your shoulders to maintain balance and forward momentum – in a manner reminiscent of the young Liam Gallagher.

[Facebook friends – notice anything familiar? Yes, I am reusing status updates from last month! ODHSNM used to be so much better...]

Back to the plot.

Are we all familiar with the thoracolumbar fascia? Also known as the thoracolumbar aponeurosis?

Good.

Long-term readers will know that this is an area of my back with which I have – if not outright trouble – then nagging doubts.

It turns out that this bit of muscle – which, I must say, feels a little bit too deep to be called a “fascia” – does a hell of a lot of the work when you’re walking uphill in snowy conditions with your feet turned out. And waterlogged, falling-down overtrousers etc.

15 minutes after arriving home, I was unable to bend at the waist. Two days later, the tops of my thighs and the backs of my calves joined in.

Strange, isn’t it, how one’s muscles will often wait a day or so before complaining about over extertion? It makes me think of that terrible silence between the crash and the child starting to cry. The longer that silence is, the more serious you know the screaming is going to be.

Onward and upward, upward and onward I went. By now, the snow was pretty much just rain. I was steaming like a Grand National winner. I kept telling myself “just get to that point then you can stop for a rest”.

I soon realised that “stopping for a rest” would result in my entire body ceasing to function properly – which would necessitate what the mountaineers call a “bivouac” (ie sleeping in a ditch until someone rescued me). In the words of Gaston Rebuffat:

“The human animal in me was unhappy”.

So I didn’t stop and on and on I went. I measured the distance covered the next day. Two miles.

I know it doesn’t sound very impressive. But then the Eiger is only about 13000 feet high, which is about two and a half miles. And I walked further than that. Yes, with a bus journey in the middle, and yes, on a slightly shallower gradient. But a GREATER DISTANCE nonetheless.

Eventually I made it home. My children rejoiced at my return: Roger Jr by carrying on watching TV in the living room; and Tancred by attempting to bring me in on his side in his ongoing, screamed demand for crisps.

Always Tancred with the crisps. Oddly, after he was bought off with chocolate buttons, he proclaimed “I’m not crying any more Daddy” – as if he had only just noticed. However, he started again soon after the buttons were gone.

Part 6 – Epilogue

That evening, I took one final leaf out of the book of Heinrich Harrer – and indeed of the many other 19^th and early 20^th century explorers whose books I have been reading in recent years.

They often treat brandy as a medicine for fortifying people. In general, we no longer use strong alcohol as a means of bringing people to their senses – but I thought, why not? If it was good enough to get Andreas Heckmair down the mountain, it should be good enough for me.

However, by mistake I drank the best part of half a bottle of whisky and instead of being fortified and revived, I became even more tired – and had a hangover on top of the manifold aches and pains the next day. Clearly, my constitution differs from theirs in more ways than one.

Nevertheless, I did manage to get my bike back the next day. All the snow melted overnight, as if it had never been there. Had it all been a dream?

Waiting...

A few days ago, I spent eight hours waiting.

I was waiting for the words of a wise man – a very busy wise man, who walked past me and glanced at me several times during that eight long long hours.

Eventually, the wise man came to me, poked me, muttered a few trite words – which I could have told him some eight hours earlier – and sent me on my way.

Can you guess where I was?

An NHS hospital ward of course. Long story, but basically some stitches I had got a week earlier fell out, so I went to A&E.

Always a depressing experience among the sick and the lame, this was only brightened by the presence of a terrified researcher from the Discovery Channel asking the various inmates if they were there by virtue of an “amusing mishap” and if so, whether they wished to be featured on a programme called “Bizarre ER”.

I don’t think she found anybody whose symptoms or circumstances were funny, or who wanted the world to perceive them as such.

Had I simply been battered in a drunken brawl, I would have been stitched back up and sent on my way – but because this was a “post operative complication” I was sent upstairs to the surgery ward after about an hour.

And that was when my ordeal really began.

I arrived at 12.45pm – I left at around 9pm. In that time, I was continually assured that the “senior doctor” would be there any moment and that without his say-so, nobody could do anything. In that time I was given (i) two cups of coffee and (ii) a sandwich, at 7.30pm when I went and told the nurses I thought I was going to pass out.

I am convinced I left that hospital in a much worse state of health than I arrived in. I was certainly in a much worse mood.

