Ride a Cock Bike

The reason for the above title (aside from the obvious and shameless attempt to get more blog-hits) is that I’ve read about a survey commissioned by charity organisation Booktrust. It seems that nursery rhymes are in danger of dying out, as parents no longer read them to their children.

Apparently they believe they are old-fashioned. We’ll have to update them so.

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Doctor Foster went to Gloucester

In a shower of rain.

He stepped in a puddle right up to his middle

And sued the Council for pain.

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Twinkle, twinkle, hopeful star,

Went and sang on X-Factor.

Dreamt of being gigantic,

Sang the song from Titanic.

Simon said you’ll not go far,

Now you’re working back in Spar.

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This little banker played the Market

This little banker bought ten homes

This little banker came to grief

His plans all came undone.

So this little banker cried “wee, wee, wee”

Till we paid off his loans.

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I’m a little teapot, short and stout –

Because my meds are running out.

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Little Miss Muffet

Invented the Tuffet

And brought it on Dragons’ Den

The Dragons had doubts, and all said “I’m out”

And now she’s on welfare again.

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Make a claim for sixpence

For travel to Dubai,

Limo trips, and Porters’ tips,

And meals of Oyster Pie.

But now the junket’s over,

The public says “that’s that,

You greedy slob, you’ve lost your job,

Now hire your own Top Hat.”

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Oh, the Grand Old Duke of York,

He had ten thousand men –

Yes, lots of dates, but he used Mates,

To STD prevent.

Next verse (*sigh*) -

And when they were up, they were up…..

Worth Doing Bard-ly

In Laughykate’s post last Friday she mentions that her brother originally set up her blog as a platform to sell her book (which we all keenly await).

She is not the first author to write a blog while waiting to be discovered. It is a little known fact that Shakespeare himself had a blog, writing under the name of Bardman.

See what you think.

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March 15th

My publisher rejects my plan for a play about  a pair of star-crossed lovers, since it hath an unhappy ending. He sayeth that I know nothing of how chick-lit works.

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March 16th

One of the regular routines which takes place in our household is Shouting At Mrs Bard’s Handbag.

Whenever Mrs Bard has to go out anywhere there is a frantic search for her handbag. If she is unsuccessful the Bardkids and I all stand together and shout “Handbag!”.

It never works.

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March 17th

I have a new idea for a play, concerning a merchant in Venice (I am hoping to get a grant to go there for research purposes) who borrows money from a Jewish moneylender, who demandeth a pound of flesh in return.

“Christ, don’t slag the Jews,” sayeth my publisher, “hast thou not heard of Tommy Tiernan?”

“Er, no,” I reply.

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March 18th

The Government sucketh.

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March 19th

I hast received a comment!

How blogging worketh is that each of us is assigned a wooden pole in the town square, and each day one pins one’s latest article up on one’s pole (or post, which is from whence the name cometh).

And this morning I had a reply pinned under yesterday’s post.

It is from someone called Anon, and it sayeth that I am a wanquer.

I know not what this word means, so later in my local (The Hopping Leper) I asked my friend Chaucer “wouldst thou say that I am a wanquer?” He laughed so hard that ale shot down his nostrils.

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March 20th

My publisher hath suggested that I try comedy. I send him a draft of a play set on Midsummer Night, with a cast of fairies and elves. He complaineth that there art no jokes in it, and suggesteth that I introduce three new characters – an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman, all co-incidentally named Patrick.

I tell him that he knows nothing of character development, and he telleth me that I know not my arse from my elbow.

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March 21st

I am becoming concerned about how many brackets I use in my writing (I hast read that they are the sign of a teeny, teeny mind).

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March 22nd

Bardson1 hath started in school, where he will learn up to seventeen of the letters of the alphabet, how to count to ten without the use of fingers and toes, and how to hit a spitoon from 25 paces.

On his first day there, he hath joined the Archery Club.

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March 23rd

The Elizabethan Blog Awards took place this evening. Walter Raleigh, writing as Twentypipes, took most of the awards. I think his popularity is due to the fact that he calls everyone a Count.

The award for Best Blog by a Buxom Irish Wench went to Lady Jo DeMamma, the Duchess of Brae.

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March 24th

A curious development.

I had been working on a new comedy, wherein the Prince of Denmark lives in a Haunted Castle with his mum and is visited by the ghost of his father (with hilarious results). Last night, however, depressed by my failure at the awards and my continuing lack of success as a writer, I re-wrote much of it, having the Prince’s uncle as a murderer and finishing it with a bloodbath in which absolutely everyone dies.

To my astonishment, my publisher is delighted by the new version. He says that audiences will lap it up, and that I am on my way to stardom.

He says it hath the Tarantino factor.

The Case of The Body Switchers

Of all the many nefarious deeds that Sherlock Holmes and I witnessed during our years together, surely none was as terrifying as the case which began when a short telegram was delivered to our Baker Street rooms. “It’s gone too far. We must meet. Tuck.” was all it said.

Holmes was in Dorset, solving the Case of the Pilates Instructor and the Left-Footed Squirrel (a tale for which the world is not yet prepared) but this message was actually for me, so I summoned a cab and hastened to the address given. Down a dark, foreboding alley I found a dark, foreboding doorway, knocked once, and was admitted.

The room in which I found myself was full of familiar faces, and I was approached by a gentleman in a monk’s habit, who extended a hand in greeting. This was Friar Tuck, Chairman of the Sidekicks Union. “Ah, Watson,” he said, “welcome. Our emergency meeting is about to start.” So saying he moved to the front of the room, and a hushed silence descended.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “all of us here are sidekicks to more famous companions, and I think it is fair to say that our role is not always easy.”

“Indeed not”, said Jeeves. “I have devoted many tiring years to caring for my employer.”

