Family History X

I had a Larry David moment today.

I was in the process of scanning images in from a bundle of old family photos spanning from the 1890s to the 1950s, when I received a visit from a colleague.

This colleague is a shapely young black woman, bright and easy on the eye, for whom I have a "thing", in a grubby older-man-perving-after-young-skirt sort of way.

She knows this, but is charitable enough to go along with it, being the kind of person who enjoys spreading the happiness around.

I only mention her race, as this is pertinent to my imminent dilemma. She was visiting to ask for advice on scanning, and I only too eagerly volunteered my services, and chose to provide a demonstration of the project at hand.

In order to instruct on the cropping function I clicked on a file at random and sat there in horror as an image appeared from circa 1950, featuring my brother, as an infant with his aunt, grandmother, and favourite GOLLY!

She sort of didn't know what to say, and was young enough to be surprised, and I probably didn't to too good a job of explaining how, as a historian, I found the nuances of social context interesting. And yes, there was a voice saying "when you're in a hole, stop digging!"

Naturally, once the news of my embarrassment was out, my colleagues made use the SRA2 sheets to don paper Klan hats, and one, visiting from upstairs, entered the room, and with an uncanny Dougal McGuire impersonation, cried out: "I hear you're a racist now Ted!"

From pervert to Nazi in one click!

Mean Streets

I was amid my lunchtime shuffle around the borough, when I passed a woman mooching around by a zebra crossing adjacent to the hospital. She was in some kind of paramedic/ambulance drivers uniform, but looked a little scruffy, and—in the way she was just stood there—a little bit indolent, like a failed lollipop lady.*

However, as I passed her she proved to be truly rewarding when the radio receiver to which she was listening crackled forth the following:

"Are You Bleeding? What is your physical, er, condition?"

Reluctant to intrude by stopping, I heard no more, and I therefore unable to furnish you with any further details.

Thus my day was brightened.

*I can imagine the ceremony that accomplanies the shaming of a disgraced lollipop lady. The disgracee stands forlornly bereft, witnessed by a group of schoolchildren, as the Head of Zebra Crossings breaks the lollipop over his thigh. I'm sure there's something like this on YouTube somewhere.

Ooer Missus!

You can always trust the Standard to pep up a dull story.

To India, And Beyond!

As a boy, I was preoccupied with the Space Race, and shared the excitement and optimism that came with the moon landings.

However, not everyone shared this enthusiasm for what was a hugely expensive ambition, at a time when America was poring vast sums into either bombing Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, or blasting a handful of men into deep space.

My youthful self was therefore always disappointed when television discussions of the Lunar landings always had to include someone who opposed the adventure, like the head of Oxfam, or acerbic journalist James Cameron, usually delivering impeccable arguments along the lines of how the West's economic extravagence sat in contrast with the existing, and treatable wrongs in the world like third world poverty.

By the third world, they included places like India and China, where there were thousands dying of starvation and disease, deprived of the resources that the West was seen to fritter away on consumerism and nationalistic follies on a previously unseen scale.

Imagine, then, my unease with the zeitgeist, that I have lived long enough to witness headlines like "Banglore to train astronauts".

Yes, not only do we hear that the world's best hope of surviving the oncoming recession is the ameliorative impact of the burgeoning Indian, Chinese and Brazilian economies, but that these sleeping giants are themselves now establishing their own superpower credentials by putting on superpower displays of their own. And nothing says superpower like a space programme!

Meanwhile, the former Cold War superpowers, no longer reliant on each other to provide an adversary, regress into nineteenth century sphere of influence foreign policies to reassure themselves of that they still count.

Ho Hum!

Shed Latest: New Roof Felt!

Yes, there comes the time in every shed's life when it needs a new layer up top. Lifting twelve square metres of roof isn't that easy, and given the backdrop of impending rain, it was a little touch and go.

However, we did get to witness the sight of her tomcat leaping up to where he assumed a roof to be, only to be surprised at the presence of thin air. He's OK, and managed a recovery manoeuvre just in time and only damaged his pride.

Torrential rain this morning enabled me to test run the new coat which performed to plan.

Excellent job.

Nude Latest: Chute Intruder "Too Big" Scandal

Yes, the North is back in the news, and once more its for all the wrong reasons.

The burley chaps of Wigan's fire brigade were asked to extricate a Naked Man from Tescos last night.

Yes, NAKED, found in the chimney like some kind of Dirty Santa.

Of course, the naturists will disown him. They'll claim that he was one of us normal people who had merely "lost" his clothes in attempting to escape his plight, but we know the truth: he's a nudist who went bad.