Now, I could take this opportunity to blast the NHS, but why bother? I don’t want a better NHS – I just want to never have to use it again. It would be nice if doctors treated patients like human beings rather than infected gobbets of blood-flecked mucus and hair they have found smeared on a door handle, but I guess you have to pay cash for that.

No, dear friends – it is the waiting I want to talk about.

I hate waiting anyway. I value my time and I value other people’s time, so I always try to minimise the time anyone spends waiting for me, and I like that courtesy to be reciprocated. I take being kept waiting (unnecessarily) by someone as an explicit statement that they believe their time is more valuable than mine – and I take that as an insult.

But if you know that what you are waiting for is not going to turn up for, say, 30 minutes, an hour, eight hours – then that is a different matter. You can do something with that time. You know what is going on and you are in possession of yourself.

It is the imminent anticipation of something being always about to happen right now, that makes waiting unbearable. You daren’t do anything else, in case you miss it or – god forbid – keep them waiting for you.

Waiting is boring, and being bored is an affront to life. We have only so much time in this life. To waste it by choice is stupid, but at least it’s your own decision. To have it wasted by others is an offence.

That eight hours I spent in a dingy little cubicle being ignored has taught me the value of time and the evil of boredom.

Inside the Fortress of Solitude

The main thing I will miss when we move to our new house is having a loft.

Casa Sicily is built on three stories – with a bedroom, bathroom and small “store” on the top floor inside the roof. This, it seems, is a fairly common trick developers use these days to build bigger, more expensive houses on a smaller “footprint” of land.

As we prepare to move next month, I have been spending a bit of time in the loft digging through strata of junk like a geologist of our lives. The deeper I go, the older the stuff I find and (in general) the less Elvira or I remember ever having owned it. I confidently expect to find a fully-preserved dinosaur skeleton right at the back.

Or if not a dinosaur then a rat.

I never mentioned the rat on here, did I?

No, too bloody right I didn’t. I was trying to sell a house – I’m not a complete idiot.

Last winter, we got a rat. How did we know it was a rat and not a mouse? Well, considering their respective body sizes, no mouse could have survived pooing out what we discovered in the loft.

And unfortunately also in the kitchen, where it chewed through the top of a cupboard to nibble on the contents of the fruitbowl and boxes of breakfast cereal.

So we got the council ratcatcher in, who left little boxes of poison around, which the rat studiously ignored to continue on his merry destructive way. Every so often we’d hear him scuttling about in the ceiling.

Eventually, we got rid of him by pure dumb luck – the ratcatcher pointed out some holes in the exterior of the house whereby it appeared to have been getting in. I poured a load of gravel down one of them, and we never heard it again. Thankfully, it seems I trapped it outside rather than inside.

We did have a mouse die up there once. It liquefied and seeped through Roger Jr’s bedroom ceiling. I scraped it off while standing on my head then painted over it. 

But as I now clear out the loft, digging my way through the “rat shit era” back to happier times, I come to feel a great sadness that our new house won’t have such a manly fortress of solitude above it.

Yes, while the other Sicilies have all stuck their heads up into the loft (Elvira, I should point out, refers to it as a “false roof” – which gives makes it seem much more secretive than it really is), I am the only one who has ever made the desperate scramble from the top of the ladder through the hatch. It is my domain.

In practice, that means there are areas of intense orderliness alongside – and frequently beneath – regions of chaos. It is as good a map of my brain as you are likely to find without actually vivisecting me.

However, what I will miss most is the incredible physical workout a trip into the loft provides.

1. During the summer, it is insanely hot. Sauna hot – and the atmosphere of fibreglass and wood dust stirred up by moving anything is wonderfully exfoliating.
2. While you are up there, getting around involves some of the most demanding Pilates-style gymnastics I have ever had to perform. Diagonal wooden beams, unboarded floors, water pipes and two – yes two – TV aerials force one to manoeuvre with the deliberation, care and prehensile feet of a Slow Loris. Otherwise, you end up taking a heavy blow to the head or spine or impaling yourself in a location where nobody else can get to you.
3. Taking all this into consideration, attempting to extract heavy boxes and other articles between these obstacles without falling through the ceiling – and then to lower them down onto the landing without flattening the inevitable toddler mucking around with the ladder below – is a feat that never fails to reduce me to a state of total physical exhaustion.

Yes, I will miss the loft. But I will have a garage instead...

My Vasectomy – Part 4

So it is done. I have been vasectomised. And it was not as bad as you might think.

