Wednesday, September 1
I spy, with my little eye
As regular visitors to my scrapbook will know, I have a fascination with the International Space Station (ISS) as it zooms across the evening sky (or early morning, depending on whether it’s playing at being a lark or an owl), and it never fails to make me smile.

                                                   The targets for Wednesday’s Earth observation and photography were Hurricane Earl in the western Atlantic Ocean (a powerful hurricane currently threatening devastation along America's Eastern Seaboard, from

Tuesday, August 31
Jingle Bells
“TAKE the book in your left hand … raise your right hand … read out loud what it says on the card: ‘I, insert name, swear – oops! – I, Mydrim Tonk, swear that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole naked truth and nothing but the stark-naked truth, so help me God.’”
     I’m not sure whether that’s the way it’s done; perhaps I’ve watched a film or two too many in my time (no pun intended). Anyway, in a nutshell, what follows is the dog’s bollocks.
     Last Sunday, my smile bulletin was all about how life has turned into a real-life pantomime, where most of us now have bit parts where we boo, hiss, cheer or applause, according to our prejudices. I pointed out how Puss in Boots has suddenly become Puss in Wheelie-Bin, and Dick Whittington and His Cat is now Boris Johnson and His Pussycats.
     And Tony "He’s-behind-you!" Blair has morphed from prime minister into prime villain.
     Well blow me with a job lot, I peruse The Times Letters page this very morning – and what catches my eye?

Puss in Boots: Sir, Short skirts, tights and boots... I keep thinking it must be Christmas. The streets are full of pantomime principal boys.
Iris Hughes, London, SW15

What is interesting here is that I post my ‘Smile of the Day’ the day after. Obviously I can’t do it on the same day because something funny might register between my putting head on pillow - and drifting off somewhere over said rainbow. Indeed, I could well dream of something hilarious. Now there’s a thought. That would be a first.
     Anyway, along my regular walk the morning after the day before, I formulate in my mind what I’m going to write about; I then put it on the computer when I get home – but leave it until the evening when I then give it the once over before pressing the ‘send’ button.
     Well, yesterday evening, I would have posted my pantomime piece at probably the same time The Times was going to print. This of course links not only Sunday’s pantomime piece, but yesterday’s ‘Great mind’s think alike’ contribution.
     How delightful then that two of us separated by 200 miles - the distance between me and the International Space Station I watched passing over as clear as a bell tonight at 9.32pm - came up with a similar thought process, at pretty much the same time. As a bonus, Iris Hughes, The Times letter writer, boasts a very Welsh sounding name.
     Well, her letter made me smile. And it reminded me that I’ll have to give some thought to the principal boys as well as the villains. Oh, and the dame... What have I started?

Monday, August 30
Great minds think alike
I MAY have mentioned it in previous dispatches – if I haven’t, shame on me – but there is no such thing as original thinking. There is great thinking; but more importantly, there is lateral thinking. Every single great idea is born out of a borrowed simpler idea. By the time the clever clogs have done with their lateral thinking, they may well have finished up somewhere wholly unexpected and rather exciting. Oh, and there are always a few individuals thinking along the same lines.
     For example, if Darwin had never been born, we would still have had the Theory of Evolution; indeed, it is thought that Darwin rushed into print to beat a Welsh scientist, Alfred Russel Wallace, who had the same theory – some are now convinced that Darwin stole much of his work from Wallace, who they believe is the architect of the Theory of Evolution.
     Next, take the Atomic Bomb. If J Robert Oppenheimer had never been born we would still have had the bomb. But perhaps Germany would have got there first; or Russia; or Japan even. It’s interesting to speculate “what if” one of those countries had actually won the race.
     There's currently a heated debate as to whether we should replace Trident, indeed whether we need a nuclear deterrent at all - and would we ever use it anyway? Most of the stuff goes over my head, but I do occasionally follow it in the papers or online.
     So how, you may well ask, does the atomic bomb and Trident get to be a ‘Smile of the Day’? Well, on one of the message boards – I think it was the Telegraph – I stumbled upon this gem, submitted by someone called Yohei...

If Japan had had the atomic bomb first, they would probably have dropped it on San Francisco; if Stalin had had the bomb, he would doubtless have dropped it on Berlin; Hitler would have dropped it on London; but if the British had had the bomb, well ... we would undoubtedly have dropped it on the French.

Sunday, August 29
Puss in Wheelie-Bin
THE Sundays duly reflected on the most bizarre story of the

     The first requirement of a memorable panto is a proper villain: an individual who, superficially, is friendly, smiling, smooth-talking, generous and gives the impression that he or she is here for your benefit – but slowly but surely you come to realise that the person you thought was your friend is the dead opposite of everything you originally supposed.
     Step forward Tony Blair. Whenever I catch sight of Two Tone the Politico I am minded to shout to those standing all around him: “He’s behind you!”
     But back with Puss in Wheelie-Bin. There is a subtle difference to the original Puss in Boots, obviously. Briefly, the modern tale is about a cat that uses trickery and deceit to gain power, wealth, and the hand of the American people who will shower it with the glory it craves. But in the meantime, the Taliban, disguised as a respectable middle-age lady who works in a British bank, comes along and dumps the Blair Cat in the wheelie-bin.
     Oh that life were that simple.

Boris Johnson has also got in on the act: “What I’d do to the wheelie-bin woman”, insisted the headline. I read on...
Like all leading moralists of the age, I have spent the past few days brooding incessantly on the lady who threw the cat into the wheelie‑bin. Unlike my rivals, I have come up with the perfect punishment. In the grand tradition of the British criminal justice system, I propose we pay to send this miscreant to some holiday destination – say, Tanzania, the very place, in fact, from which I have just returned.

Boris then goes on to suggest that she should be let loose among the big cats of Africa, before concluding thus...

Then she will look with new respect at the big bushy-maned male sitting only feet away; and as she twitches like a grub in the roofless, sideless machine (a Land Rover), the king of all cats will suddenly turn and notice her; and his eyes will glow in the gloaming like golden marbles of fire.
     He will suddenly yawn, and show his teeth, and she will smell a carrion gust like a rubbish van, and she will stare down a mouth as wide as a – as wide as what, my friends? – as wide as a wheelie-bin!
     And in that instant of terror, it is probably too much to hope that she will be cured of her odd propensity to small acts of unkindness. But at least she will understand that not every cat can be pushed around; and at least she will see that there are still parts of the world where a human being can feel like a poor defenceless animal. It is vital we keep it that way.

Wonderful stuff - and good old Boris provides us with another pantomime link: Dick Whittington and His Cat. The original is a traditional folk tale that tells of a poor boy in the 14th century who becomes a wealthy merchant and eventually the Lord Mayor of London, and all down to the ratting abilities of his cat.
     Ring any bells? Of course it does: today's panto is all about Boris Johnson and His Pussycats. Except of course here, the villain is Ken Livingstone, dressed as the aforementioned Mary Bale, who goes around pretending to feed the birds but instead keeps chucking Boris's cats in wheelie-bins. And that was the end of Mayor Johnson. Without his pussycats he becomes just another castrated politician who loses all powers of seduction.

See what I mean when I claim that we are all now fully paid-up members of the cast of this on-going Pantomime unfolding all around us. This week on television, the Blair Cat of Puss in Wheelie-Bin infamy – corporate adviser, international peace emissary, lecturer, boutique-investment consultant, first officer of the Celebship Enterprise ("It's A Journey, George, but not as we know it." – will give his side of the story to that other media pussycat, Andrew Marr.

Get your boos, hisses, applause and cheers at the ready. And don't forget: "He's behind you!"

Saturday, August 28
Sex and a chip off the old block
I ENJOY words. Well, not so much words per se, but rather the way people use words. A couple of wel-i-jiw-jiw quotes caught my eye today.

“All I need now is a much younger boyfriend. Everybody

Friday, August 27
Daft as a mop
IT IS OFTEN the devil’s own job to decide which ‘Smile of the Day’ to go with, but occasionally several smiles fall under the same umbrella, for example: Doolallyness. Here's three examples in the space of just four hours.
 

09:00  When I get home I switch on the radio and Chris Evans is nearing the end of a live broadcast from a clifftop pasture somewhere in Cornwall. Guests of honour are Richard and Judy Madeley, Richard having invited Chris down to his home after the DJ mused that he would like to broadcast from a field somewhere. Whatever.
     Whenever I see or hear Richard Madeley, what I see in my mind's eye is a cartoon of Judy rushing out of a Tesco store, pushing a supermarket trolley with Richard hanging on for dear life inside, and a Tesco employee rushing after them holding up several bottles of spirits and shouting: “You forgot these!”
     (Ten years ago, Richard Madeley was arrested and charged with failing to pay for £100 worth of alcohol minding its own business at the bottom of his Tesco trolley; he was duly cleared in court because of his apparent scattiness and absentmindedness. Sounds like a perfect excuse to me.

10:00  Then I peruse the morning paper over a coffee. I stumble upon this eye-catching headline:
Boots apologises for sending card for ‘Dr A Suicide Bomber’

Andrew Davies from Bonymaen in Swansea, received in the post an ‘advantage card’ and letter from Boots the Chemists: “Dear Dr Suicide Bomber. It’s time to treat yourself. Your shiny new advantage card is here. Isn’t it great when you get something new?” Yes, like a brand new name. “Well, here's your new Boots advantage card, so welcome to the best excuse you could have to go shopping and blow all those cobwebs away.” Yes, okay, I added “and blow all those cobwebs away” - I know, I know, all in the worst possible taste.
     The company apologised, with bells on, and kicked themselves in a very private place with their own Boots. What makes the story so extraordinary is that someone could so effortlessly access the Boots computer to input such dodgy information, and crucially, bypass the technology in place to prevent offensive terminology and potential fraudulent names being used.
     Which all makes me wonder what precisely is going on inside the nation’s VIP computers that we never get to hear about?

Anyway, what makes this my ‘Smile of the Day’ is all the wonderful puns fishermen and the like left on various web sites in memory of old Two Tone, pictured above. To paraphrase the writer Arthur Koestler: “In the pun, two fishy lines of thought are tangled into one acoustic knot.”
     Tributes started off very respectfully: “He’s sleeping with the fishes now,” and, “Go swim peacefully in the pond in the sky, big fella”, but it was pun, pun and more puns thereafter...

I couldn’t believe the news but now I’ve seen it in whiting.
Carp diem, not.
I bet fishermen everywhere are reeling.
Very sad news ... Cod moves in mysterious ways.
Cod rest his sole.
He’s gone to a better plaice.
Eel be sorely missed.
I hope they give him a good send orfe. (I had to look up ‘orfe’ to appreciate this one: a small slender European cyprinoid fish, occurring in two colour varieties, namely the silver orfe and the golden orfe ... can you believe it, a two tone orfe?)
Sympathy to his family and loved ones. A Perch.
Rest in peas. (I liked this one very much: fish and chips and mushy peas – yum, yum. But my favourite...)
If anyone comes up with a fish pun which hasn’t been posted, please let minnow.

Now how can such delightful silliness not put a smile on your face?

Wednesday, August 25
I say, I say, I say...
”I HAVE just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. I’ll tell you what – never again.” Comedian Tim Vine, winner of the funniest one-liner at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2010.

I caught the above on a Radio Wales programme yesterday morning – it’s a clever and really witty one-liner; after winning the title, Vine said: “I’m going to celebrate by going to Sooty’s barbecue and having a ‘sweepsteak’!”  – anyway, the radio show presenters invited listeners to submit their own one-liner efforts.
     Now I have a policy of resisting all temptations when overtaken by the urge to get in touch with any radio programme, but, having come up with something really rare, my own joke, the one about TomTom – it had a trial run back on Sunday, August 15 – I thought, yes, why not. Off shot an e-mail: I don’t own a TomTom, but I do have a GodGod, but all He ever says is: “Keep on the straight and narrow until you come to a dead end.” Boom-boom!
     Nothing. Not a sniff of the big-time. The half-dozen or so they did read out were hoary old recycled jokes. Oh for a bit of originality. You see, the problem with e-mailing a radio show is that 90% of the messages get dumped without ever being looked at. So a lesson well learnt.
     Be that as it may, today, with my brain taking forty winks in a handy lay-by, I Googled the Edinburgh Fringe Festival to sample some of the one-liner contenders. I liked this one, at No. 2 – David Gibson: “I’m currently dating a couple of anorexics. Two birds, one stone.”
     And this, at No. 8 – Gary Delaney: “Dave drowned. So at the funeral we got him a wreath in the shape of a lifebelt. Well, it’s what he would have wanted.”
     But I didn’t get this at No. 10 – Gareth Richards: “Wooden spoons are great. You can either use them to prepare food, or, if you can’t be bothered with that, just write a number on one and walk into a pub...”(?) You see, I’m nowhere near as clever as I sound!
     What I also liked was, that last year’s winner, Dan Antopolski (“Hedgehogs! Why can’t they just share the hedge?”), was this year nominated for worst joke: “How many Spaniards does it take to change a lightbulb? Juan.” Truth to tell I rather like that, as I did this one by Sara Pascoe, which was also nominated for worst joke: “Why did the chicken commit suicide? To get to the other side.”

Talking of chickens, last year’s second best joke was a real cracker, and as it happens, I have the perfect picture to go with it. Pay a quick visit to my “Postcards” corner – click smile ...

Tuesday, August 24
"First they got nukes. Next level: Twitter account!" ~ Tweeter Mikaël Hardy
KIM Jong-il, the Chief Sitting Bull of North Korea (he of "Axis of evil" infamy), has just joined Twitter – if you can’t beat the running-dog lackeys of capitalist imperialism, then join ‘em.
     Now I would have thought that Kim’s opening shot would have been something really positive along the lines of "Kim Jong-il now Kim Jong- better!" – but he kicked off by calling the whole of South Korea "a prostitute".
     So now you know why every man in South Korea walks around with a silly smile on his face, while every man in North Korea walks around with a miserable frown on his. Simples.
     Mind you, some Twitterers were unnerved to see that Kim Jong-il was quick to "follow" anyone who subscribed to his Twitter feed, particularly South Koreans. That'll wipe the smiles off their faces.

