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. 

It’s (not) Christmas (any more)!

Christmas is now but a distant memory, with only a cupboard full of unwanted chocolate and ever-greater discomfort around the waist to remind us it was ever here.  

Lots of amusing things happen over Christmas, don’t they? And yet because we’re “away from our desks” over the period and because once we’re back at them Christmas is the last thing anyone wants to think about, we rarely get an opportunity to dissect them.

Well, fret no more! ODHSNM once again strides out where the mainstream media fears to tread and features a Christmas-focused article in mid January.

Much like Tulisa, One Direction and other glitzy celebs, the Pope tossed off a book for Xmas this festive season.

And "The Infancy Narratives - Jesus of Nazareth” did not disappoint with its no-holds-barred, warts-and-all, nothing-left-to-the-imagination account of how the Christmas story is not actually true.

You sit on a throne of lies

It may come as rather a shock to you to hear this coming from His Holiness Benedict XVI – accustomed as we are during December to driving past empty-looking churches festooned with passive-aggressive posters insisting “if it wasn’t for Jesus you wouldn’t have ANY Christmas”.

Particularly in the light of the various absurd articles of faith the Holy Father has not yet seen fit to debunk.

But if Jesus was not actually born on December 25, then what is stopping us from having a staggered Christmas season?

Not that sort of staggering, you cheeky monkey you.

No, why can’t we just choose when to celebrate it? For example, shortly after the January sales? Everyone doing it at once is highly inefficient. It creates queues, allows businesses to ramp up prices, makes us all take a really quiet week in the office as leave etc. Plus the weather is always shit.

If we’re all getting the date wrong anyway (and I refer you to the Pastor aeternus of 1870 – the bit on Papal infallibility), Jesus would presumably not mind if we all got it wrong on some other, more convenient date of our choosing.

I told you this year’s theme was going to be calendar reform. We’re starting early.

Speaking of “starting early” one of the best things about Christmas is the expectation that you will – nay, obligation to – drink alcohol during the (admittedly scanty) hours of daylight.

WHY?

Not only that, but you are entitled to drink things that you would never consider drinking at any other time – such as advocaat, sherry or banana liqueur.  Or indeed red-coloured paint thinner with clove oil in it, also known as “mulled wine” at this time of year.

Nothing quite beats the feeling of settling down in a chair thinking “it’s 3pm, I’m hammered, I may well fall asleep and nobody is going to give me a hard time about it”.

And if it wasn’t for Jesus, you wouldn’t be allowed to do that so you really should go to church to make it up to him. He looks a bit annoyed.

But really, Christmas is a time for the kids (and if it wasn’t for Jesus, you wouldn’t have any kids).

What I really want to know is, when did it become necessary to have a set of wire cutters about your person when sitting down to open kids’ presents?

I have seen nuclear reactors less comprehensively sealed and 50-storey buildings less securely anchored than most of the things our boys got this year.

A plastic horse we got for Tancred (retail value, I dunno, about £5?) was (i) in a cardboard box that was (ii) taped shut inside and out and then (iii) attached to the packaging by tightly-wound wires around each foot and its tail.

The whole thing is completely crime-proof unless you...oh, I don’t know...STEAL THE BOX AS WELL.

As it was, my finger ends were bleeding raw by lunchtime from repeated attempts to separate box and plastic lump. 

Jesus really doesn’t like all that packaging. He’s tutting and pursing his lips right now.

But if you look round at him, he’ll pretend to be doing something else. 

Is there anything, readership, you would like to share about Christmas? Perhaps you bought ten lighters for a euro and some batteries at an English market in Germany? Or maybe you wonder why the official canon of Christmas songs ends at around 1986? Let's have your amusing observations below. 

XTREMISM in the shower

This is my shower gel. It is “Xtreme” shower gel.

As we all know, in the field of products the more “extreme” something is, the better it is – and if you can mis-spell “extreme” it is even more extreme, and therefore even better.

So while in the field of consumer goods extremism is a undeniably A Good Thing, it seems odd that we do not welcome it in other fields as well. Perhaps this is due to the fuddy-duddy spelling of "extreme" with a lower case "e" at the start. 

Al Qaeda, for example, could rebrand itself as Islam Xtreme to appeal more to the key 18-25 demographic. The EDL could try to break out of its C2/D/E ghetto by calling itself Xtreme Racist Halfwits.

Nevertheless, as I showered this morning, I must confess to being somewhat at a loss in seeking to discern in precisely what the xtremity of this gel consisted.

I did not get a sense of freefalling from a light aircraft. I did not feel as though I doing stunts on a BMX bike. I did not even feel as though I was pouring a can of drink into my mouth from a height of about 8 to 12 inches away to the sound of powerful rock guitar music. 

These are all recognisably xtreme sensations, but I was at a loss to detect the shower gel precipitating any of them within me.  

Then I looked at the “flavour” of the gel. As you can see, it purports to be made of – or at least to smell of – “Exhilarating Grapefruit, Amber and Cedarwood”.