Friday night’s alright for shaving

By Friday evening, I was getting a bit anxious about it all. I had not managed to put it out of my mind all day (as my previous post, written that day, possibly indicates) and I was in a bad temper by the time I got home.

Fortunately, that evening, I had the distraction of working out how to shave myself (scrotumnally) to take my mind off the impending operation.

I should really say “the aftermath of the operation”. I’ve had enough local anaesthetics in my time to know that the operation itself was not going to hurt (see below...). What I was worried about was what kind of a state I would be in when the drugs wore off and how I was going to survive the recovery period with two groin-height and fast-moving children careering around the vicinity of my delicacy.

Anyway, back to shaving. I had, as previously mentioned, bought some Veet – and been repeatedly warned of its perils, not least by the estimable Bernard C in a comment on the last post – for which I am very grateful.

To be perfectly honest, I found it no problem. Apart from the peculiar smell – which could have been from the “finishing cream” that came in the pack – it didn’t hurt or even feel uncomfortable at all. Perhaps I have a particularly leathery and unfeeling scrotum, but having prepared for the worst, I was pleasantly surprised.

Some men – I am told – voluntarily shave themselves in this region, ostensibly for aesthetic reasons. I must admit to finding it a very strange interpretation of what is aesthetically pleasing to make any of THAT more rather than less visible.

Palmerston

For those who take an interest in such things, I opted for a style of my own design, which I am calling “The Palmerston”.

Sitting in the waiting room

My appointment was at 10.50am. Elvira drove me down to the surgery and in I went. A receptionist sat behind the desk of the deserted waiting room.

“I have – an appointment – for 10.50,” I said.

I didn’t have to say what for.

“Take a seat please,” she said. I took one.

I tried to lose myself in my book (“The Story of the Malakand Field Force” by Winston Churchill), but Radio 2’s Jon Holmes standing in for Graham Norton kept dragging me back to the moment.

There was a crash from down the corridor.

“I hope he has steadier hands than that,” I said to the receptionist, who smiled wanly. Inside I cringed at the rushed and lazy wording of the joke and tried to return to the Afghan frontier.

“Mr Of Sicily? Will you come through please?”

The nurse didn’t say that. She used my real name. It was the last time I would hear it with intact plums.

What it was like

What do you think it was like? I was lying there, discussing summer holidays and other trivia with the surgeon while my genitalia was operated on through a hole in a sheet. It’s hard to find the positive in the experience itself.

By the way, the surgeon did take the time to congratulate me on the quality of the shaving job I had done. I said I was pretty pleased with my handiwork, for a first attempt.

Look away now if you are squeamish.

What I will say is that the local anaesthetic does the job just fine. You don’t feel a thing when it comes to the cutting and sewing.

There was a degree of “rough handling” prior to the numbing, in order to bring the vas deferens to the surface. This was a forestaste of what was to come.

I was not expecting the extreme discomfort of said tube being pulled out. It was a kind of pain that only a man can understand (sorry ladies – indeed, women seem to have been far more interested in my story so far than men. I cannot understand why...) and it shot all the way up to the pit of my stomach.  It felt...welll...like someone had got hold of the strings my balls are held on with and given them a long, steady tug.

But it was over quickly. I walked out of the operating theatre 15 or so after going in. I was the 8^th bloke the surgeon had seen to that day, and it still wasn’t even lunchtime.

The aftermath

Only once was I unable to walk, and that was a couple of hours after the operation – presumably after the first flush of cocodamol was out of my system (it has been ever-present every since up to the time of writing). Since then, I have recovered much quicker than I thought I would.

The boys have been very good at staying off me. Only once did Tancred hit me in the nuts, when I was drying his hair last night. And I think he knew he had erred.

Lord Palmerston appears to have been the victim of a serious mugging. Gentlemen, if you have never seen your huevos go black and double in size, I suggest you prepare yourself.

Tight pants are a must. Unexpected rapid movement is not pleasant. Lie flat on your back in bed. It took me about ten minutes to walk from the station to my office this morning – that’s usually more like four. Riding the scooter was ok, but I definitely do not want to make any emergency stops.

So what now? Well, apparently the vehicle continues to run on fumes – and that can last for three months. I have to supply “samples” in October and November to see if this has worked, or if my Wolverine-like powers of healing have restored my testicular functioning in the meantime. So I don’t know if it worked or not.