Monday, August 23
A misspelt youth
EDUCATION, like youth, is wasted on the young. Personally I’m not sure about youth – I had a ball, mostly down to innocence and naivety, which I wouldn’t want to change if this really is a dress rehearsal – but education was certainly wasted on me. I hated school; if it wasn’t for the girls I’d have gone mad – and they nearly drove me doolally anyway, but that’s another story.
     It might come as a surprise, but I’m a hopeless speller. However, I have a somewhat curious talent: I write by sight and sound. I will spot that a misspelt word has something wrong with it, which means I spend much too much time with my head in a dictionary. It seems to work most of the time, excepting silly little mistakes as the eye hurtles over an innocent looking word. Oh, and I write by sound. If it sounds right as I read it back in my mind – you know, the words flow fairly easily off the screen – then I press the ‘save’ button.
     Anyway, I have just read a piece about the Top 20 Misspelt Words in the English Language. The writer pondered why ‘misspelt’ was not one of them, which is a fair point, especially as it looks all wrong in print – see above. Personally, whenever I think ‘misspelt’, what I see is her brother, Full Pelt ... Miss Pelt – works for me.
     Funnily enough, I’ve been tempted to issue a challenge: e-mail me any English word, and within 24 hours or so I’ll deliver a few hundred words on the subject. I’ve chickened out – not because I’m not up for it, but rather the fear that no word would ever come because no one is walking into my parlour.
     You see, I have no visitor counter; I run the whole shebang to entertain myself, so if no one wants to share my ‘smiles of the day’, that’s fine by me. Truth to tell, a few visitors do come a-calling, and occasionally leave ever such nice messages, which is most agreeable. The most recent, a Jim Carpenter from the U. S. of A. Thanks, Jim, and welcome aboard.
     Be that as it may, I was intrigued by those 20 misspelt words. So much so, and inspired by a very silly moment, I decided, with the help of lots of smaller, easy to spell words, to rearrange those 20 words (shown below in italics) into a very personal ‘60 smiley words of the day’. So here goes…

The consensus, with a clear conscience, found the broccoli particularly acceptable. Bureaucracy though, with its separate questionnaire and always ready to embarrass, referred it to a connoisseur from a parallel universe – definitely an unnecessary manoeuvre.
     “What’s the occurrence?” asked a dim entrepreneur from Barry.
     “Not a lot,” raged a passing spell checker, sounding much like a Dalek. “Liquefy and supersede.”

Two points of order: “What’s the occurrence?” is something they say in Barry Island, South Wales - or rather, “What’s occurrin’?”, which explains the “dim” bit. Incidentally, there are three sorts of people in the world: Those who make things occur; those who watch things occur; and those who turn up and say “What’s occurrin’?”.
     The second point: The surprising misspelt word in there is “a lot”, apparently because people have huge problems with this: We decided to allot ten hours to the case – which is a lot.

Funny old word. Thank God.
 

Sunday, August 22
The most beautiful girl in the world – in the most beautiful car in the world
THIS IS the Smile bulletin that has, thus far anyway, given me the most pleasure to put together and share with you. It all began when I saw this headline...

              It might be the sexiest car in the world – but can you imagine driving the thing?

The car, once owned by Diana Dors, is the 20ft-long, 1949 Delahaye Type 175 S Roadster – a gift, incidentally, from an admirer when she didn’t even hold a driving licence – and has just been sold at auction for $3 million. It has been described as “an outlandishly, outrageously sexy car” as well as “the most beautiful and sexiest car in the world”. It does grab the eye, for sure.
     Beauty, whether involving cars or women, lies in the eye of the beholder. For example, the other “most beautiful and sexiest car in the world”, is the classic E-Type Jaguar. So it was all rather wonderful, compliments of this astonishing thing called “the internet”, to be able to put together four of the most beautiful girls in the history of the universe, and pair them against the most suitable car.
     Hopefully, and for added effect, you should be able to view the tableau coming up in one complete block.
     In the blue corner, the Delahaye with Diana, of course, and Marilyn Monroe, both looking the part. In the green corner, the E-Type Jag with Ingrid Bergman and Grace Kelly adding class beyond. At least to my eye – see if you agree.
 

PS: As I am putting the final dot-dot-dot to this bulletin, Nat King Cole is singing Smile on the wireless - the very last record on Radio Ulster's Sunday Club. Honest, as God is my witness.

Saturday, August 21
VIP/RIP ~ Very Important Person / Really Important Person
THE National Newspaper of Wales is the Western Mail. Its Saturday edition carries a column by retired Welsh politician, Rhodri Morgan, who was the second First Secretary for Wales (that’s worth a smile for a start), and the first person to use the title First Minister for Wales, serving from 2000 to 2009.
     Rhodri has to live up to the by-line “Mr Wales writes exclusively for the Western Mail”. Great bloke, Rhodri, and an amusing fellow to boot, as you will shortly find out.
     However, I found myself wondering about the “Mr Wales” tag. So I Googled Miss Wales: Courtnay Hamilton, 20, a classical singer from St Donats in the Vale of Glamorgan; a fluent Welsh speaker, and hang on tight, she is also a crew captain with the RNLI, and describes herself as an "adrenaline junkie who loves adventure". I would copy and paste a picture of the delightful and clever Miss Courtnay Hamilton, but I have a picture of my own coming up.
     I also Googled Mrs Wales: what I got was MRS Wales Automatic Doors (God, I thought, I've met a few of those in my time, but on further investigation ... M. R. S. Wales Ltd – Metal [Window & Door] Repair Services). As I never tire of reminding you, every day is a day at school hereabouts.
     I finally Googled Ms Wales: what I got were sites to do with the Multiple Sclerosis Society, which isn’t quite what I was looking for. I can only presume that Ms Wales is the Dragon on the nation’s wonderfully distinctive flag.
     Anyway, back with Mr Wales. Rhodri related tales of a family holiday at Mwnt, Ceredigion (located south of New Quay, as seen on the Reception map, above), where he and wife Julie swam with dolphins; and they also witnessed the Welsh Air Ambulance land on the beach to transfer an injured lady to hospital. I shall let Rhodri continue...

Down came the chopper, and as the lady was carried across the beach for the journey to, presumably, Morriston Hospital, everyone on the beach stood up and applauded.
     The Big Society or what?
     It put me in mind of the similar occasion 10 years ago when the late Councillor Vita Jones from Llanedeyrn in Cardiff broke her leg while on holiday near New Quay, just up the coast. Her family had dialled 999 and emphasised that she was

Friday, August 20
Battered and bruised
SOME 10 days ago, the Chris Evans early morning radio show was on in the background, when I heard Chris’s sidekick, Jonny Saunders, refer to a football game between Wales and Luxembourg being played that evening at Parc y Scarlets, Llanelli – or Laneli, as Jonny pronounced it. Chris light-heartedly corrected him by pronouncing Llanelli properly, as a Welsh person would – it’s those double-Ls that get a non-Welsh person. I was most impressed, as was Lynn Bowles, the Welsh “travel totty”, also part of the team.
     ”That’s nothing,” said Chris: “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyllllantysiliogogogoch!” (– just for the record, it's pronounced Llan-vire-pooll-guin-gill-go-ger-ich-chwurn-drob-ooll-llantus-ilio-gogo-goch – simple when you know how ... a small village and community on the island of Anglesey in North Wales).
     Incidentally, it means: “The church of St Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St Tysilio’s of the red cave, cha-cha-cha!” So there. Oh okay, the cha-cha-cha is a joke. And there’s a full-length place name sign on the railway station at Llanfair PG, as the locals call it, which is probably the most photographed station name in the country.
 

Anyway, I was so taken with Chris’s near perfect pronunciation of the place, I concluded that, with a surname like Evans, he must have some Welsh connections. I Googled, but couldn’t find any obvious dots to join up and thus make sense of his talent with the Welsh language.
     But there has to be some sort of connection there somewhere, especially so as on this morning’s show, with Chris due to make his first regular Friday night appearance later as host on TV's One Show, he wanted to learn some Welsh to impress Welsh-speaker Alex, his co-presenter. Again, he picked up Welsh words and phrases with remarkable ease.
     So I tuned in to the One Show – but was diverted during a segment on fish and chips when presenters Alex and Chris teased us with the theory that it’s possible to run across a bath full of batter without sinking – and they would demonstrate it at the end of the show.
     The fun run was designed to show that the cornflour batter would act as a liquid if pressure was applied slowly, but would act as a solid if hit suddenly, with force. They first demonstrated this by sinking a hand slowly into the bath, and it duly emerged dripping in gooey batter – and next striking the batter forcefully with a baseball bat – and not a splatter. Amazing. But the best was yet to come.
     Chris, wearing a round, green costume and calling himself Pea Man – don’t ask – was the first to sprint across – without sinking – followed by Alex, followed by a couple of guests. No one splashed or sank. It was a most astonishing thing to behold. But hang about...
     Chris and Alex then closed their first show while jogging on the surface of the batter – without sinking – before gradually slowing down to a halt – and then, ever so gently, as if in slow motion, they both sank into the batter.
     I would never have believed such a thing possible. And all down to viscosity, or even bulk viscosity of liquid – or something. Anyway, I was out of my depth already. But it was all very smiley.

Anyway, as it says on the tin: Every day a day at school.
 

while at the same time giving explicit details of what is happening, along with precise location and position, to air traffic control ... it’s one of the more difficult tasks I’ve ever had to master).
     If you doubt whether constant use of the mobile is somehow or other scrambling our brains, a risk assessment and insurance liability study in America a few years back concluded that, if you own a mobile, you are 500 times more likely to be involved in a motoring accident.
     Yes, FIVE HUNDRED! I blinked when I first read that. Astonishingly it has nothing to do with using a mobile while driving, whether hand-held or otherwise – the mobile could be switched off and in the boot of your car.
     Isn’t that frightening? Simply owning a mobile puts you at huge risk to the ambush lurking around the next corner.
     The cartoon is still funny though.

It’s the name that made me smile. Indeed we have another Two Tone* as a ready replacement – a really slippery fish, and about to release his memoirs, thought to be Britain’s biggest load of old you-know-what.

* Where does the name Two Tone come from?
      Two Tone the carp: two colour tones on its body
      Two Tone the crap: superficially a pussycat, profoundly a polecat

Anyway, you’ve just got to laugh at all the goings on involving those sat at life’s top table. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. So I was thinking: perhaps Two Timing Tone’s Tome should carry this subtitle...
 

A Journey: Never give a sucker an even break

Tuesday, August 17
May you live forever and die suddenly
“OBVIOUSLY I’m hoping for Queen Elizabeth that she lives a long and happy life, and having watched her mother, I think there’s every chance that she will.” Welsh-born Australian prime minister Julia Gillard, after suggesting her country should drop its ties to the monarchy when the Queen’s reign ends.

Isn’t it funny how a perfectly reasonably and sensible thing to propose brings back a most amusing incident from some four years back, previously locked away safely on my brain’s hard drive – but suddenly activated by Julia Gillard. England were playing Australia at cricket, for the famous Ashes, out in Australia.
     Prior to the first test match, with the legendary Barmy Army all present, correct, in good voice and intent on winding up the Aussie public to maximum effect, they began to sing the British National Anthem. But they kicked off thus...

“God save your gracious Queen
 Long live your noble Queen...”

Four years on, and it still makes me smile.

Monday, August 16
Sense of humour v sense of fun
THE BBC’s One Show is one of those rare TV programmes I tend to catch on a regular basis – at least the opening exchanges. It follows Wales Today, our regional news programme, which I always watch if I’m in the cottage, especially the weather forecast 'cause I need to know what I need to wear for the following morning’s walk.
     Tonight of course there was extra special interest in the One Show due to new presenters, Jason Manford (never heard of him) and local girl Alex Jones, who hails from Ammanford, just down the track, and is regularly seen on S4C, our Welsh language channel.

Sunday, August 15
Is this the way to Arm A Dildo?
SO THE inimitable tones of actor Brian Blessed is to be the new voice of TomTom Sat Nav (or TwmTwm as we say here in Wales – Twm being Welsh for Tom – sometimes we even call it TwmTwice). I do not possess a TomTom, but I do have a GodGod buried somewhere deep inside my head (or DuwDuw as we say here in Wales – Duw being Welsh for God).
     Now that I think about it, He does sound an awful lot like Brian Blessed. Anyway, whenever my GodGod kicks in, the basic advice is always the same: “Keep on the straight and narrow until you come to a dead end.”
     Oh, He also often chimes in with: “When you get in trouble, and you don’t know right from left, give a little whistle ... When you meet temptation, and the urge is very strong, give a little whistle ... Take the straight and narrow path, and if you start to slide, give a little whistle ...  Do your best then take a rest, put on that grin and start right in, come on get smart, tune up and start ... to give a little whistle...”
     I’m surprised that no one has seen fit to nickname me The Whistler.

Saturday, August 14
Crouch on the couch – ouch!
I WAS tempted to go with the tale of footballer Peter Crouch who has, apparently, been banished to the sofa by his girlfriend, Abbey Clancy, after reports he’d had sex with a prostitute during a stag weekend in Madrid.
     See, it’s ripe for word play, especially when you note that the lady of the night is called Monica Mint. I shall diligently avoid something along the lines that she should be re-christened Polo: the Mint with the hole!
   But I do rather like: Crouch dealt a Clancy-ing blow.
     Indeed The Sun newspaper posed the question that must have been niggling some of its readers. Crouch is 6ft 7in: how long is the sofa?
     I can see the next DFS sale promo now: SAVE DOUBLE ON A CROUCH COUCH.
     Mind you, I was thinking: if he was on a stag weekend thank goodness it’s not quite the rutting season yet, otherwise there’d have been reports he’d had sex with a doe, a deer, a female deer, tra-lah. A male of course is called a buck – no, let’s not go there...

Instead, my smile of the day is...

Left a bit – STOP!
I WAS transfixed by a tale in this morning’s newspaper, about a collision between two huge ore-carrying ships off the Welsh coast. It is understood that both ships were waiting in a queue, in perfect conditions, to deliver more than 100,000 tonnes of iron ore to Port Talbot Docks, the material destined for the nearby Corus steel plant.
     The collision, at low speed, happened just after the Royal Oasis started its engines and was leaving its anchorage spot to pick up a local pilot, when, without so much as a by-your-leave, it “bumped” into the Berge Atlantic. The glancing blow caused superficial damage only, above the water line. “This type of collision is extremely rare,” said an Associated British Ports manager, “I can’t remember anything like this happening here before.”
     Talk about the elephant on your doorstep. The ships are huge, over 1,000ft long, with a deadweight of 161,000 and 171,000 tonnes. Compare that to the QE2’s gross tonnage of some 70,000.
     It’s the equivalent of me driving into my local town centre car park, on a bright, sunny morning, where just the one vehicle, an eye-catching Rolls Royce, is parked neatly in the middle - and I still manage to collide with it.
     It makes the smile spot because the collision actually happened yesterday, Friday the 13^th.

Thursday through Friday, August 12-13
Catch a falling star
A COUPLE of days meld into one, compliments of something bright in the sky. Somewhere along my Thursday stroll through time, I somehow crash-land on this piece in The Telegraph, penned by the endlessly amusing Bryony Gordon...

So farewell then, Robbie Williams. At the weekend he got married, and not to me. When I was 13, I loved him so much that for a brief period, I made my friends call me Mrs Robbie Williams. I met him five years ago at a party in LA. "Hello, I'm Robbie," he said, shaking my hand. "I know," I squeaked. He asked me my name. In the excitement, I couldn't remember it. Then he asked if I wanted to join him for a fag on the balcony. My heart soared. Of course I did.
     Outside, he lit my cigarette and I swooned. Was this it? Was I going to get to kiss my teenage crush? Alas, he started talking about Chelsea's chances of winning the Premiership, and those dreams disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Smashing. Very Bryony, very smiley. But the thing is, every time I see or hear the name Robbie Williams, I am instantly reminded of something from a good few moons back, when he admitted that he dreams of being hailed a “national treasure”, and is aiming to become the UK’s “number one male”.
     At that time he had apparently posted a bizarre video of himself online, in which he appeared dishevelled and confused, sparking fears for his mental health. But the singer refuted such claims and went on to say: “I want to be known as ‘El Presidente’ or ‘Nash’, as in National Treasure. I’m the Number One Male.”
     Now I quite enjoy El Presidente’s singing, most of the time, anyway. However, whenever I catch sight of our Robbie I'm overwhelmed with a need to establish an antonym for “Nash” – a word that more accurately describes 99% of all known celebrities. What instantly comes to mind is that glorious word which rhymes with banker.
     Anyway, the search starts here, although I somehow think I’m not going to find a better one than my original thought.