Indeed, he's the one who chose the left-handed path. Not satisfied with the woods and a sun tan, he was no doubt in there with the sole intention of rubbing his grubby nakedness over the merchandise in some sick bid to seek revenge upon the textile world.

I certainly hope Tescos are going to burn the contents of that particular store, just in case.

Thing is, if he WAS a burglar, where was he planning to secrete the loot?

You better do a stock-check on the bananas Tesco!

Bendybus = Damnation

Apparently someone has trumped up some cash to promote Atheism across the capital.

Worth reading for the quote:

"Bendy-buses, like atheism, are a danger to the public at large"

Big Brother's Idiotic Little Cousin

Something that's been on the back burner for some time, regarding the propensity for the younger generation to use the emerging technologies to shop themselves.

I am of a age that can remember our fears in the 70s and 80s that the government was tooling up with its surveillance culture to maintain a close watch on us plebs, in a bid to scrutinise and control our every move. We feared the Big Brother scenario, and imagined that the future augured diminishing rights and rampant paranoia as the authorities would whittle away at our channels of self-expression.

And then the future arrived. There are cameras in the high streets, on public transport and throughout our workplaces. However, it appears that these are operated by private contractors paying poorly skilled staff minimum wages; staff who tend to neglect to replace the aging video tapes, and almost always lose the pertinent coverage whenever a crime gets committed within a monitored area. We're all being watched, but is anyone getting stopped?

In fact, as the Rodney King trial appeared to show, the liberal distribution of video cameras gave the populace the opportunity for redress, as the cameras were turned upon the state itself.

And once again, as that technology becomes even further miniturised, cheaper and easier to use, it appears that anyone and everyone is capable of contributing to the great social experiment, as, assisted by the internet, increasing numbers of petty criminals are incrimating themselves by providing the police with all the necessary irrefutable evidence in the form of mobile phone footage, or indeed YouTube postings. Yes, it's very Darwinian in its significance, and I'm sure this all means something very deep to somebody somewhere, but I've neither the time or the scope to go into it now.

All I know is, the case of the idiotic motorcyclist above indicates that Big Brother may well be reduced to celebrity insignificance, but the thought police are getting all the help they need from his Stupid Little Cousin.

From Our Court Correspondent

Royal news, unfortunately. Our man at the Palace has been scandalised by the claim of the Daily Telegraph that gay men prefer Prince Harry to Prince William, although he is not sure which is which. (If you do need to know look it up on the internet, someone will know).

Anyway, that aside, the regal brothers are in darkest Africa on a charity ride to raise £150,000 to save some poor people apparently. Naturally, it beggars belief why they don't just give over the money without the publicity seeking. It's not like they're short of a bob or two, Prince Charles has probably got that much lying around in old suits!

And one wonders, doesn't one, how much the British taxpayers will be paying for the security presence for the duration? Considerably more than £150,000.

Someone tell them there's a recession on.

Future Furtive

Yes, it looks like litter doesn't it? Urban detritis; consumerist dandruff; whatever one wishes to call it.

However, peer closer! This looks like a glimpse of some dystopian future, where all unhealthy pursuits are outlawed, and thus driven underground.

Look at the culprit's stash, the high-in-fat, low-in-nutrition bag of "crisps", the tar-laden carciogenic cigarettes, and the accompanying lighter; itself a inflamable bio-hazard!

No wonder it has been secreted within the brick-work.

The perpetrator has been careless though, and will be additionally punished as a consequence.

The stash was a mere four feet above the ground, that is; within reach of an average eight-year old child, or a five-year old with a box. Or a three-year old with a stout older brother capable of lifting the little feller up to the deadly hoard.

And whilst we're in that ball-park, let's not ignore the one-year old babe being carried by its negligent mother; a woman no doubt otherwise pre-occupied by the rampant celebrity culture imposed upon our future selves by the oppressive authorities, with the cynical intention to ameliorate the frustrations incurred amongst the populace by the deprivation from the absence of junk food and mild narcotics!

Yes; you assumed it was just a hole in the wall, but the Shoebox sees the truth in EVERYTHING.

Arms Cache Found On London Bus!

As London Mayor "Boris" Johnson claims that he is single-handedly resolving gun crime from the capital, the Shoebox can bring exclusive evidence that things are to the contrary, and are in SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL!

Our crime correspondence has uncovered evidence that dangers lie within the very public transport that Johnson has so ludicrously declared safe! The arms cache (see photo) was discovered on a No. 47 (Shoreditch - Catford Bus Station) during SCHOOL HOURS!

Our forensics team have identified the haul as an ammunition magazine for a "Spud Gun", a weapon popular amongst the younger end of the criminal epidemic sweeping Johnson's city like a plague.