My face, Saturday afternoon

However, I do not regret it. People may ask me, “why on earth did you do it if you can’t even be sure it will work?”

To which my answer is and will remain, “I’d rather go through that than have any more children!”

I love my kids, of course, but sometimes you can have too much of a good thing.

And that, dear friends, concludes July’s gonad-centric entries. I hope it has made you laugh and made you cry. It has certainly brought tears to my eyes on occasion. 

My Vasectomy - Part 2

I had not planned on writing about this again so soon – I had expected to have at least a few weeks to forget about it before having to face the reality of what I have let myself in for.

But thanks to “a cancellation” they have got room to squeeze me in for my vasectomy THIS SATURDAY.

When they asked me if I wanted the place last Friday, I wouldn’t say I jumped at the opportunity – but the prospect of getting it over with more quickly, even at the expense of narrative pacing, was as appealing as anything concerned with bollock surgery feasibly could be.

I must confess, readers, I am feeling slightly less bullish about the whole thing than I was at the last time of writing, when I expected a good old 16-week NHS waiting list. But I have a sneaking suspicion that would have been the case whenever the date got confirmed. 

Between now and then, I have to figure out exactly how to comply with this red-ink-and-italics command printed on the letter:

Please shave the scrotal area (testicles) on the day of surgery, in particular on top of the testicles.

So, Saturday will see me do two things I've never done before! Thanks for repeating the word “testicles” in the course of that sentence, by the way. It had almost slipped my mind that they were involved. Still, at least I won't just be sat around all morning waiting - I will have a challenge to occupy me. 

And now if you will excuse me, the dog has something I am going to need...

Life as a dog

While criticising the NHS is an almost permanent temptation, anyone who thinks we’d be better off without it would do well to imagine life in Britain as a sick dog.

Since the start of this week, one of our dogs (we have two, haven’t mentioned it previously on here) has had something wrong with his right hand side. He keeps going over on his front wrist/ankle joint and can’t correct himself. His back right leg is wobbly too. It’s pretty upsetting to watch, but apart from the falling over, he seems broadly fine.

Elvira took him to the vet a couple of days ago, and the vet was baffled and referred him to a neurologist for an MRI scan. The nearest dog neurologist and MRI scanner, it turns out, are in Chester.

So, there being no ambulances to transport poorly animals around, I have taken a day off work to drive him the 80-odd miles over here.  

I shan’t bore you with the details, but he is having a series of diagnostic tests to figure out what the hell is wrong with him. And the estimate I’ve been given for the cost of that – which has to be settled before I leave – is just under £2,000.

That’s just to find out what’s wrong, not to give any sort of treatment.

Now, the hospital is very nice, and all the staff are very nice – but I suspect that if I had not had pet insurance, they might not have been quite so nice to me. And given that the maximum cover of the dog’s policy is £2,500, we could very well end up later today in a situation where life-saving treatment awaits awkward financial decisions. 

Now I know vets tend to give the impression of being all cuddly and Rolf Harris-like when they are in fact as financially rapacious as Fred Goodwin. But just imagine if it was your kid and not your dog getting that bill. It’s almost enough to make you think that there are some good things about this country after all. 

The power of muesli

Along with quiche, salad and tofu, muesli is frequently portrayed as a food that is inherently effeminate and in some way shameful for real men to eat.

Well, I have been eating muesli for breakfast since the New Year (it’s T-325, in case you regard this as another harbinger of the apocalypse) and let me tell you: in the immortal words of Discharge, muesli ain’t no feeble bastard.

The Full English satisfies more, but it leaves one greasy, crapulent and feeling guilty. Fruit and yoghurt...come on. People only eat that (i) in hotels and (ii) for the sake of appearances.

Muesli alone has the power to keep me from feeling hungry until lunchtime without making me want to go back to bed. It is a freaking miracle food.

So why has it become so closely associated with bed-wetters and Liberal Democrats? Maybe it’s the Swiss thing.

So the story goes, muesli was invented in 1900 by Swiss doctor Maximillian Bircher-Benner to feed to the patients in his hospital, after he had been fed something similar by a mystical mountain-dwelling peasant on a hike in the Alps.

We like to think – don’t we? – of the Swiss as a bunch of effete bankers and diplomats, concerned solely with manufacturing clockwork devices and helping criminals avoid taxation.