That evening, and still wearing Bryony’s smile, I go in search of a different shooting star, the one and only, the elusive Percy – or to be more precise, the Perseids Meteor Shower, fragments and dust trails created by the Comet Swift-Tuttle.
       I’ve been thinking that I should take someone or other to court under the Trades Descriptions Act 1968, simply because the Perseids are unfit for purpose.

     Oh yes, I did actually remember to make a wish on Thursday night - can't remember if I did back in 1982 - nothing too demanding, something quite attainable, but I will need just a little bit of luck along the way. (To be continued...)

Very early Friday morning, I observe a very different sort of shooting star; I catch the International Space Station (ISS), the first time for a few months. I get great pleasure watching it pass over; I'm not sure why, except that there's something faintly biblical about it all.
     It’s a perfectly clear morning, dawn is fast breaking (4.48am), and the ISS is bright as a Swift-Tittle as it streaks across the sky (but unlike Robbie, Percy and Erica, it doesn’t leave a fiery trail). I get the impression that it’s much brighter and bigger than when I last saw it, which suggests that its orbit has decayed and the whole shebang is due to be given a push back up (out?) into space by a friendly neighbourhood visitor, be it Russian or the last-but-one Shuttle due to launch before long.
     Come to think of it, perhaps I should also make a wish when the ISS goes over...

Later on Friday I catch up with Owen Money’s Radio Wales Saturday morning show on the iPlayer (popular period music from the Fifties through to the Eighties). I missed it last Saturday – watched the All Blacks play Australia on the box. But here’s the thing: every Saturday he ‘phones a bride’ - a surprise phone call to a lady that's tying the knot later that day. It’s an entertaining spot.
     Last Saturday it was Natalie, who was marrying Ross. “Where are you going on honeymoon?” asks Owen.
     “Puerto Rico.”
     “Very nice.”
     “It’s a present from Ross’s brother.”
     “ Really? Is he a millionaire?”
     “No, I don’t think so – he’s just very generous.”
Now how smiley is that? If he were a millionaire, I doubt that he would have paid for the honeymoon. It’s a curious thing about really wealthy people, as well as those who earn huge amounts of money. They never, ever have quite enough dosh, and they always want just that little bit more. Oh, and they can’t stand someone else getting what they think should be theirs.
     So let’s hear it for Ross’s brother, who paid for the honeymoon, not because he could, but because he's just a very generous human being. It restores one’s faith in humanity.  And if anything deserves a smile of the day spot, that does.

Wednesday, August 11
The postman always rings twice
JUST caught up with this “I don’t believe it” piece by a Judith Woods on the Telegraph newspaper web site...

As my husband headed off to work the other morning, he found our new postie standing motionless at the garden gate.
     When he quizzed her, she primly revealed that because we had a dog she wasn’t allowed to deliver mail for “health and safety reasons”. Instead, she would ring the doorbell and retreat behind the gate so we could collect it.
     Although sorely tempted to suggest that perhaps she might be in the wrong profession, he inquired as to what would happen if we were for some reason unable to keep a daily vigil at the front door waiting for her arrival.
     If we weren’t in, she would deign to slip a “while you were out” card through the letter box – but not the actual post, which would be returned to the depot. Now there’s logic for you.

Whom the Gods wish to destroy they first make mad.

PS: I did originally headline this particular Smile experience 'The postie always shits herself twice', but decided that that was too Crazy Horsepower Saloon-ish and much too vulgar for the gentle company I keep here - so changed my mind at the thirteenth hour. Phew!

Tuesday, August 10
Hold the front page
WHEN I collect my morning newspaper I always cast a quick eye over all the papers on display. The front page headlines, especially the red tops, invariably get the day off to a smiley start. This morning though it was “Wel-i-jiw-jiw!” – with bells on. Or perhaps that should be “with balls on”. This time it was the Daily Sport...
 

This quote reminded me of an exchange on the Roy Noble show on Radio Wales back in April of this year, something so funny it made my smile of the day spot. ”A little while back,” says Roy, “I was talking about Botex – be careful with your Botex now because it stiffens things up –“
     ”Shouldn’t it be Botox?” interrupts newsreader Siân Evans present with him in the studio, and who is a bit strict and schoolmarm-ish in her ways.
     ”Botox!” confirms Roy, “You’re right – there’s a little biro mark where the ‘e’ is. Anyway, a survey says people are now slow to react to what you say – or more correctly, their faces are slow to react – they’re on Botox and it stiffens the face up. And men: lads are now buying more facial creams, more than deodorant – see David Beckham, footballer – but leave it there, lads, because you have no expressions...”

That tale deserves a curtain call if only because it reflects perfectly the Julia Roberts quote above. But what made me smile the most was Roy’s Freudian-type slip. When he called it “Botex”, the first thing that came to mind was Tipp-Ex, the famous correction fluid. Indeed, Botex is a much better name than Botox. You see, Tipp-Ex hides the cock-ups we make; Botex hides the cock-ups Mother Nature makes.
     Which is probably why Roy made the slip-up in the first place.

20/08/2010: A Botex Addendum
"Your face tells a story - and it shouldn't be a story about your drive to the doctor's office." Julia Roberts makes a welcome, if belated, return to the "To Botox, or not to Botox, that is the question" argument: "Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of the outrageous fortunes of Mother Time..." - which all adds a perfect balance to this 'smile of the day' entry.

Sunday, August 8
The name’s Bond
LATE afternoon, I switch on the telly and go zap-a-dee-doo-da – and land on ITV, where the Bond film Live and Let Die is in full swing. I’ve seen it a few times, mostly because it has one of the most entertaining and smiley 15 minutes or so I’ve seen in a film: a sort of Carry On 007 meets Dai Hard.
     As I land on the film the crocodile scene is reaching a climax – and I know what’s coming next. Yes, we get to meet one of the most colourful and comic characters ever to entertain us on film, the baccy-chewing and mega-spitting Sheriff J W Pepper, who has a habit of yelling out loudly anything he has on his mind – and addressing all and sundry as “Boy!”.
     We first meet him hiding in his patrol car behind a huge billboard which reads: Louisiana .. The Sportsman’s Paradise Welcomes You – and a baddie shoots past at speed: “I got me a regular Ben Hur down here, doin' 95 minimum...” It’s as great an opening line as you could wish, the equivalent of a British bobby’s: “And who do you think you are, Sir? Stirling Moss?”
     By a strange coincidence I had just read a Sunday Times obituary on a Tom Mankiewicz, a name I wasn’t familiar with. It turns out that Mankiewicz was a “script doctor”, a gifted individual who invigorated the Bond films through the last days of Connery and the early films of Roger Moore – a person you hire when the idea or story is good, but there's something not quite right with the screenplay. The work can involve simply tweaking the dialogue or a complete rewrite. It is highly paid but often done without an on-screen acknowledgment – which explain why his name was unfamiliar.
     Live and Let Die has one of the best chase scenes on film – the speedboat chase. It is not so much that the chase itself is outstanding, what it has is amusing situations and dialogue right through the chase. The Mankiewicz touch, obviously.
     For example, when Sheriff JW catches up with the bad boyo, a black guy, in the speeding car: “Spin around, boy – ten fingers on the fender – legs apart ... you picked the wrong parish to haul ass through, boy. Nobody cuts and runs on Sheriff J W Pepper. And it’s him speakin’, by the by.”
     As he watches the boat chase get under way he utters this immortal line to a fellow officer: "No! You listen to me, trooper boy. We got us a swamp full of black Russians drivin' boats to beat the dams out here." And then there's a boat that shoots straight out of the water and over his head: "What the f---!" And the word is drowned out in the roar of the boat.
     One of the boats crashes into his car, just as two policemen turn up in their car. The following dialogue unfolds...
Young Policeman: "That look like a boat stuck in the Sheriff's car there, Eddie?"
Older Policeman: "Boy, where have you been all your life? That there's one of them new car boats."
Sheriff J W Pepper (approaches the policemen's car and addresses the older one): "By the powers invested in me by this badge, I hear by do commandeer this here vehicle and all those persons within. And that means you, smart ass!"
     Wonderful. Then, at the end of the fast and furious and violent boat chase, when Bond gracefully comes to a halt in his speedboat, passing a notice that says Make boating a fun sport ... 3mph please – Sheriff JW catches up with Bond...
Sheriff J W Pepper: “There’s the son of a bitch. I got ‘im ... What are you? Some kinda doomsday machine, boy? Well we got a cage strong enough to hold animal like you – hear?” And all the while he struggles to open a pair of handcuffs he's desperate to clip on Bond.
Felix Leiter (CIA): "Captain, would you enlighten the Sheriff, please."
Captain: "Yes Sir ... JW, let me have a word with you ... Listen, JW, now this fellow is from London, England. He’s an Englishman workin’ in co-operation with our boys – sort of secret agent –“
Sheriff J W Pepper: ”Secret agent?!!! On who’s side??!”

I smile at that line every time I think about it; it could apply to any of the politicians who took us to war in faraway places with strange sounding names. Definitely an honorary smile of the day.

Saturday, August 7
In the heavyweight corner
THE following letter appeared in The Times a few days back...
Specific gravity: Sir, A GP referred a seriously obese 18-month old girl to my paediatric outpatient clinic. I suggested to her mother that she might be overweight for her age and height. Her mother replied: “She’s not overweight, she’s just heavy.”
PATRICIA KENNY, London W8

There’s a glorious Welsh proverb: Gwyn y gwêl y frân ei chyw – the crow sees her young one white. Meaning, a mother never sees any faults in her child.

Popped into the Crazy Horsepower Saloon for a quick pint, and under discussion was the frustration of trying to lose weight. I told the tale of the lady paediatrician, as spotted in The Times letter.
     Perched on his favourite bar stool in the corner is old www himself, Chief Sitting Bull. He doesn’t say much, but when he peers at you over his glasses, you begin to smile already: “She ain’t heavy, she’s my baby.”
     Gwyn y gwêl y frân ei chyw!

Friday, August 6
Stone me
”THEY were very small, dirty-looking stones. When I’m used to seeing diamonds, I’m used to seeing them shiny and in a box.” Supermodel Naomi Campbell, who is alleged to have been given a “blood diamond” by former Liberian leader Charles Taylor.

When I first caught the above on the radio, I remember thinking, why is she dragging that small, dirty-looking Stone, Mick Jagger, into the case?
     In subsequent reports she describes the stones as “kind of dirty-looking pebbles” – which I guess is how the blessed Naomi sees the rest of us: small, dirty-looking pebbles littering and loitering the beach of humanity.
     In her evidence at the war crimes trial of former Liberian ruler Charles Taylor, Campbell kicks off with the following as a startling starter for ten: “I didn’t really want to be here. I was made to be here so obviously I’m just wanting to get this over with and get on with my life. This is a big inconvenience for me.”
     What had me smiling though was that a woman noted for guarding her privacy like Fort Knox, declares in evidence that she was sleeping after a party when she heard a knock on the door. Two mysterious men handed her a small pouch, saying “a gift for you”, before leaving without further explanation.
     See, it sounds more Tommy Cooper than a war crimes trial.
     Unbelievably, she did not open the pouch until the next morning and even then was not sure what was inside. When she realised they were diamonds she gave the stones to a Jeremy Ratcliffe, who was then head of the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund. The court heard the charity has no record of any such gift but Campbell said she understood Mr Ratcliffe was still in possession of the stones; indeed it now appears that Ratcliffe had held on to the stones for the 13 years since, and they have now been handed over to South African police, who are investigating.
     Everything about this story is a mixture of Dad’s Army and Blackadder; in fact it stinks so much that you just have to laugh at the goings-on of the powerful and the rich and their celebrity hangers on.

Thursday, August 5
Quote, unquote
”A JUICY bit of gossip without a leg to stand on will reach the other side of Dodgy City in the time it takes to press a few buttons on a mobile.” The wonderfully wise and witty Chief Sitting Bull, resident www at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon.

Old Sitting Bull freely admitted that he had both plagiarised and paraphrased the above. Originally: “A rumour without a leg to stand on will get around some other way.” John Tudor.

The name John Tudor was unknown to me, so I Googled it, but sadly, given the limited time I could spare to search, I couldn’t isolate who this John Tudor is. I say “this” John Tudor ... there were quite a few of them, with no obvious clues as to which one coined the original quote. In the meantime I shall stick with Chief Sitting Bull’s version.

Wednesday, August 4
Snap!
THIS early morning, as I passed the empty car park of CK’s Supermarket in the centre of Llandeilo, I noticed a large banner celebrating "Huw's" birthday. I smiled; I knew it wasn’t my birthday, especially not my twenty-first!
 

Tuesday, August 3
Sausage and mash
GIVEN my somewhat offbeat lifestyle, together with my continuing search for period music (1950s through to the 1980s) plus classic middle-of-the-road songs from any old time, I spend most of my radio listening hours on the internet, especially clicking on the BBC’s iPlayer.
     Last week I caught a live slice of the Jamie Owen and Louise Elliott morning show on Radio Wales. They recently started The Secret Save The Welsh Sausage Society – not so much the Last Rites Welsh Sausage Society, more the Haleliwia Revival Welsh Sausage Society, a splendid wheeze to promote the 5* excellence of the humble selsig (the Welsh for sausage, also known as a sosej, look you). In fact last Friday they held The Jamie & Louise Sausage Brunch at Cardiff, where invited guests duly tucked in.
     But here’s the thing: I heard them mention something about a password for entry to the brunch, so I’ve just listened to the Thursday edition of the show, where they invited listeners to suggest a suitable password. Someone came up with the excellent Sue Saga – an anagram of sausage.
     This set the windmills of my mind whirling. As you’ve doubtless noticed, Boris Johnson is already a regular guest on my smile extravaganza, so I thought ... now what password would Bo-Jo come up with ... thinks! ... I know, a combination of the classics with a bit of "Cor blimey guvnah!" thrown in for good measure. But of course: et2bangers.

But here’s the really funny thing. Just before I got down to putting this smile on record, I switched on the telly and, as is my wont, went zap-a-dee-doo-da – and landed on one of the Comedy channels. What eventually came on was M*A*S*H – can you believe that? Sausage and M*A*S*H. You couldn’t make it up.
     Hawkeye would be quite chuffed, which is doubly smiley because whenever I listen to Jamie Owen on his radio show he's forever delivering quips à la Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce.

Monday, August 2
Die and let live
Just caught up with this delightful letter from last month’s Times newspaper...
Never say die: Sir, You report that “Wales will become the first part of Britain to take dying people’s organs without their consent”. I hope you meant to say dead people. An aunt of mine, who lived to 102, spent her last ten years dying, and loved every minute of it.
ROBERT CHEGWIN, Cardiff

Another thought on the theme of death is Margaret Mitchell’s line from her 1936 book, Gone With the Wind: “Death, taxes and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them.”
     And what was it Spike Milligan said? “I’m not afraid of dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

In truth I guess from the moment we are born we spend every moment of our lives dying, simply because nature has programmed us to do so. Amen.