I have never encountered grapefruit, amber and cedarwood in the flesh at the same time, so I can’t really say that to do so would not be exhilarating. When I have encountered them separately, however:

• The only time I have felt exhilaration in connection with a grapefruit was upon successfully dodging a thrown one.
• Amber – it is hard to think of a more inert substance than fossilized tree resin, and therefore one less likely to cause exhilaration, unless it has hidden qualities I am unaware of.
• All I know about cedarwood is that you should not stand underneath cedar trees during lightning storms. Having a tree fall to the ground around you in flames is probably quite exhilarating, but not in the sort of way one is keen to experience early each morning.

Upon calm reflection (after the exhilaration had ended), I wondered precisely what part the amber was playing in this recipe.

• Grapefruit – yes, I can smell that. It is citrusy.
• Cedarwood – errr...I am prepared to acknowledge that some wood smells and therefore that had I not the olfactory acuity of noseless dog (though I hasten to add, I do NOT smell terrible) that this may have been present in the rich bouquet offered up.
• Amber. What EXACTLY is amber supposed to smell of? The internet says that you can – theoretically – extract an oil from amber which smells (unsurprisingly) of pine. So far, so much my shower gel is making smell like a toilet bowl.

Maybe it is not contributing to the perfume? Perhaps I am supposed to be exfoliating with the preserved exoskeletons of prehistoric mosquitoes encased in the amber?

So, intrigued, I checked the ingredients to see what the amber is bringing to the party.

This is in English, you may be surprised to discover. What will probably not surprise you is to learn that this substance contains neither grapefruit, nor amber, nor cedarwood.

The question then remains: did they come up with the name first and try, subsequently, to make something that smelled of that? So what exactly was the amber adding? 

Or did they instead make the smell and then try to describe it? In which case, who smelled the amber?

I am going to ask the Avon lady next time I see her. 

The Kettle Kapacity Konundrum

“Life. Oh life. Oh liiiife. Oh life. Doo-doo-doo-doo.”

So sang Des’ree in her 1998 number 8 chart hit, “Life”.

I often think about those words when I consider the fundamental contingency and futility of our existence on this earth.

Just now, a kettle has reminded me of Des'ree's words of power. 

Why oh why do all kettles measure their capacity in terms of dainty little teacups?

Does anyone under the age of 70 routinely drink out of a small teacup? No! EVERYONE drinks out of a mug!

Why, Mr Tefal, Mr Rowenta, Mr Morphy Richards, do you use an obsolete unit of measurement, forcing me to do multiplications and divisions in my head in order to work out how much water I need to boil?

It drives me to despair, as I drink my afternoon half-mug of tea. 

But then when the darkness looks insurmountable, I remind myself of the profound message of hope provided by 5ive in their 1999 chart topper, “Keep on Movin’”:

“Sometimes I think that life has no meaning, but I know things will be alright in the end.”

The Best Barber in the World

It may come as a surprise to you to discover that the best barber in the world is situated in Greengates, Bradford.

And yet here is the proof: BEST BARBER IN THE WORLD.

This, I should point out, is at least the second version of this sign that has been displayed on this shop. The first version was just a banner – as you can see, the owner has decided to go for something a little more permanent.

Clearly, this was one of those “president for life” elections, after which all future polls were abolished - after all, if he really is the best, why vote again?

Having spent that much on the sign, I don’t think he plans on putting his record before the public again any time soon.

I drive past this shop most days, but it was not until this weekend just gone that I put my head into the hands of the best barber in the world.

He was alright – he met my five criteria admirably. £7 for a cut, parking outside (none of those pictured are my car, psychopathic readers!) and plenty of Daily Stars to read while I waited.

It is not, however, the boldness of his claim that impresses me most, but rather the carefully hedged wording.

Was he voted the best barber in the world by his customers, whom he describing as loyal?

Or was it only the loyal customers who voted him best barber in the world – with the sign a coded rebuke to those disloyal customers who voted for someone else?

A famous person spoke to me

I was on the phone to Elvira from Kings Cross Station, trying to make myself heard over the resonating boom of the platform announcements, when he strode into my field of vision.

To begin with, I wasn’t quite sure what it was. A hint of recognition captured my attention. There was a familiarity to this face amongst the thousands of strangers I had passed by, barely noticing, on my commute through the busiest and loneliest parts of the capital.

Then it struck me – I recognised him, like Fraggle Rock lighthouse against a stormy sea! But where did I know him from? Was it someone I knew? I looked at his brown coat with black collar. His black satchel. His blue checked shirt. His closely cropped hair, fooling no one in concealing male pattern baldness.

I knew the face, no doubt about it. Wait a minute – a flash of inspiration and I knew exactly who it was. It was none other than TV’s very own Phil Spencer, the Channel 4 property guru and co-host of once-must-see-now-hopelessly-retreading-the-same-old-ground sensation, Location Location Location!