And yet, this is a nation of hard-ass do-it-yourself mothers who:

1. Have seen off pretty much every challenger to their political and religious independence (apart from Napoleon) since the 14^th century.
2. Created the first ever democratic multilingual and multiethnic state.
3. Were, for much of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, the go-to mercenaries for anyone wanting their enemies crushed underfoot, impaled on sea of pikes or chopped to pieces with a halberd. They were the goddam Chechens of the time.

And look at them now. Sat in the middle of a collapsing Europe, winding their cuckoo clocks, eating their Toblerones and telling the rest of the world it’s too poor to come in.

THAT is the nation that gave the world muesli. So mock my breakfast at your peril. 

Top ten unfinished blog ideas

It is well-known that even the crappiest article with “top ten” in the headline will be ridiculously over-rated by Google, and therefore attract way more visitors than the content legitimately deserves.

To that end, here is my very own contribution to the entirely unnecessary top ten genre. Like a ruminant, I’m bringing these half-digested ideas back up from one of my many stomachs for a last chew. Too rambling for a Facebook status update, too under-developed for an entire post –here we go, my Xmas gift to you:

1. All the thrill of the escalator

Does anyone else still get a frisson of big city excitement when they go on a “down” escalator? None of the towns I lived in up until the age of 18 had any shops with a down – it was lifts or stairs only for us yokels.

Every time I ride the down escalator, part of me wants to sing “New York, New York”.

2. Now or then?

Is this London St Pancras 2011 or Berlin Templehof 1936? Fascist art is alive and well...

3, Everyone’s a critic

Has anyone here read “The Communist Manifesto”? I did recently, and I was surprised by how clear and modern Marx’s critique of capitalism is. His descriptions of the finance-driven economy are shockingly prescient of the situation we find ourselves in now.

The second half of The Communist Manifesto is also pretty funny, where Marx kick starts the favourite pastime of every leftwinger ever since and slags off every other kind of socialist who has any point of disagreement with him. Because it’s SCIENCE after all.

And does anyone here like Nietzsche? As far as I can see, his demolition of the foundations of Judaeo-Christian ethics in “Beyond Good and Evil” and “The Antichrist” is irrefutable.

The trouble is, both Marx and Nietzsche go on from their brilliantly-argued critique to erect some batshit alternative scheme on top of it – in Marx’s case, communism; in Nietzsche’s case...errr...well, I’m still not entirely sure. Something to do with “act like a Homeric Greek and don’t give a toss about what anyone else does”.

And the funny thing is, both of those two explicitly denigrate “mere critics”. Why is it so easy to knock things down and so hard to produce alternatives?

4. Don’t put your daughter on the internet Mrs Worthington

If you put a picture of your kids as your Facebook profile picture, no one is going to know if you are who they think you are.  

5. Literary heroics (a)

Thanks to Anonymous (for god’s sake people – just put in any old name when you leave a comment...) for pointing me in the direction of Xenophon. I read the whole of “Anabasis” while on jury duty.

“Anabasis” is the ancient Greek “Bravo Two Zero”. Secret mission in Iraq goes wrong, escape from behind enemy lines, fighting all the way – sound familiar? ANCIENT GREECE IS NOT BORING!

6. Literary Heroics (b)

Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooo lives in a pineapple under the sea? FRIDTJOF NANSEN!

If Xenophon is Andy McNab, Fridtjof Nansen is Bear Grylls – but without the overnight hotels. I just read “Farthest North”, relating his polar expedition of 1893 to 1896. That’s right – three years in a wooden ship on the Arctic Ocean.  

In fairness, there are times when the repetitive prose manages to not only describe the ball-aching boredom he suffered being frozen into pack ice with 13 Norwegians waiting to drift to Greenland but also to elicit it. I could only care so much about what they had for dinner EVERY DAY FOR THREE YEARS. "Took the latitude. We have drifted 12 feet north in the last week. Took a sounding. The sea is very deep. It's been night for six months. Thought I saw a polar bear, but I didn't. I am so bored."

But the unbelievable fortitude of the man – a man of action, and of science and (later) a humanitarian statesman - is just inspiring. Sure, there are plenty of British polar explorers I could have idolised. But their books were not free! Nor did any of them have quite such an impressive moustache and stare. 

7. Vests are not outerwear

It is not acceptable to wear just a vest in public in the UK if you are a man. Even if it’s hot.  Especially when it’s cold.

Also, is it wrong that when I hear the line “don we now our gay apparel” in “Deck the halls with boughs of holly” I can’t help but think of assless chaps?