Sunday, August 1
I have a cunning plan...
”LONDON is so far ahead of schedule for the 2012 Games that the cunning thing to do would be to hold a snap Olympic Games a year early and catch the world napping.” Boris Johnson, mayor of London, outlines his plan to increase Britain’s medal haul.

Boris Baldrick Johnson was the star of my July smiles, so I guess he fully deserves to kick off August with a converted smile under the posts.

Saturday, July 31
A word in your shell-like
THE ENGLISH language is an extraordinary bit of kit. Along its sighs and grunts through time it has clocked up around a million words, mostly because it has unhesitatingly jumped into bed with any old language that has thrown a wink and a smile in its direction. In other words, she’s a bit of a tart is our Miss English Language.
     Currently, English has some 250,000 distinct words; the typically educated native speaker of English knows around 20,000 word families. Intriguingly though there is something called Special English, a simplified version of English used by

But here’s a funny thing. We have 250,000 English words to call upon, and still we get confused and led up the wrong path. For example, on BBC Radio Wales today the following traffic report advised a hold up somewhere near Cardiff:
“Police are dealing with a shed load of building materials...” What an inelegant way of putting it, my brain whispered in my shell-like: I translated the "shed load" as “God, I had a shed load to drink last night.” But of course it rapidly dawned on me that it was a "shed load" as in “a lorry has dropped its load on the road by accident”. Ho hum.

And then in the Crazy Horsepower Saloon, a discussion about farming, and someone mentioned the rural radio soap opera, The Archers, in particular something heard during the week. Dai Version was part of the chat. Now Dai has a habit of getting his words confused: “I’ll listen out for that tomorrow – it’s the matinee edition I listen to.”
     A couple of us glanced at each other and shared a sly smile. Of course he meant the "omnibus" edition. But there again: matinee ... a daytime performance of a play, concert, etc...

What a wonderfully sexy lady Miss English Language is. And she never fails to make me smile.

Friday, July 30
Spot the Ball
PUSSYCAT the dog keeps a sharp eye on Quack the hen ... the neighbourhood’s creature comforts never fail to make me smile and smile. Pussycat is a delightfully eccentric dog – she has already made a star appearance over on 'Postcards from my square mile' - a safe pair of molars - as well as featuring as one of my favourite things over on 400 Smiles A Day.

Wednesday, July 28
It’s my party (and I’ll go to prison if I have to)
Body Armour boss looted $185m to pay for prostitutes and parties, court hears

I WAS irresistibly drawn to the above headline on The Telegraph's web site; anyway, to continue the tale...

The former boss of the world’s biggest body armour maker is accused of looting $185 million (£119 million) from the company to finance a lifestyle that included a $10 million bat mitzvah party for his daughter.
     Prosecutors say David H Brooks used his company, DHB Industries, as his own private bank account, paying for his stable of race horses, pornography videos for his son, a $100,000 gem-encrusted US flag belt buckle, plastic surgery for his wife and prostitutes for his staff...

Why have I never worked for someone like this? Still, back to business...

He hired the rock band Aerosmith and rapper 50 Cent to perform at his daughter’s bat mitzvah and allowed her to use the company jet to fly to a Halloween party in Wisconsin, his trial in Long Island, New York, has heard. Tom Petty and the Eagles played at other parties for his children...

They really do live in a different world, these people. Actually, this makes today’s XL Smile spot because of the reference to his paying for prostitutes for his staff – and my wondering why I never had a boss like that? As it happens, I have never paid for sex in my life, and I have never had any interest in doing so. And thereby hangs a tale...

A good many moons back I won a rather expensive Concorde holiday to the States. One evening I was sat at the bar of a posh Miami hotel when I struck up a conversation with a charming, attractive, all-American young lady next to me. When we began to chat she immediately identified me as Welsh, which left me rather gobsmacked. It turned out that she had spent a year in Cardiff as an exchange student.
     As we effortlessly chatted, she eventually said: “You don’t know why I’m here, do you?” Well, I’m an innocent country boy, so I never picked up the clues along the way – but it turns out I was being chatted-up by a high class hooker; a clever girl who’d suddenly found herself a single mum and had fallen upon hard times, pardon the expression.
     Anyway, I declined her services – her “fee” for the night would have been way out of my league anyway ... remember, I was at this expensive hotel because someone else was paying – I even made my excuses regarding a “date” she suggested on her night off. Honest. I’ll have to tell the whole story when I get down to writing the book!

Tuesday, July 27
Daisy, Daisy...

”THERE is no more heart-warming sight than an attractive lady riding a bicycle.” London Mayor Boris Johnson, making his third appearance this month alone, underlines his love of a bird on a bike.
     I dunno quite why, but in future every time I stand and stare at a handsome lady riding a bicycle, I won’t be able to stop myself smiling. Go Bo-Jo. Incidentally, the above image is a poster from 1896 for the Victor bicycle, which introduced hollow frames to America, as seen in The Telegraph.

Monday, July 26
Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde
SMILES of the Day come in all sorts of guises; occasionally it’s a rather baffled smile, which lingers long on the lips:
”Normal people, who can be good people but do bad things, are very interesting to me, and people that never get a parking ticket or never do a bad thing in their lives can be really dangerous.” Actress Emily Mortimer.
     Oh dear, I have never had a parking ticket, or any other sort of motoring ticket come to that (touch wood, etc, etc) ... but I was once booked for drinking out of hours at the Crazy Horse pub (before it became the Crazy Horsepower Saloon), on a Sunday, when opening times were very restrictive and cops had nothing better to do than hide in the undergrowth outside pubs hoping to catch the landlord or landlady serving drinks out of hours.
     Phew! So I’m not such a really dangerous person after all. Saved by the bell, so to speak.

Sunday, July 25
Tailwind
THE RIVER TOWY is significant enough to act as a natural barrier to stop farm animals crossing from one side to the other, an event which would cause all sorts of problems should stock from farms either side of the river mix. During really dry summers when the river runs low farmers put electrified fences either side at vulnerable spots to avoid stock mixing.
     Well, this year has been so dry the river is running low pretty much everywhere and cattle find it very inviting; while the

Friday, July 23
Bonnie and Clyde on the rampage
AWOKE just before 4.30, which is par for the course at this time of year – I aim to be out of the cottage and off on my walk before the sun rises. I switch on the bedside radio and Five Live’s Up All Night is on, Dotun Adebayo is the host.
     At this time every morning they have a weather forecast, but first the show’s presenter and the forecaster discuss extreme weather conditions in various parts of the world. This morning the weather person is the cheery and effervescent Laura Tobin. “What news of tropical storm Bonnie?” asks Dotun.
     ”Yes, it’s the second storm of the season,” confirms Laura, “hence called Bonnie – but it’s not set to become a hurricane as it heads for the Gulf of Mexico and the oil slick.”
     ”After Bonnie will the next one be Clyde?” enquires Dotun.
     Laura laughs long and heartily, the joke having clearly not entered her thoughts (nor mine) prior to this exchange.
     ”Well it goes A – B – C, and the names alternate between male and female,” explains Dotun, “doesn’t it?”
     ”Yes,” agrees a still giggling Laura, “but I don’t know...”

I still smile at the thought of hurricanes Bonnie and Clyde. I shall watch out for the next hurricane off the production line with special interest.

ADDENDUM (9 August): The third tropical storm of the season was duly christened Colin. Eh? Bonnie & Colin? Oh dear, I’d have thought that weather forecasters needed a little light relief more than most of us. Just as well then that Colin, which had threatened Bermuda, fell apart as it passed the island, and has now been downgraded to just a Tropical Wave that has no chance of developing into anything serious.

Thursday, July 22
The day the teddy bear has his buffet
IT OFTEN happens that a treasured smile from a previous day morphs into a brand new smile on a brand new day.
     Last Monday I smiled at the latest Boris Johnson ‘state of affairs’ report – to recap: the media has been awash with rumours that the London Mayor has been indulging in extracurricular activities not detailed in his manifesto, or perhaps that should read 'extramarital activities not detailed in his wedding vows' i.e. he has been a very naughty boy – a very, very naughty boy, allegedly – indeed it could well be that our Boris is destined to become the Genghis Khan of his generation, with a jumbo genetic fingerprint extending way into the future, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, Mr Mayor?
     Anyway, the morning gossip on the radio airwaves kicked off with news that celebrity something-or-other Keith Chegwin is under fire for nicking – or plagiarising as posh people put it - other folk’s gags, for example: Auntie Marge has been ill for so long we changed her name to ‘I can’t believe she’s not better’. Ho, ho, ho!

In view of the above, rather dark side of his character, it’s somewhat unexpected that Cooper’s comedy carried over into his private life. He once went to buy a suit. Trying it on he asked if he could take it for a walk round the block. Somewhat thrown, the shop assistant agreed, so Cooper took a block of wood from the pocket of his own suit, placed it on the floor and walked around it ... before saying: “Fine, I’ll take it.”
     He continued this at home, with wife Gwen reporting frequent instances of rubber spiders, snakes that sprang out of tins and books that burst into flames. A visitor recalled screams from the maid; she had discovered a ‘severed hand’ in the laundry basket. Cooper was a caring father and used his comedy to effect. There was the time his son was caught having stolen a ball of string and pen-knife from a local store. His wife was distraught but Cooper maintained silence until the evening when he took his son aside and said, in fierce tones: “If you ever, ever steal again ... get me a packet of my favourite cigars.” The boy, apparently, never re-offended.

Tuesday, July 20
Right from wrong
JUST last Sunday, July 18, I told the smiley tale of Russian spy Anna Chapman, in tandem with MI5’s Welsh mole at the University College of Wales Aberystwyth, Dai I-Spy, during the Investiture of the Price of Wales – and along the way I quoted the advice my agriculturalist father gave me when I was just knee-high to appreciating the observational power of a community where everybody knows everybody else, and take great delight in spreading hot gossip: “Never do anything in a field that you wouldn’t want your mother to know about.”
     Let’s face it, it is par for the course that we never listen to our parents’ advice, rather we find out the hard way compliments of our own disastrous experiences that they were – ho-hum – right all along. This is why each generation repeat the mistakes of the previous one. Acquired wisdom, sadly, is like a red-hot baton in a relay race that gets dropped at every transfer, which rather explains why the world is in such a mess. Imagine my delight then when I came upon this smiley quote:
“When I was old enough to realise my father was right, I had a son who thought I was wrong.” American actor, director, producer and author Henry Winkler, best known for his role as “The Fonz” in the 1970s American sitcom Happy Days, but in recent years for his work in helping those handicapped by dyslexia.

* 'Every day a day at school' spot: Classic meaning of 'soulmates'
The concepts of soulmates arose from Greek mythology. According to the story, our ancestors once had two heads and four arms. They did something to offend a God so that God punished them by splitting them down the middle, resulting in the creation of humans. As a punishment, we are condemned to spend our lives searching for the other half, our soulmates.

Ah yes, the days of wine and Rose’s: “Never do anything in a field that you wouldn’t want your mother to know about,” my farmer father once warned me. How true that advice turned out to be. No matter how secretively you go about things in a Welsh community - any community come to that - someone will see you, gossip about it, and it will get back to your mum.
     Anyway, the above advice, together with the aforementioned Pythonesque Spy Swap Shop Saga, takes me back to the investiture of the Prince of Wales in 1969, and the emergence of the equally Pythonesque and hilarious Free Wales Army.
     MI5 had a mole in that hotbed of Welsh nationalism, the University College of Wales Aberystwyth, a lecturer by the name of David Ca – no, let’s not go there, let’s just call him Dai, for folk have long memories in these ‘ere parts. As it happens MI5 had a new chief overseeing the investiture, so he decided to visit Aberystwyth to meet his mole. The initial contact was arranged at the corner of the street where Dai lived, and a suitable opening exchange agreed.
     The boss arrives, and a face he recognises from his file comes to meet him. “Good evening,” said the boss, “will you kindly point me in the direction of the Coopers Arms – I believe you call it ‘Y Cwps’ around here?”.
     A brief pause before a smile creases the mole’s face. “People often mistake us – you need Dai I-Spy, No. 37.”

*  "Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?" was a famous Mae West quip. She made this remark in February 1936, at the railway station in Los Angeles upon her return from Chicago, when a Los Angeles police officer was assigned to escort her home. She delivered the line on film to George Hamilton in her last movie, Sextette (1978).

I also like: “When I'm good, I'm very good. When I'm bad, I'm better."
But best of all, this: "A hard man is good to find."

I wonder what quips Anna Chapman will share with the world when her diaries are published.

     Over the past few weeks there was much talk of his return to rugby, but that now looks more unrealistic than ever after reports that he has agreed to be a contestant in the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing show, along with actresses Felicity Kendal and Patsy Kensit, and of course the aforementioned former MP Anne Widdecombe, the new Ginger out on the town.
     (“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels” - Faith Whittlesey)
     Anyway, funny as the sight of Ann Widdecombe doing the samba will doubtless be, my smile of the day goes to the Carolyn Hitt column in the Western Mail, and in particular this headline:
                                              A parable of our times – Gav’s journey from side-step to two-step
A parting thought, remembering of course that Victor Silvester was a famous dance band leader, popular from the 1930s through to the 1980s: perhaps I should send Gav a pair of trousers from my youth, essential clobber when visiting the local Saturday night dance, my Victor Silvester trousers – bags of ballroom.

Friday, July 16
Never give a sucker an even break
THE TALE of psychic football expert Paul the Octopus rumbles on. A Spanish zoo is gearing up to do whatever it takes to make Paul a permanent fixture in one of their Madrid tanks. Why don’t they leave the poor thing alone, to retire on the crest of a wave, and to meet the girl of his dream – and hopefully get his legs over.
     The shame is that his British counterpart and lookalike, John Prescott, hasn’t done the same – retire, I mean, not get his leg over, something which he has already done. Is it me, or did anyone else notice that we never once saw Paul the Octopus and Baron Prescott of Kingston-upon-Hull together, in the same shot? You think I jest?
 

Thursday, July 15
Come in No. 2, you gorgeous thing
I VISIT a Tesco store and decide to top-up with fuel. I go to pay: there are two females on duty, one middle-age, the other a young girl, probably about17. The youngster is free so I approach. “Which pump?”
     I glance out the window: “Number 2 – God! The story of my life.”
     The young girl laughs as I hand her the ready money. “Do you have a club card?” she asks. I shake my head but stop myself saying what I often say when asked this: 'As Grouch Marx once said, I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would accept me as a member.' The girl hands me the receipt and I say “Thank you”, with a smile.
     As I enter the car I look up and see the young girl watching me – but as our eyes meet she instantly looks away. In the car I again see her glance towards me; I also register her eyes following me as I drive off the forecourt. I was intrigued.
     Now I am not stupid enough to think that she fancied me – apart from the obvious, technically I am old enough to be her grandfather. But something had tickled her fancy, and I think it is this: when we pass in front of those who sit at these checkouts all day long we hardly ever say anything to brighten up their day, so when we do it registers with them.
     As someone who tends to say offbeat things to these paid slaves, I’ve noticed that they do remember me and will occasionally pass some sort of comment as soon as they recognise me.
     The psychology of human interaction is indeed a fascinating subject.

