Henners' Day

On Sunday 19th June, one year and one day after the sad passing of a famous parish nuisance, some of us met up in darkest Surrey to commemorate the event and to visit his very first geocache and where his ashes are laid. By the time we got to within 10 or 12 feet of the spot (according to Omally's GPS), I had been o'er many a hill and dale and was well and truly knackered. So was this poor little creature:-

 

No, no, not Jan - Daisy! And despite my obvious physical distress, Jan flatly refused to cuddle me on her lap while I had a kip.

For about an hour At first, we were unable to locate the sacred spot despite much circular non-environmental thrashing about in the undergrowth - well, it was deep in the woods, hidden among the head-high ferns. And there was me thinking Ned and Marco Polo had been soul mates.

No, Ned - the ground's by your feet - tchoh! Also, I think this was one of the moments when we had to snap Hutters out of his obvious fixation for the forest floor in the region of my right leg and point him in a particular direction whilst reminding him how to move his legs alternately. I swear I could hear Henry guffawing on more than one occasion. Wanna see a good scowl? The geographical challenge was causing desperation to set in:-

All of a sudden, Hutters uttered a 'Eureka'-type exclamation and there it was, about two feet from where I had been standing (or trying to stand without my leg seizing up) for a good half an hour!

Unfortunately, the birch sapling that was originally planted hadn't lasted, so we planted an Acer (Orange Dream variety, I was reliably informed by the label) next to the small wooden cross. Well, I say we, Omally did all the digging with his very own trowel, brought specially for the purpose. Hutters' joke about an Acer spade was beginning to wear a bit thin after the third or fourth time. Here's the plant which we hope will flourish:-

Hutters did the honours and read the very moving pome by Canon Henry Scott-Holland, "Death is nothing at all", which you can read here and cry a bit as well, if you are so inclined.

All in all, it was a very worthwhile day and my guilt has been a little assuaged for having missed the dear old chap's funeral last year.

RIP, David.

The Unsocial Network

By and large, I think the internet is one of the most significant and influential innovations of the modern age. You can interface with friends and family wherever in the world they might be, via the written word or live audio/video, you can buy and sell all manner of goods and services, and it is a vast source of information on anything you care to name - even donkey porn.

A lot of the time, though, it just gets on my bloody tripe.

You are - by which I mean, one is - well, at least, I am – if you’re still with me? - bombarded with e-mails from banks and building societies explaining that your account has been the subject of unusual activity – it would actually be unusual if I used it seeing as I don’t have an account with you – vital security checks requiring confirmation of your PIN and other account details. What can you do to put a cyber spanner in the works of these thieving morons? It’s a great shame there isn’t an option in Outlook to “reply with 5,000 volts”; that’d make their follicles sizzle. Maybe I should reply to them all, helpfully providing my hat/willy size, inside leg measurement and medical history, hoping they’ll eventually get fed up. Fat chance.

I have recently distanced myself from Farcebollok and disabled my account (it’s not your fault, by the way) – I object to the intrusive, overbearing way it subjects you to an unsolicited barrage of invitations to take part in inane quizzes the results of which are then published to an audience of your friends who are apparently agog with eager anticipation to learn what sort of television set you are (I bet I’m a wide screen) or which member of the cast of ‘Friends’ you would most like to (a) take out to dinner, (b) shag, or (c) punch in the face. No, I’m not going to tell you (although I imagine you could take an educated guess).

I really don’t want to know that someone has just found a three-legged brown sheep wandering (limping, surely? I am a pedant, after all) around the farm – I’m a tolerant sort of bloke and, if they want to play that game, leave them alone to do so, without a commentary which is best suited to a weak plot line in The Archers. The farmer’s wife going missing and a dismembered body discovered in a grain silo would be infinitely more interesting but I still remain unconvinced that I’d want to know about it.

Before I’d ever even countenanced going on Farcebollok (the only reason being that, just prior to taking the plunge, I didn’t fully understand how it worked but some friends persuaded me – to join, that is, not that I definitely didn’t know how it worked), I did have a temporary dalliance with MySpace but gradually became disenchanted with the eerie solitude – I believe it’s now known as MyEmptySpace.

I wonder how long it’ll be before I get fed up with Twitter?!

Lege et lacrima II (Read it and weep 2)

Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur - Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.

I just wanted to remind you of the campaign I first proposed last year here, in case you had forgotten about it. I’m still keen to revive the so-called dead language and you may remember my outlining the distinct advantages (and some pitfalls, unfortunately) of resurrecting its universal usage.

One of the unfortunate advantages (at least from the standpoint of the drive for awareness) is that, on the assumption that he/she is not fluent (as you are) you can be quite rude to or dismissive of someone without them realising. In fact, because, as I have mentioned before, however banal, surreal or outlandish the statement, Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur - Anything said in Latin sounds profound.

For example – oops, e.g. - Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt - I have twits like you for breakfast; Tua mater tam antiquior ut linguam latine loquatur - Your mother is so old she speaks Latin; Sic friatur crustum dulce - That's the way the cookie crumbles. Nowhere is it more demonstrable then in phrases such as Ubi est mea anaticula cumminosa? – Where is my rubber duck? Semper ubi sub ubi ubique - Always wear underwear everywhere; Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure - I can't hear you. I have a banana in my ear; Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras! - I forgot to polish the clocks! Omnes lagani pistrinae gelate male sapiunt - All frozen pizzas taste lousy; In dentibus anticis frustrum magnum spiniciae habes - You have a large piece of spinach in your front teeth; Loqueris excrementum - You are talking shit.

I have considerable support for the renaissance advocated, in the person of the great Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18) - Ovid to you – who once said: Rident stolidi verba latina - Fools laugh at the Latin language - and everyone, but everyone, always used to listen to him. And they still do - you only have to look at any public school curriculum (see? You can’t get away from it).

In my earlier treatise, I suggested that the dialogue in films could be considerably romanticised by speaking them in Latin; I have found a few more examples to bolster this contention: Ire fortiter quo nemo ante iit - To boldly go where no man has gone before; Te capiam, cunicule sceleste! - I'll get you, you wascally wabbit!  Tu, rattus turpis! - You dirty rat! Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert - Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn; Luke sum ipse patrem te - Luke, I am your father; Revelare pecunia! - Show me the money! Pistrix! Pistrix! - Shark! Shark! (shouted in Jaws, surely?); Farrago fatigans! - Suffering succotash! Latro! fremo! - Woof woof! Grrrr! (Lassie).

You may remember that jokes relying on the vagaries of the English language don’t work (remember I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream?); well, neither do tongue twisters: Quantum silvam modio picus si posset picus silvam modio? - How much wood would a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck wood? Pietro Fistulator lectis modii capsicum conditaneum, ubi modii capsicum conditaneum  quod lectis Petro Fistulator? – Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper, where’s the peck of pickled pepper Peter Piper picked?  Corio rubeus, corio flava, corio rubeus, corio flava… - Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather… Vendit concha mare in litum marum – She sells seashells on the seashore;  Vigilum publicorum Lethium nos dimitte – The Leith police dismisseth us. See? Almost ridiculously easy to enunciate, I think you’ll agree.

Well, there you are, keep practising the lingo (from the Latin lingua - tongue or language); It’s got a lot to answer for, hasn’t it?