8. The most revolting cocktail ever

I give you the “Scotti”.  

9. The day I quit the gym

I cancelled my gym membership – and had to work out a three month notice period @£72 a month! Outrageous. If anyone has any ideas on how I can avoid turning into Jabba the Hutt, I’d be most grateful for your input.

10. And then the abyss stared back into me

The trouble with writing a blog is that when I meet people in the real world, I don’t have anything left to say to them. In telling every interesting anecdote I have on here, and polishing and grinding down the sharp edges on the facts until it becomes a routine or a bit of schtick, I lose the will to ever mention it again. 

Czech yourself before you wreck yourself – pt 1

Elvira and I have just returned from a child-free trip to Prague, capital of the glamorous Czech Republic – the veritable Switzerland of the former Soviet bloc.

And so, before I return to the subject of my recent jury service (THANKS for the complete ABSENCE of useful legal advice, by the way), I will regale you with a little bit of travel writing.

However, in inimitable ODHSNM style, this will largely consist of my impressions of various things that either did happen or that I am imagining to have happened, upon extrapolation from a more mundane reality. As such, if you are looking for a useable guide on Things to do in Prague – as ever - I suggest you go elsewhere.  

Czech Cuisine

I did not see a single green vegetable on offer, from street food kiosks to five-star restaurants. Come to think of it, unless you count braised red cabbage – which consists more of sugar and booze than cabbage – I don’t think I saw any vegetables at all.

In their place, you have dumplings. Dumplings big, dumplings small, dumplings smooth, lumpy or gnocchi-like – all made of flour or potato, and in Elvira’s well-chosen words all “very binding”.

I can’t fault Czech cuisine for flavour and heartiness, but I suspect that constipation may be one of the country’s biggest public health issues.

Having said that, the degree of bowel irritation I personally experienced as a result of drinking the ample strong coffee on offer more or less offset the bunging-up effect of the food.

At the hotel breakfast, I was led to wonder why the UK is so rubbish when it comes to bread. Here, I was faced with about 20 different options of variously shaped and flavoured rolls, slices and more. Fennel seed in bread, I wholeheartedly recommend. But at home, it’s “white or brown or both”. Why are the British content with damp, floppy, sliced white shite?

Another thing we in the UK seem to neglect is the admirable continental tradition of distilling alcoholic bitters – the Czech speciality being a delightful little tipple called Becherovka.

I have come to the conclusion that the “secret recipe” for Jagermeister – surely the Rod Stewart to Becherovka’s Tom Waits – must comprise one part Becherovka to one part Beecham’s Venos Expectorant for Chesty Coughs.

More to follow, when we consider Czech Technology and Czech Culture...

Things we did on our holidays – pt 1

Roger Jr, Elvira and I went swimming in the Mediterranean Sea earlier last week – having survived our flight into terror, which in turn followed our airport wait into terror.

However Tancred refused to enter the water, which was perhaps unsurprising given the difficulties he has in remaining on his feet in the face of moderate air currents, let alone those offered up by the sea. He would be repeatedly led to the water's edge, apparently fascinated by the spectacle of the waves – only to turn away in horror as the creeping waters approached within six inches or so of his feet.

It was our last day in Plascassier, near Grasse, near Nice, in France. And it was a delightful end to a very pleasant week – marred only by:

1. Tancred spurting blood out of his eyebrow after falling face first (do one year olds fall any other way?) into the handle on a chest;
2. Roger Jr being staggeringly obnoxious around 90 per cent of the time that he was awake;
3. Receiving mosquito bites of such virulence that at one point I thought I had inadvertently broken my ankle.

I have for many years now been a little ambivalent about swimming. When I was a boy, I was really good at it. But much like the life cycle of the toad sees it go from fully aquatic tadpole to ungainly, crawling leathery blob, I too have become less of a swimmer and more of a puddle lurking fly gobbler as the years have passed. That's a METAPHOR, by the way.   

While Elvira swims effortlessly, I always seem to exert myself twice as much to cover half the distance. I put this down to being insufficiently buoyant, lacking a pair of front airbags (an excuse it is becoming ever harder to avail myself of).

Secondly, I am hopelessly susceptible to water-borne complaints of every kind. If my left ear lets in more water than it is exposed to in – say – a shower, I go deaf in it for as long as it takes for a foul-smelling lump of dark brown wax to work its way out. Just like in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan.