Wednesday, July 14
Bitten by the bug
LISTENING to Jamie Owen and Louise Elliott on their Radio Wales show this morning, they had a Dr Peter Saul as a guest answering listeners’ questions on health problems. The good doctor kicked off proceedings discussing the risks posed when holidaying abroad, in particular the curious case of celebrity Cheryl Cole struck down with malaria following a visit to Tanzania. Also Samantha Fox, singer, model and former Page 3 girl, suffering from rabies of all things, after being bitten by an infected cat during a holiday in Thailand.
     The doctor then gave this advice: “It’s a bad idea to go petting dogs and cats when on holiday.”
     Personally, I would have put it like this: When visiting faraway places with strange sounding names it is a bad idea to go petting not only dogs and cats but also pretty young things which remind you of Sam Fox in her prime.

Tuesday, July 13
A Welshman’s home is his…
TOP GEAR makes a speedy return to the Smile spot, compliments of the repeat of last Sunday’s episode, the first run missed while watching that dreadful World Cup Final. Normally I’d have been warned off by the promotional blurb announcing “a double dose of celebrity” – God, I really, truly thought I'd finally weaned myself off visiting the celebrity zoo to watch the inmates at work, rest and play – but I went with it anyway. It made my top smile because of six words uttered by Jeremy Clarkson - more of that coming up shortly...
     The first guest was Rubens Barrichello, 38, a Brazilian Formula One racing driver of note who has competed in a record 297 Grand Prix, currently driving for the Williams stable. While the name was obviously familiar, I wouldn’t have recognised him if he was standing next to me at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon bar – but he turned out to be a most agreeable guest, a smashing sense of fun, and happy to laugh at himself as Clarkson endlessly took the piss – and he put in the fastest Formula One Star time in the old 'Reasonably Priced Car' (fastest of eight), beating the Stig by just .1 of a second. I enjoyed his child-like enthusiasm in wanting to know what his time was.
     But the second guest, the star in the new 'Reasonably Priced Car', was a Rupert Grint, one of the younger stars of the Harry Potter series - he played a 'wizard', apparently. Never heard of him – but he was also a watchable guest – and he again claimed the quickest time in this spot (fastest of 10). Amazing, two records in one episode.
     Anyway, Top Gear makes the Smile spot because of something Clarkson said to Rupert Grint. He kept winding up the young star regarding one of his fellow actors, or rather an actress called Emily Watson, who he apparently shared a kiss

Monday, July 12
World Cup vuvuzela echo: A kind of hush
LISTENING to Sarah Kennedy’s Dawn Patrol on Radio 2, just after the 5.30 news bulletin, I was hugely amused to hear the Carpenters and their soothing rendition of “There’s a kind of hush all over the world…”. No witty or wise comment from our Sarah apropos the irony of the song in the wake of the football, especially that truly dreadful World Cup Final last night - I actually toddled off to bed after 90 minutes. Thanks but no thanks.
     Whatever, shortly after "There's a kind of hush", I set off on my regular morning walk; as I leave the grounds of the cottage I pass a glorious lime tree that is currently in full bloom and which exudes a most powerful and seductive scent. But I stop, for what I can hear were those rampant vuvuzelas again. But actually, the tree is alive with the sound of music because all the local bees appear to be out on the early shift stripping the tree of its abundant pollen.
     Well, I assure you that those who described a stadium awash with vuvuzelas in full blast as being akin to a swarm of bees going berserk inside your head, were spot on. The juxtaposition is uncanny, except that nature’s effort is that much softer and infinitely more agreeable.

One final thought on the World Cup ... it has to be Paul the Octopus, the only faultless superstar of the World Cup with his remarkable run of predictions. Yes, the whole world is mad, except for thee and me – and I’m not too sure about thee! Still, you’ve got to smile. But what I like is the conspiracy theorists. On the radio today I heard someone suggest that somehow or other, Paul was being manipulated towards the correct flag.
     But hang on. That means a human being was actually making those astonishing predictions - on Paul's behalf. That’s even more impressive than a bloody octopus making the call.

Sunday, July 11
Here’s lookin’ at you
ENJOYING a lunchtime pint at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon, a few of us reminisce about the larger than life characters and their endlessly colourful tales that parade in front of us along the catwalk of life. More often than not you need to know the characters to appreciate the stories which surround them, but occasionally the image painted is so wonderful that it doesn’t matter if you don’t personally know them.
     So we recall Brian, approaching 60, comfortably well off - still a child at heart, and nothing wrong with that - deciding to celebrate pal Jeff’s 60^th birthday with something a little special. Jeff is a successful farmer, contractor, entrepreneur and all-round good egg. So Brian turns up on Jeff’s doorstep with a little plastic bag and a goldfish in it – you know, the sort of thing you could win at the funfair.
     When you recall such stories – their ages is what makes it so memorable – I appreciate how important it is to keep a record of these wonderfully characterful people who populate our lives.

Saturday, July 10
A sure thing
A PRIEST blesses four horses running in the first four races
at the nearby Ffos Las racecourse – and they all win. A local

Friday, July 9
What a mouth, what a mouth, what a north and south
“IT’S LIKE you knock over a glass of water at your neighbour’s house and the wife comes down and shoots the dog.” Celebrity Russell Brand describes the reaction to the incident when he and Jonathan Ross made a questionable telephone call to actor Andrew Sachs, and the sky duly fell in on both their heads.
     Proof, if proof were needed, that the second greatest truth ever uttered is this: Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make doolally.
     And just to prove the point, here’s another quote from Brand, on the challenges of married life now facing him: “You just can’t maraud through life having sex with whoever you’d like – which is a shame.”
     I smile and smile whenever he opens his mouth.

Thursday, July 8
Hold on tight
STUMBLED upon this Banksy image. He is so clever. And so very

Which brings me to today’s smile.

“When you open a couple of buttons and girls scream, you tend to open another one.” Singer Tom Jones.
   Sir Tom, Sir Tom, tell me about it. My experience articulated precisely. The trouble is, when I go on to open the third button the girls do indeed scream – but they also tend to slap me and shout “Keep your hands to yourself you sex maniac!”.
     In the next world I shall put my name down to return as a celebrity. Then I’ll be able to open buttons all over the shop, without any comeuppance. What is more, women will remove their knickers and throw them at me as a starter for ten.
     Oh happy days.

Tuesday, July 6
From non-dom to con-dom
“YOU don’t go into racing for the money. It’s a frightening burden at times, though I’m getting used to it.” Lewis Hamilton, Formula One driver.
     Hm, which is why, I presume, when he hit the big time back in 2007, he quit Britain to go into tax exile in Switzerland, and at a stroke became a non-dom (non-domiciled, meaning, British citizens with interest abroad do not pay tax on earnings made outside the United Kingdom). He will avoid a tax bill which will run into tens of millions over his career.
     Having in early life taken everything this country has to offer - healthcare, education, security, etc, etc – I love it when these people dedicate their lives to giving back as little as they can get away with. For non-dom, read con-dom, something handy to cover a little prick that doesn’t want to share. The love of money does indeed do terrible things to normally agreeable people.
     Oh yes, he claimed back in 2007 that living in the public eye forced him to move abroad, where he would be able to safeguard his privacy. Privacy? With his lifestyle? These celebs really must think that the rest of us came up the Irish sea on pogo sticks. Honestly! It really does make me laugh out loud.

Monday, July 5
Great opening line
I CATCH up with Mrs Mills from The Sunday Times’ Style magazine, she who solves all your problems at the gentle stroke of a keyboard. Here’s a Q & A that grabbed my undivided attention.

HER NAME IS TALLULAH

Sunday, July 4
Short shrift
“STUPID, sanctimonious dwarf.” What the health minister Simon Burns muttered under his breath at Commons Speaker, John Bercow. He later apologised.
     There’s something about Speaker Bercow that makes me feel rather uncomfortable. He has never stepped on my toes, but for some reason – call it an instinct for survival – he really rattles my cage and gets right up my nose.
     Anyway, I liked this follow-up quote to the “stupid, sanctimonious dwarf” bit...
“What a cruel remark it was. We live in the same world, Bercow and me: not big enough to play James Bond, not small enough to be adopted by Madonna.” Diminutive comedian, Ronnie Corbett, sympathises with Bercow.

Saturday, July 3
To do: write note, get arrested
WE BLOKES, apparently, have a fixation with making lists about this, that and the other. So men, let this be a warning, writ large... A drug dealer was arrested after police found 21g of cannabis plus a note he’d written listing his aims: “Sell push bike, go on the rob, sell weed, get a job.” Magistrates in Crawley, West Sussex, heard that Thomas Franks, aged 19, was desperate for money to fix his PlayStation.

Friday, July 2
Heads I win, tails you loose
Stumbled upon this exceedingly smiley, Obama-inspired, American ad for what I thought, at first glance, was a paper shredder. Brilliant.

Actually, it turns out that it’s the opposite: a tissue box. Or, if you are so minded, a toilet paper dispenser.

Thursday July 1
Three wheels on my wagon

     Big Jack, a 6ft-something, 20-stone-plus carpenter, owned a Reliant, and every time he clambered aboard you really did fear that the whole kit and caboodle would topple over without him ever moving from the spot.
     So Big Jack calls at a petrol station where car salesman and funny man Brian Rees was covering for his wife, who normally looked after the shop. As the fuel flowed (no self-fuelling back then), Brian decided to invoke a popular song of the time. “Do you feel totally safe with just three wheels on your wagon?” he casually enquired, knowing he was treading on quicksand. “Wotcha mean?” responded a surly Big Jack. “Well, if the Cherokees were after me I’d be dead worried that if I took a corner a bit too fast I’d tip over – and I’d be scalped while still singing a happy song.”
     Big Jack pulled himself up to his full height: “Look, if three wheels are good enough for Concorde then that's good enough for me.”

29^th June 2010
Threads...

Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides
                                                                                                                                 Lao Tzu, Chinese philosopher, 600BC-531BC

HOW strange that a bulletin posted a couple of months ago over on 400 Smiles A Day suddenly has relevance, albeit a badly-behaved fox running amok in London Town. Indeed, that fox attack, together with the dreadful mass shootings in Cumbria, unsurprisingly dominated the news headlines and radio phone-ins for a while thereafter.
     Following the fox incident involving twin baby girls while asleep at their home in Hackney, east London, ‘experts’ such as Simon King and Chris Packham of Springwatch fame planted subliminal doubts over the cause of the attack, mostly because in all the years they had studied foxes neither had ever witnessed or heard of such a thing. Whilst I accept absolutely their vast and entertaining knowledge of wildlife, you cannot be an expert on everything.

     To reiterate briefly, farmers will also confirm that, just as with humans and domestic pets, there are rogue individuals which are killing machines. Unlike a domestic dog though, which can be fairly easily identified, isolated and shot, an awful lot of foxes need to be taken out in the hope that the killer dog fox is one of them.
     Whilst we know there are quite a few unbalanced people bearing knives, guns and bombs lurking out there – the murderous Derrick Birds of Cumbria the most recent example – it is also true that beyond the patio doors prowls a Basil with a nasty twist in its Brush, just waiting to pounce.

Mention of the Cumbria killings, there's been many a debate regarding stricter gun control, that guns should only be held by those who are professionally licensed to kill foxes and the like. However, the unsurprising consensus among those who already hold a gun licence is that controls are tight enough as things are, indeed such killings are so rare that if it had been their child, grandchild, parent, grandparent, brother, sister, friend, colleague or hero shot by Derrick Bird, then that is the ultimate price they are prepared to pay to continue ownership of a gun as a plaything.
     Or at least that’s the way I read their acceptance of the status quo. Crazy world, crazy people.
 

I prefer temperance hotels – although they sell worse kinds of liquor than any other kind of hotels
                                                                                                                     Artemus Ward (Charles Farrar Browne), 1834-1867

WHEN I stumbled upon the above rather wonderful quote, the first thing that came to mind was substituting ‘temperance hotels’ for ‘political parties’. As it happens my previous bulletin here was posted just as yet another new political dawn was breaking over this old broken country of ours – no, it’s not that my glass is half empty, it’s just the growing doom and gloom warnings from our coalition government regarding the hard times ahead. The message is not even subliminal – it’s full frontal.
     And just as we prepare to batten down the hatches, news breaks that Fred ‘The Shred’ Goodwin – yes of course, you remember him, one of the many architects of the financial crisis, the shamed ex-boss of the Royal Bank of Scotland who cost the taxpayer £80billion and robbed thousands of workers of their jobs, yet walked away with a huge payout and a super-duper pension – anyway, 'The Shred' has just purchased one of Edinburgh’s most expensive properties (probably with moat, electrified fence and armed guards) for a cool £3.5million. Roll on the revolution.
     Be that as it may, shortly after the coalition got their show on the road, a couple of images caught my eye. The first is of PM David Cameron and Deputy PM Nick Clegg holding their first joint press conference on a sunshiny spring day in the garden of 10 Downing Street...
 

THEN there’s the dreadful environmental catastrophe in America, the Deepwater Horizon explosion, which continues to pour tens of millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. One thing that has rattled more than a few cages here in the UK is Obama’s take on the situation.
     George Bush, in the wake of the 9/11 tragedy, declared “We’re gonna get Bin Laden dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me” – all American Presidents are reckless cowboys at heart – and of course that led directly to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now Barack Obama wants to “kick someone’s ass”, starting with Tony Hayward, the chief executive of BP – or British Petroleum as he and the White House keep calling it, 12 years after it dropped the name. Ah yes, the power of the subliminal message.
     What are of interest are the revealing little nuggets of information that keep surfacing in the media, for example…

The Amoco ("American Oil Company") Cadiz disaster in 1978, when 220,000 tons (1.6 million barrels) of oil were deposited on the French coast in one fell swoop, the costs of which were estimated to be $250 million in damage to fisheries and tourist amenities. It took the French 12 years to get any money from the Americans – yet they received only $120 million.

Eight officials of the American company Union Carbide have just been convicted by an Indian court of causing "death by negligence" in the toxic gas leak at Bhopal in 1984, the world’s worst industrial catastrophe. Estimates vary on the death toll, but some 8,000 died within the first weeks, and another 8,000 have since died from gas-related diseases. Some 26 years after the gas leak, 390 tons of toxic chemicals abandoned at the UCIL plant continue to leak and pollute the groundwater in the region and affect thousands of Bhopal residents who depend on it, though there is some dispute as to whether the chemicals still stored at the site pose any continuing health hazard.

In 1988, 167 workers died when the Piper Alpha rig exploded in the North Sea. The main operator was the American firm Occidental. The £2 billion insured loss was paid largely by the Lloyd's of London insurance market.

It is the Americans who issued the licences to drill in the Gulf, who use the oil, who claim taxes from the oil giants, who made the equipment that failed – and of course who own 40 per cent of BP.

“It's awful - why did nobody see it coming?”
                                                                              The Queen, back in November 2008, gives her verdict on the global credit crunch
 

IT WAS a question which resonated with us common or garden surfs, baffled at why politicians, bankers and City experts – the so called ‘professionals’ paid huge salaries because if you want the best then only the best rewards will do – all failed to spot the financial ambush just over the horizon.
     Probably life's most depressing feature is the lack of inherent wisdom exhibited by the principal movers and shakers of our world. From Presidents and Prime Ministers, via bankers, CEOs, scientists and engineers, to journalists and columnists who sit in judgment on the aforementioned, nobody appears to be able to sense the inevitable ambush.

