Me, too ….. not that one!

So it’s the 80s and I’m on the train heading to Washington from New York and I join the queue in the diner.

I suddenly realise there’s a couple of guys who after I guess a few alcoholic libations are pairing off people in the queue. Their attention falls on me and they loudly pair me off with a woman next to me in the queue with the phrase ‘The Australian guy …..’

The woman sees my puzzled expression and kindly tries to reassure me by saying ‘It’s because of Crocodile Dundee, they assume that if you don’t have an American accent you must be Australian even if you are English.’

This is a decisive moment as I’m aware of Americans desire to claim European heritage so in the same vein, I say: ‘Actually I’m Welsh!’ Her eyes light up with joy and she says ‘Me,too!’ Stunned I say ‘Oh!’ not sure what would be a more appropriate response. ‘Yes’ she continues, ‘My surname is Llewelyn- McTavish!’ A little confused, I respond ‘So half Welsh half Scottish?’ Nothing in the world would have prepared me for the reply, which was ‘It’s McTavish spelled the Welsh way!’

As you can probably imagine, I was, unusually, lost for words. Should I destroy this woman’s belief in her Celtic origins, or should I just smile? I took the latter route. Why ruin her dreams?

New aphorism?

We used to say ‘few sandwiches short of a picnic!’ or ‘a couple of beers short of a six pack.’

Well ……..

While helping Lesley with a login, I inadvertently came up with –

You’re one digit short of a password!

Do me a favour!

Frankly, I’ve never liked doing favours for people, but this is not due to my selfishness, but more to do with the unpredictable scope of a favour.

If I need, and this happens only in very extreme circumstances, someone to help me out, I will specify my requirement in the minutest detail considering every possible outcome and pre-empting every likely situation. If this ….. then that; if not, then that …..covering as our colonial friends might say all the bases. However, when others then ask me to reciprocate, the simple task they ask me to do suddenly seems to expand at an exponential rate.

Say for example, I’ve allowed a friend to leave their car on my drive whilst they are away on a two week holiday. Having already overlooked the fact that it’s badly parked, making it difficult to get into my own house, I might receive a message along the following lines.

‘I think I might have left the passengers window partially open. Could you please check it for me? You’ve got the key so you can sort it out.

Unfortunately this simple task often has an unexpected addition, in that it becomes quite clear that the window has been open for some time and like a good friend, I feel obliged to mop up the damage. Whilst recovering from the two minute task that has just taken you an hour and 47 minutes to do you receive another message. 

‘I’ve just realised that the MOT is due before we get back. Now I usually go to Halfords which is not far from you, do you think you could book it in for me?’

Your blood pressure continues rising towards an unacceptable level as you call the MOT station for the seventh time to find yourself again listening to irritating on hold Muzak. At this point, you receive the final  spine-cracking straw. 

‘Sorry for having to ask you to do all this but I’ll be ever so grateful if you can. By the way you might have to put the spare on one of the back wheels…….‘

And as you reach for a glass, the sound of the can opening almost drowns out the fatal blow.

‘Thanks again, mate.  Weather great here! See you soon!‘

The Joy of Pen & Ink!

I have often talked about how much pleasure I derive from writing with a ‘proper pen’ – one that contains ink – that beautiful coloured liquid that can transport you to another world, whilst simultaneously staining your fingers, and ruining your carpets. The motion of writing…..

Those of you who have had the opportunity to see the handwritten draft of this piece would’ve noticed that at this point, the ink began to fade and then it changed colour. The smug non-believers amongst you will have noted that my creative flow has been momentarily deviated into the practicalities of ink supply. In keeping with my commitment to authenticity, I will confess that during the simple operation which changing an ink cartridge, I inadvertently dropped the removed cartridge, which still contained sufficient ink to leave a stain on my index finger. In a final death throe, it also attempted to add a daring dash of colour to our otherwise monochrome bathroom . . . . Where was I?

Oh yes – The physical act of putting pen to paper is, to me, quite magical even though my thoughts often scurry ahead faster than my hand can follow. However, the reason for writing this piece of pensive prose is that I realised that the process has a marked effect on the output. There has for some time been a fashion for artificially-aged objects. Guitars looking like they’ve survived a world tour in the back of a Transit are very popular amongst would be guitar-gods. Kitchen furniture that looks like it has been bleached on a Sicilian roof terrace is still much in vogue. So how does this artificial-aging relate to pens one might well ask. The truth is that with a pen in my hand, myself and my vocabulary are transmogrified into creatures of a different era. I use words which I would never use in conversation – ‘moreover’ ‘joy’ and ‘transmogrified’! This was never a deliberate choice though ironically, I do remember the first time I noticed it. Whilst recuperating (not ‘recovering’ you will have noted) from an operation, I re-read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon. I also noticed that I was writing in the style of Conan Doyle as Watson. I also drafted an imaginary letter to Conan Doyle expressing my concern at this development and wondering whether I would be able to counteract the tendency with the applications of prose by Raymond Chandler and others of that ilk. It clearly did not work, but now I am content to have domesticated this formerly errant side of my writing psyche, and intend to continue attempting to put it to good use.

