There are some words I don't like. Sometimes it's because of the meaning of the word, and sometimes it's the sound of the word. It could be a combination of both, or it could be neither. I will now proceed to think of words I don't like, but no justification for my dislike of them will be offered.
I will kick off with:
Copulation
I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits of the dead. I don’t believe in the potency of curses made by witches and ancient Egyptians, and I don’t believe in black magic. I don’t believe in the devil or vampires or werewolves. None of these things frighten me in the slightest. No, the only thing that stops me from walking through dark graveyards at midnight is my imagination.
“If I am wrong”, say the preachers of Hell fire, “I will never know, but if you are wrong”, they have more than once said, addressing me, “you most certainly will know.” Fair enough, but that’s my look out.
The situation regarding man made global climate change is rather different. If the prevailing scientific consensus is wrong, those who have tried to do something about it will have made the effort for nothing, and the economic resources put into dealing with the matter could have been spared. That would be a shame, but money and effort have been wasted on far less worthy causes. If the sceptics and deniers are wrong, however, they may still never know about it, but future generations certainly will.
While it makes sense to always choose the option that poses the least risk to one’s self yet promises the biggest personal benefit, it can be a very selfish and irresponsible choice sometimes.
Mr. Good is a very nice man who lives at 6 Paradise Street.
Mr. Good bought 6 Paradise Street a long time ago.
Houses cost a lot of money and Mr. Good had to get a mortgage before he could buy his house.
You can’t see a mortgage but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
Ask a grownup about philosophy if you want to know more about things that aren’t there.
If you forget about your mortgage just because you can’t see it, you will get into a lot of trouble.
Mr. Good remembers about his mortgage once a month so he never gets into trouble.
People who forget about their mortgage can sometimes go for a long time without thinking about it and get very upset when they have to remember it again.
Mr. Lord works in a bank and his job is to remind people about their mortgages when they have forgotten about them.
If people don’t take any notice of Mr. Lord after he has reminded them about their mortgages, that is when they get into a lot of trouble.
People who keep forgetting about their mortgages make Mr. Lord very cross when they won’t take any notice of him.
When Mr. Lord gets really cross he makes people move out of their houses and they have to sleep under railway bridges.
Ask a grownup to take you to see some down and outs if you want to see what living under a railway bridge is like.
Mr. Lord uses the law to make people move out of their houses, and the law is another thing you must not forget about just because you can’t see it.
Mr. Good will never have to sleep under a railway bridge because he always remembers about his mortgage and the law.
On Sunday Mr. Good goes to church.
Church is where Mr. Good sits on a hard seat and thinks about God.
Do you go to church?
God is more important than a mortgage so you have to remember about him four times a month.
Some people even remember about God everyday and like to remind everyone else about him.
There are lots of different names for people who like to remind everyone about God but you have to wait until you are a grown up before you are allowed to say them.
God is a bit like Mr. Lord, a mortgage and the law all rolled into one, except that you can see Mr. Lord.
Ask a grownup about the Trinity if you want to know about God being three things at the same time.
Forgetting about God can get you into even more trouble than forgetting about your mortgage so some people leave a Bible on the table to remind them about God every time they see it.
A Bible is a very thick book all about God and you must never use it to hold a door open.
You won’t have to move out of your house if you forget about God but you won’t be able to live in Heaven afterwards if you do.
Heaven is where the people who remember to think about God go when they have finished being alive.
It is very nice in Heaven and everyone who lives there is happy forever.
If you are not allowed to go to Heaven you will have to go to another place called Hell, and that’s even worse than sleeping under a railway bridge.
No one likes being in Hell because that’s where a very cross monster called the Devil lives.
The Devil doesn’t like happy people so he sets them on fire to make sure they will be very sad forever.
Ask a grownup to find you a Youtube video of a man on fire if you want to see what it looks like.
Mr. Good will live in heaven when he has finished being alive because he always remembers to think about God.
Perhaps you could live next door to Mr. Good in Heaven when you have finished being alive if you always remember to think about God.
Do you think that would be nicer than being set on fire by the Devil?
Late one night, some years ago, I was walking home when I reached a crossroads where, from out of nowhere, appeared a shadowy figure. Although I was eager to get home he managed, easily, to engage me in conversation, as he was very charismatic. He was also very persuasive, but, luckily for me, nothing transpired that required the removal of my trousers. We came to an arrangement.
Now that I have reached an age where thoughts of my mortality are becoming ever more prevalent, I am plagued with regrets about the agreement I entered into. If I could turn back the clock to that night at those crossroads, this time I would keep right on walking when that stranger appeared, or at the very least be more ambitious in my negotiations. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed the local fame that came with being a virtuoso of the spoons, but it is only in hindsight that it occurs to me that the electric guitar might have been a more rewarding choice.
On windy days I often think back to an event that took place long, long ago when I was but a boy and health and safety was still in short trousers. The drama that I am about to unfold for you took place on the 85th birthday of my best friend’s grandfather.