     For all his perceived intelligence and ability to talk the talk, Obama appears unable to walk the walk. The warning signs were there during his inauguration, when he had to be sworn-in a second time, in private. Both Obama and the Chief Justice would have known the oath backwards, but they clearly hadn’t done their homework – or more correctly, hadn't done a basic but essential trial run to know where one paused and the other took over. As any comedian will endorse, timing is everything. That Obama’s lack of wisdom failed to warn him was a warning writ large.
     As I learnt early in life, be sure to ignore the grand, sweeping, self-important statements that people make, it’s those spontaneous, throwaway lines that indicate the character of the individual (in Obama’s case, “I know whose arse to kick” joins up the dots rather perfectly).
     My take now is that Obama is just typical of those who rule over us. He is totally lacking inherent wisdom, something which will cost humanity dear. Even worst, he attempts to cover his weaknesses by becoming a bully - witness the way he publicly berates BP.

Smiles of the World Cup

The footie arrived with predictable fanfare. Adrian Chiles wittily introduced ITV’s coverage of the whole shebang thus:  “Hello folks. It’s arrived. It feels like Christmas morning when you’re a kid doesn’t it.” Which he followed up with: “If you’re a kid who’s bunked off school to watch this we can’t condone it … but we fully understand.”

Not all that long ago I recall reading a report claiming that aliens are already among us, disguised as humans. Personally I think they are all in television, softening us up with their subliminal dumbing-down, ready for the final push.

Back with Chiles and his “It feels like Christmas morning”: for England fans Christmas morning arrived with the game against the USA - but the gorgeous BMX they’d written to Santa about turned out to be an exercise bike clearly going nowhere (not helped by the ‘Hand of Clod’ headlines when goalkeeper Robert Green dropped the ball and watched it roll over the line).
     However, the typical England fan didn’t burst into tears because Santa, probably just like his or her dad, is a rotten old tease, and the BMX is obviously hidden in the next room i.e. the next game against Algeria.

IN THE meantime, a musical interlude. The 2010 World Cup will undoubtedly be remembered for the vuvuzela - in chorus they really do sound like a squadron of bees doing aerobatics inside your head - at least the sound coming out of the television sounds just like that. What it must be like sitting next to one going full blast really doesn't bear thinking about.
 

Football is a game in which 22 men run around for 90 minutes – and then the Germans win
                                                                                   Pundit Gary Lineker on the state of English football

Yes, predictably, England got thumped by the Germans. Monday morning’s headlines were also predictable and witty...
 

A couple of final thoughts on the footie, as well as the players and management: the first, a letter which appeared in The Times, submitted by a Roger Marsh of Morecambe in Lancashire:
Sir, Mathew Syed writes that the England national football team members are getting bored sitting around in their hotel, owing in no small part to Fabio Capello’s rigid training regimen. He quotes Wayne Rooney as stating that a typical day at the England HQ in Rustenburg consists of “breakfast, train, lunch, bed, dinner, bed”. Has Rooney (and other national team members for that matter) thought of reading a good book? But then again that’s a silly idea, isn’t it?

Hm, remembering that back in 2006 Wayne Rooney signed the biggest sports book deal in publishing history, when the then 20-year-old agreed a 12-year contract with HarperCollins to write a minimum of five books for an advance of £5m plus royalties - yes I know, crazy world, crazy people - it prompted me to submit this response to The Times...
Sit right down and write: Sir, Why should Wayne Rooney read a book? He has done what most contributors to this Letters page have never done, write a book. Indeed if the amount of money bandied about is anything to go by it has to be a tome awash with wit, wisdom and fellow footballers dribbling all over the place.
     I am reminded of one of my favourite exchanges from American sitcom Cheers!  Coach, the dopey but hugely loveable bartender, turns to bar owner Sam: “Tonight, after years of hard work, I hope to finish my book.”
     “Coach, you old devil,” responds a surprised Sam, “you never let on you were writing a book.”
     “I’m not writing a book,” says a startled Coach, “I’m just reading one.”

Sadly, it didn't make the cut. Oh yes, Rooney’s books are ghosted by writer Hunter Davies – in common or garden speak that means that the footballer won’t actually be writing a word himself. To repeat myself, crazy world, crazy people.

And secondly, on the England manager, Fabio Capello, a letter in the Telegraph, from T D Neville of London Town:

SIR – "We trained hard; but every time we were beginning to form teams we would be reorganised. I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganising; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency and demoralisation," said Petronius, in the first century AD.
     Perhaps Fabio Capello should have studied the writing of his countryman.
 

Get your kit off, love - you're booked
 

HOWEVER, my favourite smile thus far surrounds the Dutch fans ejected for wearing mini-dresses...
     FIFA ejected 36 female Netherlands fans from their World Cup match with Denmark for wearing an orange mini-dress designed by a beer company. The dresses were made by Bavaria Beer and despite the outfits containing no branding, except tiny ‘Bavaria’ tabs near the hemline, the organisers said it was against their rules on "ambush marketing".
     What a wonderful expression: ambush marketing. Especially as life is one big ambush anyway – see England footballers.
 

Now you'd think that Sepp Blatter would spend a little more time protecting the brand of football itself - see above re disallowed goal - than being obsessed with ambush marketing. I mean, the thing is Bavaria beer has enjoyed the sort of publicity that money really can't buy. And just to add my halfpennyworth...

Lovely jubbly, or whatever the appropriate expression is for Bavaria Beer.
     In future we can look forward to ever more ingenious methods of ambush marketing as brands grasp the enormity of the publicity to be gained. Cheers! Here's lookin' at you, Bavaria.

PS. Just as I'm about to post this bulletin, news that Sepp Blatter has apologised to England for the AWOR goal (absent without reason but without intending to look stupid) - oh, and Mexico regarding an outrageous off-side goal that should never have been allowed against them - and he also announced that FIFA will after all now explore further the use of goal-line technology. Hallelujah!

PPS. With the shamed England squad now back on a level playing field in dear old Blighty, I couldn't resist this to round things off...

Early doors
 

Election Day, 6^th May 2010 – and counting...
Good Day for a Hanging

We must indeed all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately
                                                                                 Benjamin Franklin: Remark at signing of Declaration of Independence, 4 July 1776
 

I paraphrase the above World War 2 song because, over the May Day bank holiday weekend preceding Election Day, BBC2 had a Dad’s Army weekend. It featured the first ever episode, broadcast in 1968, in black and white, followed by the Dad’s Army 1971 feature film, and all rounded off with the documentary Don’t Panic: The Dad’s Army Story.
     It’s an astonishing 33 years since the squad hung up their uniforms – and the humour hasn’t dated to this day. Repeats still feature in BBC2’s list of Top Ten rated shows. Truly remarkable.
     As I watched the Dad’s Army tributes I was struck by the notion of life imitating art – imitating life i.e. Home Guard at Westminster-on-Thames. So much so I submitted a letter for publication – but unfortunately the editor did not share my off-beat view of the political world. I show the letter here, as submitted, prior to the election – and I highlight that because hindsight is a wonderful tool. Anyway, here goes – but first, a reminder of the TV series’ central characters, seen here as chess pieces...

You'll remain as hostage here.
Should wit and wisdom disappear,
They will hang you never fear,
Most politely, most politely, most politely!
                                                                                                         With apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan’s Princess Ida

“Nick: I'll just be hanging round the mistletoe, hoping to be kissed.”
                                                                                                                                               Paraphrased from Love Actually

RIGHT, confession time: I was one of the 35% of the electorate who did not vote. In fact I can’t remember when I voted in a General Election – which brings me to a letter in one of the newspapers the morning after David Cameron became PM:
SIR – The Tories are reported to have lost key marginal seats by just 16,000 votes. What do we have to say about the
16 million eligible people who did not care enough to so much as cast a vote?
Peter Sheppard, Bleary, Co Armagh

So here's a response from someone who clearly does not care quite enough...

To vote or not to vote: I am one of the 16 million or so who did not vote on May 6, so I guess those who did deserve an insight into the mind of a non-voter.
     In a democracy an election is a time when I am allowed, indeed encouraged, to be totally selfish. I need think only of myself – all you lot out there have your own crosses to bear. Given my modest but contended station in life, and having pondered the options – mostly what I could hear were three cuckoos discussing how they were hoping to lay jumbo sized eggs in our cosy little nests – I concluded that it would make not a jot of difference to me which party occupied No 10. I certainly never considered that a coalition would be on the cards. Indeed, as someone who does not even boast an honours degree in hindsight, let alone foresight, I am still not sure what I would have done.
     Be that as it may, and with a glorious rainbow over London Town as Cameron entered the Palace to meet the Queen, I certainly threw some metaphorical confetti over the coalition.
     As usual, and for better or for worse, Shakespeare has a useful expression to hand: Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.

Everyone has an invisible sign hanging from their neck saying: 'Make me feel important.'
Never forget this message when working with people.
                                                                                                                                 Mary Kay Ash

SOME OTHER letters caught the eye during the public hanging. This from Richard Longthorp of Howden in East Yorkshire:
I note that all three major party leaders say that what we need now is a government that will govern in the "national interest", almost as though this is a novel concept. Who else's interest would they govern for? Not their own surely?

This delightful one from Richard Nash of London E1: I see that David Barnes, the Independent English Delegate candidate for the Hertford and Stortford seat, polled no votes. Truly independent – he appears not to have voted for himself.

And of course, a taste of the arguments ahead apropos proportional representation. This from Jeremy Goldsmith of Newark-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire: If parliamentary seats were allocated to parties on the basis of votes cast across the country, the Liberal Democrats would be delighted with their total of 150 seats. However, the public may be surprised to discover that the British National Party would have received 12 seats, and the UK Independence Party 20, even though in no single contest did either party rank higher than third. Plaid Cymru, on the other hand, would have no seats – it currently holds three. Thus, proportional representation would reward parties which hold extreme and unrealistic political views, when no constituency would be happy to have such a party representing it in Parliament.

And finally, this from Mandy Sivers from Munich, Bavaria, Germany: Is it too much to hope that there will be discussion about the various versions of PR before it becomes an icon in the minds of the public, which is either accepted or rejected without discussion? Boris Johnson was elected Mayor of London by one version – Germany uses another. There are worlds between. We need to know before we can decide.
 

Change is the only constant. Hanging on is the only sin.
                                                                                                                  Denise McCluggage
 

IT WAS inevitable that Gordon Brown would have to let go the reins sooner rather than later. Following his resignation as PM, it was fascinating to hear Peter Hain describe his statement as one of dignity and courage. Elaine Morgan, who writes ‘The Pensioner’ column in the Western Mail, described him as a leader who won respect by “his transparent decency, intelligence, hard work and public spirit”.
     As is obvious from my non-vote, I am not a political animal, but as I’ve pointed out previously, I never rated Brown because of how he shafted our pensions. When he first came to power he knew the country was sitting on a pensions timebomb: people living ever longer and putting intense pressure on funds to pay the nation’s old age pensions; the intolerable burden being transferred onto the next generation by index-linked public pensions; and private individuals simply not pumping enough money into their own private pension funds to secure a reasonable old age.
     Yet, the first thing he did was siphon a staggering £5 billion a year from our private pension funds (something akin to what crook Robert Maxwell did to his staff pension funds) – and then the following year Brown increased his and other MPs’ pensions by nearly 25%. Elaine Morgan and Peter Hain may kiss Brown's feet, but personally, Brown is the very last person in the world I'd hand over a blank, signed cheque to. When it comes to power, he is a man without ethics.
     Oh yes, dignity and courage? Hm, dignity, of course, how else would he have behaved? But courage? Now is that courage as displayed by our troops in Afghanistan fighting on his behalf? Or courage as when he smiled and was all sweetness and light to Gillian Duffy’s face – but ruthlessly rubbishing her with his "bigoted" comment as soon as her back was turned?

Smiles of the Hanging

David Dimbleby on helicopter shots of David Cameron's motorcade: "Don't you just love pictures of cars. Cars driving along motorways. It's wonderful."
Paddy Ashdown the morning after E-Day: “The British people have spoken, but we don’t know what they’ve said yet.”
Lembit Opik, confronted by a journalist after losing his ‘safe’ seat: “Commiserations.” “Thank you, I deserve them.”
     Mind you, I did admire Opik for going on Have I Got News For You the night after being dumped, knowing he would be mercilessly pilloried. And as it happens, he also gave us a brief burst of mouth organ music during the show – hence the aforementioned reference to Arthur Tolcher of Morecambe and Wise fame.
Bryony Gordon, a smiley scribbler of London Town, asked by a ‘small, round Spanish woman’ in St James’s Park to “tell me way to Daveeed Cameron please?”: “Turn right, keep on turning right, and then do a U-turn left, cuddling lots of trees as you go.” Sadly she only just thought about it ... she was afraid the woman wouldn’t get the joke. Good one though.
Bruce Forsyth invites the audience on the BBC’s election night programme to respond: “Nice to see you... ...”
Which they did - exceedingly half-heartedly. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry – which is why at that point I turned off the telly and scuttled off to bed.
     And of course there’s that wonderful exchange between Adam Boulton of Sky News and Alastair Campbell, Labour's head witch doctor - oops! - spin doctor. Watch it on You Tube: Adam Boulton (Sky News) v Alastair Campbell (Labour).

     Oh yes, to paraphrase one individual’s take on things: many commentators and activists approach the coalition in the vein of a Scotsman being forced to say nice things about an Englishman. Something which Gordon Brown had to do all the time - which perhaps explains his duplicity. Damn. I had closed the book on Brown.

I SHALL round off this bulletin with an XXL smile, something which relates to the previous bulletin, as discussed directly below – namely the dreadful to-do over the ongoing volcanic eruption in Iceland. It’s a letter from The Times...

ASH TIP: An easy way to remember the name of the Icelandic volcano
Sir, The continued problems of atmospheric ash from Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano make it increasingly important to be able to remember the name. May I suggest a somewhat bucolic “Hey, a fella’ yokel”.
Dr Robert Bruce-Chwatt, Richmond, Surrey

I did enjoy that – but I loved this online response even better...

Cane Blake wrote:
Thank you indeed Dr Robert, now all we need is a similar device for the latter part of your surname.
May 10, 2010 6:40 PM BST on community.timesonline.co.uk

2010: Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!
National and international distress 'events'

Everyone called Prime Minister Gordon Brown will be world-infamous for 16 minutes

10.30 on 28/4/10 “I used to make him lay the table too until I realised one day, once all the guests were already seated, that the reason I didn’t recognise the tablecloth was because he’d laid all the places on top of a checked duvet cover.” Sarah Brown on her husband the Prime Minister.
     Perusing the Western Mail while enjoying a cup of coffee after returning from my morning walk, I see the above quote in the newspaper’s They said what? column – and it makes me smile. All I know of Sarah Brown is what I see in the shop window, the media – and I have to say I don’t object to what I see. Similarly Samantha Cameron and Miriam Clegg, all agreeably modern women. Unlike Cherie Booth, QC. Now I don’t hate Mrs Blair, I can’t even say I dislike her – she has never personally stepped on my toes – but much to my chagrin I feel no affection whatsoever for the woman. I have no excuses except my instinct for survival.
     Anyway, back with Sarah Brown ... after briefly contemplating a Mrs Merton sort of question: "So, what first attracted you to the prime minister-in-waiting, Sarah?" – and failing to come up with an answer – what happens next could best be described as…

Brown’s Barmy Barney
11.40 Gordon Brown, while on a common-or-garden walkabout, meets an ordinary woman living on an ordinary street going about her ordinary business of buying a loaf for lunch. Her name is Gillian Duffy. She could be anyone’s much loved mum or grandmum. Gillian Duffy and Gordon Brown have, what appears to those who stand and stare, to be a perfectly civilised conversation, even including the dodgy bit about immigration.