My heart skipped a beat. Possibly two. I told Elvira I was looking at a real life celebrity – and not a rubbish one like the time I saw Richard Stilgoe in Leicester Square. Someone who people I told would have heard of.

And here at Kings Cross Station no less, where only seconds beforehand I had seen a bald female homeless person demanding that a hapless passer-by buy her a sandwich. She wasn’t asking for money – she was asking for a sandwich. Cheese and tomato in fact.

Oh, where else could you see an intimidating beggar one minute and a TV house buying expert in the same place? Where, but wonderful, magical London town?

He walked towards me. I had to stop describing him to my wife, lest he realise I was talking about him and I look like a star-struck peasant. He walked round behind me. I held my breath. He walked on, and had a bit of a look at what was on offer at Burger King.

I looked up at the departures board. Still my train had “not yet arrived”. But it was “on time”, so that was ok. I looked back - I had lost sight of Phil.

Thinking my brush with fame was over, and still having 20 minutes to kill, I went to buy a bottle of water and reflect on whether seeing Phil Spencer at a railway station in 2012 was better than seeing Bob Geldof at the National Gallery in 1998, or Phil Tufnell at Sharm el Sheikh airport in 2006.

Well, fate had not finished with me for the evening yet.

Who do you suppose was in the station shop, perusing the pot salads? Yes, him. Celebrities even eat better than us, I thought – but at the end of the day, I challenge anyone to spend £3.37 more satisfyingly than at McDonalds.

I joined the queue. As he walked towards the back of the queue, the woman in front of me greeted him. God, what an idiot, I thought. How embarrassing. For all of us. Especially me and Phil.

But Phil was delighted. Turns out they knew each other. Or something. I wasn’t listening. I was inspecting his face, in all its familiar high-definition detail – there, in conversational animation just a couple of feet in front of my very eyes. I could well imagine him, with resigned good humour, telling a young couple how unrealistic their expectations for £150,000 were, or casting a sly glance to the camera and saying that he’d found something this one – no matter how awkward she’d been so far – was going to love. I could almost hear Kirsty’s voiceover pretending to talk back to him in those prematurely headmistressy tones.

And then it happened.

Salad in hand, Phil turned to me and said “do you mind if I...”

He meant, “push in the queue in front of you and carry on talking to this lady”. But he didn’t finish the sentence. His star power completed it for him. It said “I am a popular TV personality, who you obviously recognise. Indeed, I’m sure I overheard you talking about me to your wife about five minutes ago, when I walked behind you. And now you’ve followed me in here, like a stalker. Oh yes, random people in crowds rarely catch my eye or say ‘Location Location Location’ as I’m passing by – so when they do, I always pay attention. I am sure you will indulge me, clearly the normal rules of railway station shopping do not apply”.

“Not at all”, I replied.  

Like this sort of thing happens to me every day.

The rest of the journey home after that was just a blur.

Journey to the Garden Centre of the Earth

Have you ever or do you know anyone who has ever bought one of these CDs of pan pipes, whale song, bird noise or other soothing relaxation sounds from a garden centre?

Me neither. So why do all garden centres stock them, in their own custom-made display cabinet – complete with wood-panelled speakers and the option to play short samples therefrom?

I must confess that I am not a keen gardener, and so cannot presume to understand the mentality of those who are. Perhaps the sound of a “Cuban spa” is the perfect way to while away the hours clipping your lawn with nail scissors. However, the only kind of “Celtic mood” garden centres evoke in me is the belligerence of a drunk Glaswegian.

I have hated going to garden centres ever since I was a boy. They’re the perfect “opportunity cost” outing – the whole time you’re there, you are thinking of how much fun you could be having almost anywhere else.

Now though, as a parent, I have discovered a whole new reason to go to garden centres. They are fantastic for kids – much cheaper and less likely to result in fights you have to apologise for than play centres.

Yesterday, while Elvira looked at the random selection of metalwork wall hangings, folio-sized picture books about the history of the Lancaster bomber, expired cough sweets and domestic chemical warfare agents on offer, I trailed around behind Roger Jr and Tancred, for whom the garden centre is the funnest place ever.

They’ve got fish and lizards in tanks you can bang on! Garden furniture you can climb on! Sheds you can hide in! Aisles you can each run in opposite directions along leaving Daddy frantically calculating which one to follow and which one to leave!

The boys had an absolutely fantastic time, and the very light staffing of doddery pensioners and couldn’t-care-less (possibly backward) teenagers you get in these places made for perfect unsupervised chaos.

I’ll tell you what ruined it though. You can never leave one of these places without the kids noticing one of those awful ride-on dinosaurs or cartoon vehicles by the exit. You know the kind. You put a quid in and it sways gently back and forth for a couple of minutes making a noise like it’s drilling through the earth’s core. Please, please, please - if anyone can understand the appeal of this most disappointing of ways to spend a pound, let me know. 

They see me rollin, they hatin