An expert suggested that, at it's worse, "In the wrong hands, the user could take somebody's eye out!

We showed the evidence to someone at the Home Office, and they dismissed the find as "A Potato". When challenged, they suggested that that it was not possible to prove that the missing parts of the offending potato had been used in committing a crime, and that they thought that it looks like somebody has "too much time on their hands".

We asked if there was anyone else we could talk to, but we had the door closed on our faces.

Fear not, we will not let this rest.

Pump It Up!

OK, it's a new job, and it'll take a little getting used to, but this open-plan thing is REALLY distracting, particularly as I get to listen to the facilities people dealing with whatever they get thrown at them.

I'll try keep this above the waist, but did you know that people use public buildings as lavatories over the weekend? I don't mean the public lavatories, provided for that purpose, I mean the outside of the buildings themselves, and the doorways and niches in particular. Every Monday morning I overhear the "Code Brown" reports coming in, as the dispatcher notifies the cleaners as to where, and specifically what they need to attend to. It's a dirty business.

Anyway, we had a little bit of variety today, as a cleaner informed the team that "someone had been having sex in the seventh floor lavatories". The dispatcher went off to investigate the evidence, and we put it to the back of our minds, as the veterans amongst us can remember when the local prostitutes were using the first floor ladies room to provide an express service some time back. However, today's news was exciting because the seventh floor is NOT A PUBLIC ACCESS AREA! The perpetrator/s had to be EMPLOYEES!

Well, imagine our delight to discover that the "incident" involved a penis enlarger, the box of which was discarded in the soiled cubicle!

Look, I appreciate that the organisation encourages personal growth, but that's taking things a little too far!

My money's on the new guy with the monobrow and the squint.

The ARISTOCRATS!!!

Back in the eighties, there was an Irish comedian (Paul Quinn?) who had the line;

"On my way home from the pub, I stopped at my local kebab place: they had a sign up saying "Sorry, We're Open!"

I was reminded of this quip on reading this feature on the BBC, which describes an Environmental Health Officer's DREAM assignment.

The feature contains the phrase:

A statement of facts, read out to the court, said: "Upon his arrival the officer observed a dead male lying on a sofa at the rear of the main kitchen.
"Sat opposite to him was Mr Singh who was preparing food, making kebabs."

Would you like onions with that?

Now THAT my friends is CLASS!

Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen, Medium Point, Black

OK, yesterday we looked at how the general public treat online newspapers when given the opportunity to contribute their own content.

Today, we're going to look at that old perennial, the Amazon customer review, for example: the Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen, Medium Point, Black. Find yourself a spare half an hour, and read all 166, it's worth it.

On the eve of the Booker Prize award, I think it's time that someone countenanced the inevitability of accepting that some of our best fiction is to be found amongst the medium of online retail.

I'm sorry if I'm the last person in the world to discover this thread, but I'm assuming that my readership is as out of touch as I am.

Bungee Disaster Sparks Online Ribaldry

Back in the heyday of Radio 1, the DJs were incessantly asking listeners to write in and tell them what they thought.

One evening, John Peel remarked that this was because the management had no other way of gauging a DJs success than measuring the weight of the mail received by each show.

No doubt there is a similar logic behind the current day trend for "comment on this story" options adjacent to each feature on newspaper web sites.

However, I'm sure that no-one anticipated, or welcome, the kind of remarks that accompany any news item, such as those displayed in the Hull and East Riding News.

Hull Fair Bungee Ride Snaps is worth a read, if just for the line:

"Every man and his dog crowded round the ride. They were worried for the girls and everyone was looking and taking videos and pictures on their phones"

However, it's the discourse that follows that is most telling. The online community of Hull and East Riding clearly have too much time on their hands.

File under "Chavs in space"

Bullseye!

Darlings, the must have cocktail accessory this season? Has to be the AK47 Bullet Ice Cube Tray!

Mindbender!

When I saw the BBC headline Banjo Used in Brain Surgery, my first thought was to assume that there's a neurologist out there helping himself to the pharmacy cabinet.

Actually, that still maybe, but this is not the misconduct case you may think.

Yes there was pandemonium at the RNIB yesterday, as the financial news broke, leaving the visually impaired disconcerted and vulnerable. Although unable to see very well, they are surprisingly adept at investing on the Stock Market, and were startled at the events.

RNIB spokesperson, Belinda Pugh, explained the chaos:

"It took us a little while to cotton on, as it takes a little longer to read the trading pages in braille, obviously, but once we realised that the lot had gone down the toilet, things went a little hectic. In fact, I haven't witnessed such confusion since the time that some moron hired Marcel Marceau to entertain us at the Christmas Party!"