11.45 Gordon Brown gets back in his official car and concludes, confusingly, that the encounter was a total disaster. A radio mike records his conversation with his communications director Justin Forsyth – and for the next hour he should begin to feel like Chicken Licken as the Sky* starts to fall on his head.
   * Even though it was a pooled mike – the captured conversation available to all broadcasters – it just happens that the actual equipment belonged to Rupert Murdoch’s Sky News. Hence the Sky falling on his head.
     Oh yes, if you recall, Chicken Licken and friends meet up with Foxy Loxy – who gobbles them all up and they never get to see the King to tell him that the sky had fallen. By another coincidence, Fox News also belongs to Rupert Murdoch. Say nothing is best.

[When I first heard of Brown using the word ‘bigoted’, I wasn’t all that sure what it meant – I had an idea, obviously, but it’s a word I can’t say I’ve ever used; as if by magic, the following day this helpful letter, from a Vic Parkes of Witney in Oxfordshire, appeared in the Daily Telegraph: SIR – My dictionary tells me that a bigot is "a person blindly and obstinately devoted to a set of ideas, creed or political party, and dismissive towards others". Why is it that the words "pot" and "kettle" spring to mind?]

What happens next will enter political infamy (Brown: “Infamy, infamy, God’s got it in for me.”). The series of events are well captured by the Daily Mail’s online newspaper, where each twist and turn is captured, with the time shown thereon. The two most memorable images are those below. The first, the precise moment when Gillian Duffy learns what Gordon Brown has said about her, behind her back - with an expression to die for - which is precisely what happens...
 

     What happened over the next six days, with all airspace closed, is well documented. One letter I saw from a D G Dudley of St Asaph in North Wales noted all those jumbo jets lifeless on the ground – and wondered if we were seeing a second mass extinction of dinosaurs?
     Anyway, come Saturday the 24^th and all the grounded planes are flying high once more, catching up with all the grounded passengers dotted about the globe, but as a direct consequence I experience a remarkable ‘weather’ phenomenon.
     The Saturday forecast had promised one of those picture-perfect days: blue skies and a gentle southerly breeze generating a splendid spring-like day – with cloud moving in during the evening and overnight to give a dampish Sunday.
     Now I leave home on my early-morning walk about 30 minutes or so before sunrise – it’s the best time of day to catch life on the wild side – see 400 Smiles A Day for some prime examples - however, that morning, the moment I set off there was something not quite right. Why all the cloud cover?
     Here in Llandeilo we lie directly under the Green air lane which handles traffic between the UK, Ireland and all points west. From first thing that Saturday morning, I couldn’t help but notice the intense volume of aircraft coming in from the west. What drew my attention were the contrails which, due to the prevailing air temperature up there at around 30,000 feet, were not disappearing into thin air as per usual, but merely dispersing gently in a northerly direction. The effect was disturbingly spectacular, giving a hazy,  ‘white cloud’ cover – there was clear blue sky to the south of the air lane, just as the forecast had promised.
     Here's an image from that morning, confirming the effect of the contrails...
 

"WELL, you can't have come far." How Prince Philip adapted the traditional royal greeting - "Have you come far?" - when the planes were grounded.

AS I prepare this bulletin, the Jamie Owen & Louise Elliott show on Radio Wales is on in the background. I pause to listen because they’ve just launched a ‘Grow your own marrow’ challenge, and invited listeners to join in, obviously. They have, of course, called it a Marrowthon, ho, ho, ho! Listeners are already climbing onto their beds and planting away, one lady has even christened her potential winner Fia Marrow. Marrow-vellous.

Easter Weekend 2010
In like a lamb, out like a lion – with some cock-a-doodle-do along the way

STOP PRESS: 07.54, Easter Monday - Solitaire, bell of the ball, makes her grand appearance (see Smiles of the Day)

BUT, FIRST THINGS FIRST: Every day is a day at school, just as it promises on the tin, right? Right, so...
 

Spot the deliberate errors (or rather, spot the Antonym Charles Lynton Blair)
 

Before leaving the mucky world of politics, I enjoyed this letter in the Telegraph, from a Phil Holbrook of Cardiff:
All elected bodies are like socks. If they are not changed regularly they become unpleasant.

Yes, and if Tony Blair is anything to go by, they also become exceedingly 'holey'.

Crash course
ANYWAY, back to business: coming up shortly is a link to last November, a piece titled “Birth ... Passage ... Death” (life and death – including the journey in-between – as captured in the Towy Valley), in particular, the curious case of the handsome little pied wagtail that kept attacking my car, all tweets blazing.
     Before we go there, the feature I did back then came back to me just last week while listening to Radio 2’s Dawn Patrol with Sarah Kennedy. She mentioned a Hampshire couple who had contacted her regarding some house sparrows that had taken up hostilities against their two cars, or more correctly, the cars’ side mirrors and windscreens, and in the process leaving lots of unwelcome deposits all over the vehicles. So bad has the problem become they now have to cover the mirrors to stop the birds attacking them. However, the wee things have countered and taken to landing on the mirrors as they motor up the short drive to their house.
     But here’s the thing: the birds totally ignore their neighbours’ vehicles. Why should this be? Sarah concluded that while the birds were obviously attacking their own reflections - the expression bird-brained springs to mind - she had no idea why

Counting my Easter eggs and chicks...
 

Every Which Way Radio

MY PREVIOUS bulletin was posted on St Patrick’s Day, but in the bulletin before that, I’d included the letter I’d had published in The Times newspaper headlined Radio My Way, where I pointed out that, as a fan of popular, middle-of-the-road music, I’ve been able to shape my own personalised radio station compliments of the BBC’s iPlayer, and that one of my favourite shows is Radio Ulster’s Sunday Club. Imagine my surprise then when I heard my name mentioned on the Sunday Club: a regular listener, Bill Green, had sent Club president and show host, John Bennett, the Letters page from The Times, so I dropped Sunday Club a few lines to introduce myself – which John duly acknowledged on his show, even gave this web site a mention. Thanks, John.
     One of the songs John played on that particular show was Max Bygraves’ Toothbrush song (I’m a pink toothbrush, you’re a blue toothbrush). My goodness, my Guinness, whenever I hear these old treasures it whisks me back to childhood and Children’s Favourites on the wireless. Ah yes, Uncle Mac on the old Light Programme (the forerunner to Radio 2).
     With a smile on my face I typed Uncle Mac into Google ... and duly landed on Whirligig, where it lists many of the songs featured on the show: The Laughing Policeman, Twenty Tiny Fingers, Little Red Monkey, Hoots Mon (more of which later), and on and on … I commend to the house a quick scroll/stroll down memory lane. So many treasures, songs specifically aimed at my generation’s delightful innocence – and still enjoyed by those who loved them back then.
     Indeed I distinctly remember Derek McCulloch (Uncle Mac) on one show apologising profusely about the record he was about to play – but, he added, music tastes were achanging and Children’s Favourites had to reflect the times. I am as sure as sure can be that it was an Elvis song.
     Sadly, childhood now appears to have been cancelled, so no more Davy Crockett (Born on a mountain top in Tennessee), Robin Hood (Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen), Three Wheels on My Wagon (and I’m still rollin’ along!) – oh, and who could forget Charlie Drake’s Please Mr Custer (shrieks and ‘Red Indian noises’ in the background: "Please Mr Custer, I don’t wanna go..."). Boys will be boys, eh?
     It makes me realise just how lucky my generation was because our songs of innocence effortlessly morphed into Bill Haley and His Comets, Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones … Truly the best of both worlds. 
 

Returning to Max Bygraves' Toothbrush song, it takes me back nearly three years when, in the middle of the bluebell season, I’d come upon some white bluebells, and the first thing that came to mind was “You’re a pink toothbrush, I’m a blue toothbrush” – so I adapted the words to match. I think it’s worth a repeat, with picture to match - the picture is last year's mind, for this spring's bluebells are running way behind schedule after our cold winter ... however, see Smiles of the Day, below, for they are coming up smartly on the rails...
 

"Don't knock the weather. If it didn't change once in a while,
 nine out of ten people couldn't start a conversation."
                                                                                                                                                    Kin Hubbard (1868-1930)

AS A LAD on the farm I recall a slice of weather lore: "If March comes in like a lion, it’ll go out like a lamb" - or indeed, "If April comes in like a lamb, it’ll go out like a lion". Statistics insist that we are more likely to have a white Easter than a white Christmas – over the past 50 years, according to Paul Simons in The Times, it has snowed over the Easter weekend 13 times. Indeed, in this part of the world, the Black Mountain and the Carmarthenshire Fans were distinctly white on Good Friday morning – but clear of snow by Saturday.
     Anyway, back with that piece of weather lore regarding the lamb and the lion. Here’s what the weather entry in my diary said on March 1: Clear, moonlit and frosty first thing, mist developing towards sunrise, a coldish and misty morning, sunny by late morning – then a beautiful but chilly rest of day. All very lamb-ish, then.
     And the entry for March 31? Very wet and windy start and morning, much colder with rain and sleet, snow on higher ground. A really cold day with sleet and heavy snow showers all day, but not sticking – much snow about on higher ground... Indeed, this was the day when a 17 year-old Scottish schoolgirl was killed in a bus crash due to the snow; widespread chaos and power cuts in Northern Ireland; here in Wales we got away with just a few closed roads over high ground, such as the Black Mountain. And it was the first day of 2010 for the weather to cancel my morning walk.
     There has probably never been a more clear-cut example of “In like a lamb, out like a lion”.

On Easter Saturday I captured the picture coming up. With the hardest winter for 30-odd years, the noticeable difference this year is the grey, anaemic look of the fields. Farmers have an ambivalence regarding a really cold and frosty winter: the bitter weather and snow covering certainly gives the ground a rest and kills off many unwelcome bugs; on the other hand, farming becomes exceedingly difficult and a burden what with frozen water pipes and stock having to be fed.
     With temperatures slowly rising during March, nature suddenly sprung into action. Fields which have been bare of stock take on a lush, fresh look, while fields where stock, such as sheep, have grazed all winter, retain their sickly hue.

In this photograph of land just across the valley from where I live, you can see the field which hasn’t yet had a chance to recover due to grazing stock - the sheep are still there - while the surrounding fields, which have remained stock free (and, incidentally, not yet had any fertiliser applied to give the grass a boost - too early and too cold), are up and running.
     The power of nature to recover, eh?

A memorable image
Today, April 5, space shuttle Discovery was launched to rendezvous with the International Space Station (ISS). Only three such missions remain before all the shuttles are retired, and quite what happens afterwards nobody is quite sure because the Russian Soyuz spacecraft can only deliver and retrieve tiny amounts of cargo compared to the shuttle. Also, the shuttle carries seven astronauts, compared to only three on Soyuz. On this mission there are three female astronauts, who will join up with a fourth already on the ISS, which will make history as the first mission with four women.
     A couple of curious facts: a Soyuz Expedition was launched last Friday, April 2, to dock with the ISS; secondly, the ISS

A loose moose
ALREADY mentioned in these despatches are a couple of letters from the Telegraph newspaper, but here’s part of a piece by columnist Bryony Gordon who, “was enjoying a goblet of foul-tasting bitter in her local when a DrinkAware poster on the wall ruined it”.
     Apart from her article reminding me of my own local Crazy Horse Saloon (before it morphed into the Crazy Horsepower Saloon), something quite amusing came to pass as a consequence of what I read. I quote from her article...

To the pub, where the air is thick with dust, testosterone, and the lingering smell of carpet that was last cleaned in 1983. The pub has an in-house covers band, whose members are exclusively middle-aged and male. They specialise in reinterpreting the work of Bruce Springsteen.
     There are three types of fruit machine, and a computer that allows you to play golf without actually playing golf. As actually playing golf has always struck me as a peculiar way to pass your time, this machine seems like an oddity, a massive metal waste of space.
     There are guest ales. Oh how I love the idea of guest ales, if not necessarily the taste. It's like a flagon of beer turning up to stay for the weekend. And in the windows, a lovely touch: some insects who have been dead so long that they have fossilised and become one with the pub.
     Yes, I like this place. I am happy here, with my goblet of foul-tasting bitter, the sound of Born in the USA ringing in my ears and the wings of dead moths on my coat. But there is just one problem, and that problem is the poster on that wall over there.
     It's not a big poster – it's no larger than a sheet of A4 paper – but it's difficult to ignore, such is its message. On it is a funny pair of spectacles and their case, which is inscribed with the motto: "Cupid & Sons: distorting reality since 10,000BC." These spectacles, you see, are beer goggles! Ho, ho. And under these beer goggles are the words: "Afraid you'll pull a moose? Stay focused by pacing your drinks."
     Well, it took several members of the in-house band to stop me tearing this poster from the wall ("No no! They'll spit in your guest ale if they see you!"). The moose poster had been produced by DrinkAware, the charity which promotes safer drinking and is funded by the alcohol industry...

All the above made me smile - as I say, you'll find Bryony hanging out in the Telegraph. Anyway, she goes on to rubbish linking a moose with sexual hang-ups, and concludes thus:

In this campaign, DrinkAware has failed to realise that the whole reason young people get blind drunk is to pull indiscriminately – a moose, an elk, a reindeer... anything at all, really. When you are young, you drink to get drunk and you get drunk to get laid. There is no other way.
 

     But here’s the funny thing, especially as I’ve been rabbiting on about all those old songs transporting me down memory lane: the first thing that came to mind reading Bryony Gordon's piece was "hoots mon, there's a moose loose, aboot this hoose” – yes I know, a different sort of “moose”, but let’s not quibble about such a small detail.



Back on Google and You Tube I serendipitously trip over Lord Rockingham’s XI performing Hoots Mon. Talk about never being properly dressed without a smile. A wonderfully cheery song, with just two lines of lyrics: "Hoots mon, there’s a moose loose, aboot this hoose" and "Hoots mon, it’s a bracht, bricht, moonlit nicht".

Right, here's the amusing bit I referred to at the top of this particular segment: while searching the internet for a suitable image of a female moose, I stumbled upon a web site selling - ta-rah! - inflatable female moose – honest, I do not lie, and here she is, the gorgeous creature. The mind boggles...