As such, I only get my head under the water – and given my "eccentric centre of gravity", this is a necessity if I am not to be overtaken by people who are swimming for reasons of physical therapy – if I have ear plugs in.

Plus, I need goggles. Because when I went swimming at Centre Parcs in May, I got a sty on my eye which is still not properly healed.

Oh, and I got athletes foot from the floor at the gym a couple of years ago. Which is kind of related.

Basically, going into water exposes your delicate openings  to other people's filth. And so if a swimming pool full of chlorine dedicated to killing off that sort of shit is risky, going into a "natural" environment that lacks the benefits of disinfectants is positively a matter of taking one's life into one's own hands.  

It was thus with trepidation that I approached going into the Med.

Indeed, the last time I went full-bodily into the sea, I had fallen out of a canoe some six feet from the shore of Hayling Island, while Elvira and our canoeist friends conversed in a leisurely manner on the beach, oblivious of the fact that I had vanished in waters of some two feet of depth. Fortunately, my two star BCU training came back to me in an instant and I expertly disentangled myself from the stricken vessel and staggered gasping up the beach gabbling about how I had cheated certain death before anyone had even noticed I was gone.

Plus, swimming pools – for all their faults – rarely play host to fish. Be they living or be they dead, I have a lingering irrational fear of touching them. But of that more another time...suffice to say, when I put on Roger Jr's goggles, it turned out we were not alone down there.

I know what you're thinking: the sea at Cannes beach can hardly be considered a natural environment, consisting as much of yacht oil, Ambre Solaire and human urine as sea water.

And given the Mediterranean's well-deserved reputation for stinking of drain and being freezing cold (rarely mentioned, I find, in the Baedeker), it was pleasantly warm and odour-free.

Indeed and in conclusion, we had a lovely day out at the seaside – and I have yet to manifest any symptoms of my inevitable bout of amoebic dysentery.

The mind is not a muscle

Suppose you have a 35-year-old car. It probably has a bit of wear and tear and a lot of miles on the clock, but you want to keep it in good condition. What do you do?

Most people would lock it up in a garage, put a sheet over it etc etc – broadly, they would not use it so as to prevent further deterioration.

So why is it then, that my efforts to preserve my 35-year-old body and brain by not using them have been so unsuccessful?

I'd say they've actually made things worse.

And if - as when presented with a crappy gift - one instinctively leaps to insist that it's "the thought that counts" have the hours, days, week and months I've spent thinking about getting physically fit had NO EFFECT?

I'm starting to think that the thought doesn't count at all. The hypocrisy of it disgusts me.

Get up, stand up

I have taken to standing up in my office in an attempt to hinder the inevitable disintegration of my lower back.

Here is a picture of my newly-adapted desk. Hi tech, I'm sure you'll agree.

Yes, I have a Skegness poster on my wall.

I was previously standing at the filing cabinet in the corner (not pictured - maybe next time), which had the advantage of no one being able to see whether I was in my office or not from the outside. It had the disadvantage of not allowing me to use my speakers.

Standing up in here is very weird. My eye level is about two feet above where it usually is. I am literally experiencing vertigo by standing up – because I'm so used to sitting down in this location.

Funny how my brain has imprinted its spatial picture of this room as being four feet off the ground to the point where I don't recognise it at six feet up.

Next week, I'm going to try sitting on the floor.

Summer has set in with its usual severity

There's only one thing worse than an otherwise-healthy person complaining about back pain, and that's an otherwise-healthy person complaining about hay fever as well.

For me, the joy that the passing of winter and the onset of spring bring is short lived.

Much like the people of Leeds, who take the first glimpse of the sun a trumpet call ordering them to go out wearing as little as possible – within days of the annual six months of guaranteed gloom coming to an end, every plant in the UK is belching out its filthy spores.

And every year, I forget this fact during the winter and long for the days when the only time I spend outdoors (going to and from work) will not be conducted under cover of darkness.

As soon as they arrive, I am incapacitated by a host of respiratory problems that would put an inbred bulldog with the flu to shame.  

Apparently 12 million people in this country suffer from hay fever, and conventional wisdom seems to be that this figure is constantly rising. Certainly, year after year more of my friends and family who had never experienced hay fever before say that they've got it now.

Maybe that's just to shut me up and rebuff my demands for sympathy. I don't know.