When asked about rumours regarding the Bursor's attempted suicide, Ms Pugh played it down:

"Well, I saw nothing, naturally, but I have heard that he stepped out onto the ledge on the eigth floor, possibly by accident, but fortunately, Minty, his guide dog, stepped in front of him and prevented his endangering himself. It's sounds heroic, but its the kind of thing she's trained to do actually. In fact she's the sort of dog that is always getting in the way around here, it's a bit of a nuisance really; that's how I broke my wrist last year! I make do with this white stick, and don't know why the rest of 'em can't."

However, when pressed on how much the sightless had lost in the previous week, Ms Pugh was unforthcoming:

"And no-one admits it, but Minty has a bit of a flatulence problem, which is unpleasant in an open plan environment, although I believe that some people in here rely on it as a navigation aid when delivering their expense returns!"

Unfortunately, the Shoebox was unable to find anyone else available for comment on this story.

Steam Portrait

To Hell in a Handbag

I've been thinking about the corollary of the current recession and the war.

Whilst we in the west are struggling to come to terms with the end of cheap loans, there is the emergence of the "New" Russia, which is completely neurotic, revivalist and spoiling for a fight, and the increasing global dominance of China, which may have already realised that the sun has, indeed, set in the west.

And what chance do we stand should either have a go?

Well, from what I saw tonight: not much.

On my way home, entering the tube at Kings Cross, I was passed by a young chap carrying a MANBAG! Yes, actually carrying one in REAL LIFE, and not just seen in some daring fashion feature.

Oddly enough, elsewhere, he was going for the retro 70s manly look, not unlike the chap in "The Joy of Sex", but I'm afraid the MANBAG said it all. No doubt it was full of moisturiser, and personal grooming tools. I can't imagine any other use for it.

Yes, no need to invade with an army, just a couple of stout women armed with table tennis bats would send the new menfolk of our nation screaming to their solariums, leaving the rest of us resigned to a life of manumission.

Yes, maybe the new depression is just what we need to wean the younger generation off of the pandering lifestyle, and to start over, raising a more rugged breed.

Maybe we need a little less David Beckham, and a bit more Bert Trautmann (who played most of the 1956 cup final with a broken neck!)

Eton Boy Boris Shows Oiks Who's Boss

It transpires that London Mayor Boris Johnson has chosen to forsake the democratic process and is trusting on his own "judgement" in running one of the largest capital cities in the world.

This morning's Guardian carried an account of how the Mayor had to answer for his arbitrary notions to the London Assembly, with particular regard to the sacking of the Chief of the Metropolitan Police last week:

Asked how widely he had consulted about the move, the mayor insisted that the consultations had been widespread. A quick round of hands showed a majority of members had not been consulted. "This is becoming undignified," said Johnson. After two hours it was over.

The Tories may find Johnson's adventure to be a wizard wheeze, but the consequences of this dunce's actions will be felt by many who cannot defend themselves. This is not funny.

Swords to Ploughshares

So now that our governments are bailing out capitalism by spending taxpayers' money on big city bonuses, at what point do they tell us that they can't afford the war in Iraq?

Surely, war is a luxury in these trying times? And remember; WWII could not have taken place ten years earlier than it did because none of the protagonists could have afforded it.

It's not as though the war in Iraq is getting any headlines anymore!

Half-Baked Alaskan

OK, Sarah Palin doesn't appear to be so bright (and let's face it, she's the kind of person who prefers the odds of the multiple choice questionnaire) but I think the cynics need to think this through.

The way America's economy is going, they're going to need as many people capable of killing wildlife as they can muster. A moose will feed a lot of people, and when those food riots get going, you'll need the White House staffed with an administration that can keep the mob at a safe range with a variety of firearms.

Oh, yeh, SOMEBODY's thinking this through!

The Man in Black

You know when you get on the tube, and you do the double-take at the person sat there in the sunglasses?

Well, this evening, it was a tall guy, dressed all in black, with big black framed wrap-arounds, sitting forward, over by the door. Yeh, pretentious, and I did the usual tutting. That is, until I saw him leave the carriage.

What I missed was the large jet-black guide dog, magnificently lustrous despite the flourescent bib, and they cut a pretty cool image as the sidled along the platform cutting quite a dash. Blind AND stylish.

Nice!

London Mayor: Latest!

Yes, it's true! Boris is on the lam, after the Metropolitan Police, angered at his dismissal of nation's favourite "Sir" Anthony Blair, sent the Flying Squad in to give his poncy Eton arse a right kickin'.