This all reminds me of burly British actor Oliver Reed, who juggled over 60 film roles in 40 years, including a full-blooded social life of women, booze, and bar fights (“I have two ambitions in life: one is to drink every pub dry, the other is to sleep with every woman on earth”); in particular, his appearance on Desert Island Discs, especially his Luxury request (in addition to the eight records, the castaway can select a book and a luxury item which must be inanimate and have no practical use), and he of course chose a blow-up woman. Wonderful.
     Mind you, if ever I have to lie down in a darkened room, a blow-up doll, I’d have thought, would have some very practical use. But back to the blow-up moose ... concentrate now...

Yes of course, it's perfectly obvious – they use them as decoys when hunting – see above, the blow-up doll in action. Every day a day at school. Hoots mon, there's a hot moose loose...
     So the last word on the subject goes to this online piece about Oliver Reed: Whether he was brawling with the Cardinal's guards as Athos in The Three Musketeers or staggering his way through singing The Wild One on a TV chat show, there can be little doubt that Oliver Reed never did anything half-heartedly.
     "Life should be lived and that's all there is to it", he once remarked - and he certainly lived his life with a gusto that has rarely been equalled.

Wake up call

When I first heard the expression "labradoodle", I thought, hm, it must be someone with an honours degree in chemistry who doodles Bunsen burners and test tubes - but it turned out to be a dog, a cross Labrador retriever and standard poodle.
     Listening to Owen Money over the weekend, he told the tale of a couple from Merthyr who travelled to the West Country to buy a labradoodle puppy. Sadly, all had been sold - but, with much enthusiasm the breeder informed the disappointed couple that he had succeeded in crossing a cocker spaniel with a poodle: "Will a cockerdoodle do?"

Bluebell girl

Finally, the stop press "Solitaire" news at the top. As annually reported in these bulletins, I’ve developed a great interest in the appearance of the first bluebell of the season, a true harbinger of spring to my mind. There's one particular spot where I annually keep a sharp eye out for a particular bluebell which is always first off the mark. I fondly call her Solitaire.

Saint Patrick’s Day (17^th March 2010)
“Holy, Holy, Holy! all the Saints adore Thee...”

IN MY PREVIOUS bulletin I pondered why the 1^st of March, the day we celebrate Wales’s patron saint, is not a public holiday – or a bank holiday as we call such days – and if it were, would it raise the nation’s profile. Well of course it would, silly.

On a more general level, in the not too distant future, the devastating subliminal effect of endless television and radio broadcasts coming into our homes and vehicles as background wallpaper will become apparent.
     After all, when you have trash people churning out endlessly trashy stuff it should come as no surprise that we all become trash eventually.

Smile of St Patrick’s Day
IN KEEPING with things Irish and the game of rugby, just heard this delightful tale about the legendary Irishman Tony O’Reilly, international businessman and former international rugby union player (capped between 1955 and 1970), and generally regarded as one of humanity’s genuinely larger-than-life characters – but first things first:

SIR ANTHONY JOSEPH FRANCIS O'REILLY, (born 7 May 1936, Dublin, Ireland). He is known for his dominance of the Independent News & Media Group, which he led from 1973 to 2009, and as former CEO and Chairman of the H.J. Heinz Company. He was the leading shareholder of Waterford Wedgwood. Perhaps Ireland's first billionaire, he remains one of Ireland's richest citizens.
    As a rugby player he represented Ireland, the British and Irish Lions, as well as the Barbarians. With six children and 19 grandchildren, and married for the second time, to a Greek shipping heiress and horse breeder, he lives primarily in Lyford Cay in the Bahamas, and Kilcullen in Ireland, with frequent stays at Glandore.
     Known for his typically Irish charm, wit and turn of phrase, this tale from his rugby days ... Having not played a game for a while and consequently a bit out of shape, just before leaving the changing room and  running onto the field one of his team-mates registers the strong smell of liniment and  remarks rather jocularly that O'Reilly smells like a hospital's accident and emergency department:
     “I always use an excess of embrocation,” O’Reilly responds, “working on the theory that if you’re not fit, then you should smell fit.”
     As it says on the tin: “Holy, Holy, Holy! all the Saints adore Thee...”

2010: Saith diwrnod ym mis Mawrth (Seven days in the month of March)
Dechrau gyda Dydd Gŵyl Dewi (Starting with Saint David’s Day)
Back to square one

THIS IS where I came in, the first day of March, all of three years ago...

Headline of the day from the Western Mail
Unanimous call for St David’s Day holiday
A CALL to declare St David’s Day a public holiday has received all-party support in the National Assembly. Politicians across the four parties yesterday agreed that the Assembly should take the lead in campaigning for March 1 to be made a national holiday. Assembly Member for South Wales Central, Owen John Thomas, said that a public holiday on March 1 would raise Wales’s profile as a nation...

No, that wasn’t from the St David’s Day Western Mail – well, actually, yes it was, but it was lurking in the newspaper’s daily Retro Report, and dated – ta-rah! – March 2000.
     So here we are, ten years on, and still no public holiday. However...

if a real emergency cropped up, even on my two bank holidays, I’d still jump to attention. Truth to tell it’s a rather civilised way of working – but you don’t make much money, just about enough to live on and put a little bit aside, not so much for a rainy day, more a showery one - which rather suits me and my modest needs.
     After all, it’s the actual journey through time that counts, not the mode of transport, or how many possessions you have piled up in the trailer behind. And anyway, you can’t take your wealth with you, all you can do is hand it on for someone else to piss it up against the wall.

“Meddle not in the affairs of the dragon; for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.”

incidentally, if you’re puzzled by the gold bands included in some of the flags you'll see, that colour represents the Flag of St David - or St David's Cross - which many regard as an alternative Welsh flag, below...



Oh yes, be sure to read some of the comments, especially those from readers who are, um, not Welsh...

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/personal-view/3644508/Vote-for-your-favourite-Union-flag.html

"It's not the size of the dreamer, it's the size of the dream"
While on the subject of Wales, this was an amusing letter in the Telegraph...

As someone who enjoys classic, middle-of-the-road music, oh how I empathised.
     Yes, I was there: sex (invented in 1963, I seem to recall, but some
lucky sod nicked my fair share), drugs (still a virgin) and rock ‘n’ roll

Radio Me: Sir, I abandoned Radio 2 as my default station when it became the swinging parent of Radio 1. However, a dedicated national music station serving the older listener already exists. It is called iPlayer. A gentle trawl of national radio makes it possible to fashion your very own station, based on the sounds you enjoy.
     For example: Radio Wales has A String of Pearls (popular music from the start of radio broadcasting to the Fifties), one of the station’s most listened-to programmes, and Money for Nothing (music from the Fifties to the early Eighties). Even Radio Cymru and Radio nan Gaidheal play easy-listening music that transcends the language barrier; Radio Ulster has Sunday Club (classic middle-of-the-road stuff). There really is an Aladdin’s cave of period music hiding out there.
     It is curious that the Celts are in touch with the music of the older listeners’ formative years while network radio is not. But the tragedy is that those who have missed out most on the move to contemporary music, driven by personality presenters, are the elderly, most of whom have decided to bypass computers. There again, what do the spotty kids who run Radio 2 care about them?

And it was published. But here’s the best bit: I’ve mentioned before how I enjoy playing sub-editor, creating snappy little headlines for each change of tack – which I’m not very good at, but hopefully learning as I go along. Anyway, I’d headed the above letter Radio Me, which I thought quite good – but The Times changed it to Radio My Way. Brilliant. Leave it to the professionals.

The dragon queen
SO WHAT else infiltrated my thoughts during the first week of March?

Well, Wales duly lost against France in the rugby after gifting them a 20-point start, compliments of a couple of interception tries. Made all the worst because in the fight-back against England a few weeks previous, the boys again threw an interception pass which pushed the game beyond them. So...

Important to be earnest
Oh dear, French Exocets on an intercept course... To paraphrase Lady Bracknell: To throw one interception pass in a Six Nations series, Mr Gatland (Wales’ rugby coach), may be regarded as a misfortune; to throw two looks like carelessness; to throw three indicates an eye on the ball but not the opposition; to throw any more will suggest that the other nations have already read the book I was about to write: The Human Condition: Creatures of Habit (or how to head ‘em off at the pass).
 

A toll storey
I really am unsure what to make of this proposed giant dragon perched atop a launch-pad tower up there in Chirk, North Wales. Will it be some sort of tollbooth?
     Anyway, I duly cut out Page 3 of the Western Mail dated April 1 – oops! – March 2, and pinned it on the wall. Makes a nice change having a proper dragon pouting at me from Page 3 – but I tell you what, it strikes me as a bit effeminate, a limp-wristed dragon: more “Shut that

When Blair, Brown and Campbell appear on Desert Island Discs, one record they will never take with them to the Island is Curtis Stigers' You're all that matters to me. Well, the opening line goes: "I make mistakes like any man..."
     Also, the Letters columns are wonderful character references; a couple from the Telegraph appeared under the headline...

Senior officers called the Prime Minister's remarks disingenuous
SIR – Gordon Brown's evidence to the Chilcot Inquiry was "disingenuous", according to senior military officers. Surely he should be asked to return and answer the points made.
Joe Goodhart, Kirby Underdale, East Yorkshire

SIR – I was a little unsure of the precise meaning of disingenuous, but my thesaurus helped me out. Choose from the following: "crafty, deceitful, designing, dishonest, double-dealing, duplicitous, fallacious, false, fraudulent, hypocritical, insincere, treacherous, tricky, two-faced, underhand, untrustworthy".
Keith G. Donnison, Welwyn, Hertfordshire

Double ouch! Anyway, talking of schadenfreude...

Schadenfreude moment of the year (thus far)
Rod Liddle is a columnist who really does have all the answers to life, the universe and everything ... well, according to him, anyway. Now pay attention to a slice of wit and wisdom from his column...
Liddle and Large it
Errant MPs named by the Legg inquiry have, after appeal, paid back £1.12m worth of expenses to the public exchequer. Meanwhile, the Legg inquiry itself cost the taxpayer £1.16m. Maybe we should have just let them carry on. You can get a hell of a lot of moats cleaned, duck houses and porno vids for £400,000.
     A week later this letter appeared in the newspaper - and I admit that I never noticed...
A Liddle slip-up
It is fortunate for the ongoing credibility of our democracy that Rod Liddle remains a media commentator and not a legislator (Comment, last week). As any honest MP will tell you, £1.16m less £1.12m is £40,000, not £400,000. I hope you are checking his expenses claims carefully.
Huw Thomas, Warrington Cheshire.

Smile of the week
Newspaper headline, March 3: Extra small condoms for 12-year-old boys go on sale in Switzerland

Saint Valentine’s Day 2010
SMILE OF THE DAY (incorporating 'A Postcard From My Square Mile')

BEING A reasonably cloudless dawn I decide to set off extra-early on my walk because the International Space Station, with the Shuttle in mating mode, are due to pass over at 6.39. When I depart the cottage on my walk I climb a few fields before the landscape plateaus at one of the highest points within the Towy Valley itself, at roughly the same elevation as Dinefwr Castle which sits about a mile or so across the valley. I then begin a gradual descent towards Llandeilo.
     At the highest point I have to jump a fence as there’s no stile or gate because it’s the boundary between two farms.

A VALENTINE POSTCARD FROM MY SQUARE MILE
 

My funny valentine: looking for love and affection in the Towy Valley

24^th January 2010
S’no business like sno' business

AH YES, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men … how fortuitous then that I should round off my previous bulletin quoting a wee bit of "Twas the Night before Christmas", in particular: “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse...”
     I had planned to do a review of 2009 this time out, but I signed-off last time on New Year’s Day evening, just as the snow was beginning to carpet the landscape. Little did I guess then that the snow would remain for a couple of weeks, with some near-record low temperatures thrown in for good measure.
 

     The morning after the New Year’s Day snowfall was extraordinary. The sky was cloudless, the air still and frosty. Snow had built up on the trees and hedges to make the landscape picturesque beyond. However, I set out on my walk just as dawn was breaking ... December’s blue moon - so bright and clear some called it a bombers' moon - having now effortlessly morphed into January’s blue moon (that’s blue as in the purple tinge of flesh from cold or contusion), was bright as a button in the sky, so I captured a couple of pictures showing how the snow was clinging to both deciduous and evergreen trees...
 

Now that’s what I call real snow. Apart from seeing the kids enjoying the prolonged snowy landscape on their toboggans – or variations on a theme - the other omnipresent feature were snowmen of all shapes and sizes. You're probably wondering about that hugely curious one at the very top - with the giant proboscis and massive eyes - spotted at Penlan Park, Llandeilo. First things first, do you remember the chads – the graffiti of a man with little or no hair peering over a wall, based on the American ‘Kilroy was here’ doodle?
 

MEANWHILE, back with the snow and the frost... What I’ll remember most though were those few days of intense cold. For the first time in my life I contemplated buying a pair of long johns. As regularly mentioned in previous bulletins, every early morning I set off along my walk on the wild side, a circuit of probably about five miles, which takes in Llandeilo – or Llawneira (meaning, “full of snow”), as I should now perhaps call it – where I pick up a newspaper, along with any provisions – before returning along the Towy Valley where I continue my affair with the birds.

Quote of the snow: a fair cop

“THE snow has a habit of bringing out the child in all of us.” Supt Andrew Murray of Thames Valley Police which reprimanded police officers who used a riot shield as a makeshift sledge at Boars Hill in Oxford.
     *Tell me about it, Super.

Now I see you ... now I don't
Perhaps though the most astonishing police picture (intended) of the snow has to be the one below...

Police stopped an elderly lady motorist who was driving on a busy road with her windscreen covered in snow. She had managed to move her windscreen wipers just a few inches to clear a tiny peep hole as she drove to pick up food in Tiverton, Devon. She was "spoken to" by officers who then provided her with an ice scraper. "I don't think we're asking a lot," said Inspector Matt Lawler, "just for some common sense to avoid unnecessary accidents."
     Perhaps Thames Valley Police should have provided her with a riot shield.

BEFORE coming to my ‘Smile of the snow’, this is a good moment to launch ‘A postcard from Llandeilo, Dinefwr and the Towy Valley’ – one of the places in Wales to visit before you die, according to a recent book – or rather, ‘A postcard from my square mile’.
     The Western Mail runs a daily ‘Postcard from Wales’ on its Letters page, and I’m delighted to say I’ve had a few published - but I was thinking: hardly a day goes by when I don’t capture something which tickles my imagination, so why not share the experience. But not only that, most of my pictures carry a little story, for example...

A POSTCARD FROM MY SQUARE MILE: the ghost who went out in the cold
AS IT HAPPENS, I begin with one of the more startling images I’ve captured since carrying a camera around with me on my daily walks. It’s a photograph of Pat Bullen-Whatling’s striking willow stag creation at Newton House. I've included pictures of this beautiful looking creature before, but not a proper, full-on image – not the easiest of tasks because it’s surrounded by trees and therefore doesn’t stand out due to the 'not seeing the wood for the trees' background.
     However, the snow came - and highlighted it beautifully. I took a few shots from different angles ... the one coming up was the first, and what I initially thought the least effective – indeed I was about to delete it when I noticed something rather weird and wonderful lurking in the snowy undergrowth...
 

Smile of the snow: white sheep of the family

The sheep, above, must have thought this was her lucky day – but after shooing her away she looks overwhelmed with dismay.

Anyway, the snow has now gone and we're back with the usual run of sunshine and showers. But for how long?