Hospital visits!

I was due to go to Salford Royal hospital for an examination, which didn’t happen but made me remember my past visits there. The last time was the official launch of a film I produced, wrote and directed about breast cancer called Alice, Betty and Cath. It was well received, and even won a BMA ward, which was a major achievement as it was done on a tiny budget – less than a 10th of the other films in that category. The entry form had spaces for dozens of different roles in the production – from director to assistant electrician – aside from three actors, a cameraman and an editor, mine contained exclusively my name.

My previous visit to the location was 20 years earlier when I was going to start a summer job – lagging pipes. It didn’t start well. The site manager introduced me to some members of the crew – Alan, Billy and Chris then asked ‘And you are?’ I replied ‘Rowland’ to which he looked somewhat perplexed. He introduced a few other guys – Dave and Eric – and again, asked my name. I obviously responded in the same way, and this time he looked even more pained. He introduced the final members of the ensemble – Frank and Big George and turned to me with a quizzical look. I capitulated, accepting defeat and said Tom. They were all somewhat relieved for this show of normality from this alien creature. I should point out that this was a 70s and I had shoulder-length blonde hair – a bit like Neil from the young ones, but marginally more cheerful. Having established at least one link with the crew, in order to fit in I then had to accept the on-site banter. When they discovered my surname, there was much hilarity culminating in me being greeted every morning for three weeks with a chorus of ‘The old home looked the same. . . . .’ as sung by another eponymous Welshman. Oh, how we laughed . . .

To be honest, we needed a laugh as the work was verging on inhumane. The pipes to be lagged were carrying superheated steam, which cannot be turned off whilst work is being carried out. The lagging material starts out looking like dung, and has to be applied to the pipes with a swift stroke of the hand – insufficient pressure and it won’t stick too, too long or too slow a stroke and it will burn your hand. And just to make things even worse, the pipes run underground in tunnels 3 ft. high with a few inches of water on the floor and, of course, rats. It was definitely the worst job I’ve ever done and apart from passing out a couple of times in the first week when emerging from the dank Stygian depths, I got pretty good at it. So then I was included in the lunchtime drinking club – a sort of ‘eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow. . . . ‘ attitude which I’m sure that pervades every group of people who work in these type of jobs. Our foreman Chris had followed his father into the job. He told me his father had asbestosis and he, fatalistically, expected to suffer the same fate. I, too, was offered the opportunity to strip out asbestos lagging but I declined as the offer of paper mask didn’t really seem adequate protection against an airborne carcinogen.

They were a decent bunch of guys, and they wished me well as I finished my three week stint, though I saw that quizzical expression reappear when I told them that the following week, I was heading off to hitchhike to Turkey.

Sheer genius!

Conversation overheard in a bar in Sarteano.

Customer: ‘Excuse me what is the password for the Wi-Fi ?’

Barman: Have you bought anything?

Customer: ‘Er no …. can I have a coffee please?’

Barman serves the customer with coffee.

Customer: ‘So what is the password for the Wi-Fi?’

Barman: ‘Have you bought anything.’

Yes! Sheer genius!

themissinginks.com

My contribution to the first edition of ZOUT for 2024!

And an ad for my new venture for 2024 ———t-shirts, totes and aprons! www.themissinginks.com

Spray tans and smiles ….

Having been in a virus-induced stupor since the end of November, I’ve seen a fair amount of television. I say ‘seen’ rather than ‘watched’ as it has been a pretty passive and tedious experience on the whole. One of the things that I find increasingly annoying are the ‘fever-pitch’ voice-overs trying to sell us everything from fabric softeners to electric vehicles. Apparently these super cars have the ability to banish all other traffic from the roads whilst transporting you into a land of spray tans and ever-smiling people. Sure.

Some years ago the manufacturer of a ‘pure’ soup called Nourish, were taken to a task by the Advertising Standards Authority for a large hoarding showing a naked man with his personal parts covered by a bottle of the soup, with the caption ‘nothing to hide’. The ASA felt that it was inappropriate as it might be seen by children. Interestingly the ASA also noted that the image ‘bore no relation to the product advertised.’ Really? Well, if this a point of contention, let’s take a look at a few ads I’ve seen recently. Can someone point out, even a tenuous link between a broadband supplier and a squadron of goats on hang gliders? Could somebody introduce me to some of these people who get excited and spontaneously begin to dance, after sniffing freshly washed clothes?!? – on second thoughts, just point them out from a distance. And where are these groups who make the solitary use of a bingo app into an enjoyable experience that can be shared with a community of happy, smiling friends?

I could go on …. and I inevitably will, but fortunately, for you, dear reader, it will only be my long-suffering wife, who will have to listen to my continued ranting.

PS

One of the things on television, which I did enjoy however was the classic ‘North by Northwest’ in which our hero declares ’In the world of advertising, there is no such thing as a lie. There’s only expedient exaggeration.’