I've had it since I was about seven years old when a friend and I hacked a rotten tree stump to pieces (that was how children entertained themselves in early 1980s Suffolk – incredible, innit?). My eyes blew up to the size and colour of tennis balls, I was rushed to hospital, issued with eye drops and nasal spray and I haven't looked back.

So I know what I'm talking about.

For once.

Still, predictable as its appearance is, hay fever never ceases to surprise me with its innovations.

In the last couple of years, I have started to come out in a rash on my legs if I walk through long grass in shorts. At this rate, by the time I'm 50, I won't be able to think about plants without my throat caving in and suffocating me from anaphylactic shock.

I realise that my previous excursions into palaeobiology have been somewhat controversial, but surely the only threats posed to our primitive ancestors from the vegetable kingdom were:

• Trees falling on them
• Falling out of trees
• Things and people falling out of trees onto them
• Assault by hostile plant-based life forms from other planets (eg triffids, pod people, Audrey 2 etc)

Grass, flowers and shrubs, then, have always been justly regarded as Mostly Harmless.

Unless - as the underlying implication in most commentary on the matter seems to be - people are just getting more feeble over time, it is reasonable to assume that people have suffered with hay fever throughout history.

However, the only instance I can find (from five minutes of Googling, which is what passes for research here at ODHSNM) of hay fever playing any significant role in historical events is as follows.

In 1925, Werner Heisenberg had a really bad bout and he went to Heligoland by the sea to recover.

Getting away from quantum pain-in-the-arse Niels Bohr for a few weeks gave him the opportunity to write "Über quantentheoretische Umdeutung kinematischer und mechanischer Beziehungen" – which set the foundations for matrix mechanics and gave us the Uncertainty Principle. Which is something to do with science.

That's it. And he could have been planning on going on holiday anyway.

So, this is by way of an appeal. Let's uncover the hidden history of allergies and prove that we're not just modern weaklings. I want to know that Henry V sneezed his way through Agincourt; that Christopher Columbus came out in a nasty rash within hours of setting foot in the Americas; and that Julius Caesar didn't see Brutus coming because he was rubbing his itching eyes like a crazy person.    

Any takers? Meanwhile, here's the...

Postscript: I was going to call this article "Summertime and the living is sneezy" but Google returns 54,500 results for this particular pun. 

Don't die - stand up!

Take a look at this excellent "infographic" – if that word does not make you vomit. It's terrifying, and in the light of my own back troubles, I may well start working standing up at my filing cabinet.

Osteopaths and undertakers

I work in a real "here today, gone tomorrow" business: SEO.

You'll no doubt be glad - if you know anything about that benighted industry - that I hereby promise never to write about SEO on my blog.

Nor will I post links to other people's posts saying "this is interesting" in the mistaken belief that this makes me erudite by association.

In this field of activity, you have to constantly change what you're doing to adjust to the internet's ever-evolving standards. The wayside is strewn with the bodies of companies that didn't do that.

And if Google ever got sick of us, well, they've pretty much got the power to shut the whole sector down overnight.

In my dreams, this happens.

Last night, I went to the osteopath. Turns out I have lordosis and bad posture, which is causing me lower back pain.

A mauling later, it occurred to me that dealing with back pain has got to be right up there with undertakers and insolvency practitioners as one line of work that is never going to be short of customers.

More and more of us spend upward of 40 hours a week sitting at PCs at work, and then spend a good portion of the time we're at home sitting at PCs or other screen-based media.

We get our exercise going to gyms which encourage us to do everything wrong – by loading more and more weight onto machines without regard to technique. As such, we're probably using completely the wrong muscles to lift it by any means necessary.

I suppose there are members of staff there who are supposed to help you... well, at my gym they all just stand around talking to each other and making the customer feel bad about themselves. Maybe it's different elsewhere.

Plus, when you go to the gym, typically you'll do something completely destructive – like go in and wildly overwork some muscles you never use, then be laid up for two weeks getting over it. Alternatively, you come out and scoff double the calories you've just burned off because you think you've earned it.

And when I say "we", "us" and "you", I mean of course "me". This blog is all about me.

I've always found people with "bad backs" who have not worked in coal mining or stone quarrying or otherwise actually injured themselves a little bit contemptible. Now I'm on the brink of turning into one of them.

I hereby commit to sorting out my posture. If any of you see me slouching, prod me sharply. And if I can't manage that, I'm going to retrain and become an osteopath – an osteopath whose website is number one in Google.