Alan’s granddad was a small, slightly built man but surprisingly sprightly for his age. In those days 85 was an good age to have reached and the family had decided that the occasion should be marked with more than the usual victoria sponge and yet more pairs of socks and pants. They could have organised some sort of surprise for him but it no doubt seemed easier just to ask him what he would most like to do on his special day. I think they expected him to take time to think about his birthday treat but when he came back with an instant reply they were both surprised and regretful that they didn’t take the trouble to organise a surprise, after all. In a manner that sounded almost rehearsed the old man stated that the only thing he wanted -and his tone of voice strongly implying the only thing he would settle for- was to perform a parachute jump. Anyway, to cut a long story short, and spare me the the trouble of making one up, the family accepted the inevitable and Alan’s dad organised the parachute jump.
Before Alan’s granddad was allowed to make the jump it was necessary for him to attend a training session; which he got through with no problem, apparently. The instructor did have one or two safety concerns, but, after the old man’s agreeing to remove his false teeth beforehand, he seemed to be satisfied that it was safe to go ahead.
The event was to take place on a Wednesday morning. Luckily, it was the school holidays and Alan invited me along to watch the spectacle. So there we all were, about a dozen of us standing in a field looking towards the skies. At first there was just a faint, distant drone, but then appeared a spec in the sky which very shortly became identifiable as a small aircraft. Up till then it had been a fine early June morning, barely a cloud in the sky and very still. Just before the aeroplane was over the field, though, a breeze seemed to come out of nowhere.
The plan was for Alan’s granddad to jump first, followed very soon after by the instructor. It was only when the chutes opened that the flaw in the plan became apparent. The first thing we noticed was that the instructor was descending noticeably quicker than the granddad. The second thing we noticed was that the granddad’s progress seemed to be more horizontal than vertical. As I mentioned earlier, Alan’s granddad was not a very substantial man, and it now became obvious that the degree of his insubstantiality had not been adequately taken into account.
As I watched I was reminded of a dandelion seed floating on the wind, after being blown free from the fluffy pom-pom of the flower head. Alan’s dad got in his car and tried to follow but the roads, of course, didn’t always run in the direction he wanted to go, so a certain amount of predicting the final destination was called for. He was never going to get it right, no one could have.
The granddad of Alan’s adventure came to a undignified end when he clattered into the dustbins behind the chiropodist’s on the High Street. Now this was an amazing coincidence because he had an appointment at that very chiropodist’s that very afternoon. The commotion brought the staff running out to see what had happened almost immediately. After a short period of questions and explanations, granddad was whisked inside and given a mug of very sweet tea; which was the remedy for most things in those days. The staff couldn’t have been better, they brought forward his appointment and treated his corns there and then.
This is a true story and everything happened exactly as I have described.
I recently posted a blog in which I violated blogging rule 13. I didn't realise I was breaking a rule when I posted the blog, but when it was brought to my attention I felt a definite buzz. I now find myself wanting to do it again; 'chasing the dragon' is the term, I believe. The trouble is, I can't make up my mind which rule to break next.
I remember once being sent along with the joiner* to replace a broken window pane at the local church hall. The churchwarden, a rather stern man, was already there waiting for us. He seemed very perplexed when we arrived, and appeared to have a great need to know what the broken window might mean. While we were stood there wondering what on Earth he was talking about, the joiner noticed a football on the floor, right in a corner of the room. When its presence was brought to the attention of the churchwarden it seemed to send him off into even more fanciful flights of fantasy. The broken window was clearly an act of God, and the manifestation of the ball, a message of some kind. We suggested to him what seemed to us the obvious chain of events that must have lead up to the ball ending up in the corner, but he just stood there slowly turning his head from side to side with an indulgent half smile on his face. ‘So,’ he said, when we had finished our speculations, ‘you believe that there just happened to be some kids on the grass outside who just happened to have a ball which one of them just happened to kick, which then just happened to smash through the window and somehow find its way, all on its own, into the corner?’ Well, when he put it like that, we were forced to admit that it did seem highly unlikely.
* A joiner is a British tradesman who specialises in woodwork.
For the female exhibitionist there are various ways to indulge the impulse; showing varying amounts of cleavage being one popular and easy option. But what about men? They can be exhibitionists, too. It’s high time the designers of male fashion cottoned on to this. Trousers with cut-outs revealing a discreet amount of testicle would, in my opinion, catch on like wild fire. I really think the industry is missing a trick here.
They say you can lead a horse to water but can’t make it drink. A way round that might be to take the water to the horse and just wait for it to give in.
I don’t own a smartphone; all I can do with my phone is make calls and send and receive text messages. It’s not because I’m cheap that I won’t buy a smartphone, it is because I can foresee the consequences that would inevitably follow from my getting one and I don’t like what I (fore)see.
When I am at home I can’t stay away from my computer. Even when I am busy I keep stopping to check on something or look something up. When I leave the house it is a relief to get away from the damned thing. The last thing I would want to do is take it with me when I go out, but, if I had a smartphone, that, in effect, is what I would be doing.
Last week the company I work for told us that all the drivers were to be issued with smartphones.
There’s a little butcher’s shop down a narrow street in the South Yorkshire village of Jump. You could drive past that little shop and never even notice it, except on a Tuesday* and Saturday when the customers are queuing right out onto the pavement. These are the days when the locally renowned butcher, Percy Turner, makes his much sought after, to die for pork pies.
* it could be Thursday and Saturday
Harbal Blog (115)