After an 8mph car chase, (road works on Borough High Street 'til Feb), Boris Johnson, riding a bicycle WITHOUT a helmet went to ground in a disused warehouse in Bermondsey.


There, he taunted officers with cries of "Yah boo sucks! Can't catch me, you riff-raff!"

After the customary stand-off, Detective Inspector Jack Regan, (back by public demand) crouched behind a shit-coloured Ford Consul GT, addressed the Mayor via a megaphone and the following exchange was recorded:

Regan "Come aht Johnson, you TOILET, if ye don't want none of the rough stuff"

Johnson "No way matey! You won't take me, err, alive!

Regan "Don't be a fool man! Ye've overstepped the mark this time, and ye've got it comin' "

Johnson "Stay back! I'm armed! I've got a blunderbuss which has been in my family for nine generations! So there! Actually, err, there's a rather amusing story how my great-great-great grandpapa came across this very, err, weapon, in a game of cards with the Duke of Devonshire! Or was it the Marquis of Salisbury?"

Regan "Cut the crap Johnson! Are comin' aht like a good boy, or are we comin' in te get ye?"

However, as the Flying Squad attempted their daring move, Johnson caught sight of the armed-response unit approaching, and with a cry of "Crikey!"made safe his escape through a crease in his trousers, and hasn't been seen since.


Viewing the scene later, Regan was heard to mutter, "E's a wrong-un, and there's no mistake!"

The police are now staking out Gentlemen's Clubs and Grand Balls awaiting Johnson's inevitable return. "Let's face it," commented a spokesperson "he's a toff, he can't keep away from the Champagne and Canapes for that long; they always revert to type, it's in the blood!"

The Shoebox crime desk have a reporter permanently seconded to this story, and we will provide round the clock coverage in anticipation of Johnson's capture.

Boris Versus The Labour Government: Round One

Don't you hate it when life messes with your head?

Obviously I'm please to hear of the long overdue resignation of Met Police chief "Sir" Ian Blair, and giggled listening to his speech as he subtly dug at London Mayor Boris Johnson who had just sacked him.

It's the Boris Johnson role that irritates me. The Labour government have been lenient with Blair, as was former Mayor Ken Livingstone. They obviously liked something about the teflon police chief.

Has Boris seen through the deceit? Is Boris a single-minded politician who is not going to tolerate Ian Blair's self-styled impunity ? Does this mean that Boris is a shrewd, no-nonsense type of chap that is going to lead London to an era of social responsibility in it's public figures? If so hoorah!

Or is it Tory Boris delivering a blow at the Labour government by picking away at their establishment on behalf of his party, during Tory party conference week?

Naturally, I'm inclined to believe the latter, but I'm grateful for small mercies, and it's important to let the "Sir" Ian Blair's of this world know that they can't play fast and loose with other people's lives in pursuit of personal glory.

Is There A Doctor In The House?

As you know, I don't like to discuss my work as a first-aider. It's a selfless task I know, and one that needs dedication, empathy, and a strong stomach, but most of all modesty and deference.

And, yes, there are times that a first-aider has to forget the first rule of first-aid and step into harm's way when someone needs help. "Establish that it is safe to approach!" goes the mantra, but sometimes needs must, and the brave amongst us have to step up and be counted.

For example, this evening, as I was minding my own business in preparing the end of month returns, adjusting the accruals and falsifying the projected yearly outgoings, I heard a colleague cry-out.

Injured, with a pretty nasty paper cut, what he actually cried-out was: "Why is the First Aid box locked?"

Naturally, I didn't think twice; I rushed to the scene! I have no idea who locked the First Aid box*. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to lock a First Aid box? It's not as though it contains Morphine; and even if it did it's the size of a lunch box: the junkies would just carry it with them to somewhere where they could break into it in privacy.

Anyway, I had no time to question why or how, I just had to get the thing open. As the wounded party gripped his superficially lacerated finger, I went out back, got the tool kit, got the biggest screwdriver in it and a hammer, and set about the latches on that First Aid box without a thought.

Had I been paying a little more attention, I may not have missed the screwdriver with the first blow, I would certainly not have sustained the subsequent injury to my index finger, which took the full force of the ball-pein.

Like: OUCH!!!

Imagine the entry in the First Aid book:

Describe circumstances of injury: Finger broken by hammer blow whilst attempting to break into First Aid box whilst assisting colleague injured with paper cut.

On second thoughts, maybe not. Stalin wasn't the only one who knew when to airbrush out the truth!

*(I do, however, have an inkling who may have locked the box—knowing the nature of the woman in charge of H&S—and how that person MAY have crept in on a secret mission after hours to spy on the expiration date on our bandages.)