“Yeah, but your job’s easy,” said Jane. “I bet you’ve never tried getting lion’s blood out of a loincloth. And you don’t have to sleep with your Mr Wooster. Honestly, Tarzan comes home after nine pints of banana juice, and he’s like an animal. I don’t get a wink of sleep.”

“Sounds heavenly,” sighed Miss Moneypenny.

“Really, Moneypenny,” said Lois Lane, “I don’t know why you stick with Bond. I mean, he must have had about four thousand women by now.”

“Two hundred and forty-two,” said Moneypenny. “Er, not that I’ve been counting or anything.”

“ANYway,” said Tuck, “while our roles could be challenging, they had the advantage of permanence. We effectively had jobs for lives. Now, of course, all that has changed, thanks entirely to Disneycorp.”

A shudder ran around the room. Just as the evil corporation Skynet was a force to be feared in the fictional Terminator stories, here in the real world inhabited by my fellow sidekicks and I Disneycorp were a continual threat.

“When Disneycorp first took over Marvel, the headquarters of crimefighters, they promised there would be no change. We have been monitoring the situation, however, and have noticed a growing number of worrying cases.”

“For example,” said Lois Lane, “the Famous Five now consists of Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Foghorn Leghorn.”

“Doctor Frankenstein’s Igor has been replaced by Donald Duck,” said Jane.

“And Mary-Jane Watson is gone,” said Jeeves. “Spiderman’s girlfriend is now Jessica Rabbit.” There was a silence after this, and I could see mixed emotions on the faces of some of the men. Mary-Jane was one of us, and we did feel sorry for her, but we thought of her querulous voice and constant nagging, and we thought of Jessica Rabbit’s figure, and we secretly reckoned that all in all Peter Parker had done pretty well out of the deal.

“More and more,” said Tuck, “sidekicks are being replaced by cartoon characters. The amazing thing is that no-one seems to notice – not our companions, not our fans, no-one.”

“That’s coz no-one gives a shit about us,” slurred Robin drunkenly. There was an embarrassed silence. Robin was an exception to the “jobs for ever” nature of our lives. A number of years ago a poll of readers voted that Robin should be killed off “because he was a twerp”, and most people, Batman included, believed that he had actually died. In fact, we had sneaked him out of the semtex-filled Batmobile at the last second, and had hidden him away here in Union HQ ever since, but he had never forgotten the insult from the readers, and had turned heavily to drink.

“Well, we’ve learned now that Disneycorp are getting more and more ambitious,” said Lois. “Just this morning the X-Men all came into work and found that Wolverine had been switched. Apparently it was decided that he looked too much like Marcus from Big Brother.”

“Who replaced him?” I asked.

“Bashful”.

“What!? The Dwarf?”

“Indeed. So, as you can see, they are starting on the big guns now. None of us are safe.”

“Well, most of us may not be,” I said, “but I work for the greatest detective that ever lived. There is no way they could switch me without him noticing.”

“Er, have you seen your Agency’s ad in today’s Times?” asked Jane, handing me a copy. I looked at the ad she pointed out.

“Holmes and Dumbo, Private Detectives”, I read. “Well, I must say that’s a bit rude. I know I’m not the cleverest half of the team, but…” my voice faded to nothing as the true meaning of the ad sank in. “They’re replacing me with an elephant?” I said.

“A flying elephant, to be fair,” said Lois. “At least Holmes won’t keep having to rush to catch trains everywhere.”

“But…but,” I spluttered, “they’ll never get away with it. Do they really think Holmes won’t notice the elephant in the room – literally?”

“Watson,” said Tuck gently. “He takes opium. He’s just going to think he’s having a really bad trip.”

I slumped back in my chair.

“Well, if we’re all in danger,” said Lois, “what are we going to do?”

Suddenly I felt a surge of hope. “I’ll tell you what we should do,” I said, “We should all start up in opposition to our bosses. You can become a gentleman, Jeeves. You can rob from the rich & give to the poor, Tuck, and Jane, you can, well, swing out of stuff. I’m going to start my own detective agency. I’ve been watching Holmes for years, it’s pretty easy.”

Robin snorted. “Er, are you sure?” said Jane dubiously.

“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “Look, I’ll prove it. See our new member there, that golden-haired person who hasn’t spoken yet? Just by looking at him I can tell that he’s a Catholic, a vegetarian, and has a ticket for a locker at Waterloo Station in his coat pocket. I surmise that he is the goalkeeper with Melchester Rovers, that wonderful team who do so much of the work for which Roy of the Rovers gets all of the credit.”

There was a short stunned silence.

“Actually,” said Jeeves, “that’s Sweep. As in Sooty and.”

My castle of dreams crashed around my ears.

“We’re screwed,” said Lois.

“Speak for yourself, unfortunately,” murmured Moneypenny.

“But we can’t let them get away with this,” I wailed. Surely we can talk to someone about it.”

“We’ve tried,” said Tuck. “ We’ve gone right to the top. We spoke to Barrack Obama.”

“Really?” I said, filled with hope. “And what did he say?”

“He said ‘meep, meep’”.

And The Big Limousine Disappeared

On Saturday night in my local we were watching the World Athletics Championships on BBC2. When they ended the BBC Proms Classical Music programme came on, and we watched it for a while. This is because we are a cultured lot, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the barman was outside changing a keg and none of us could reach the remote control behind the bar.

Anyway, watching it reminded me of two questions I’ve always wanted to know the answer to:

1. Does “La Donna é Mobilé” mean “The Woman is Moving”?

and, if it does, then

2. Does that mean that the aria was the original version of  “for 24 years I’ve been living next door to Alice”?

I’m not really very deep.

No Brainer

A report on the BBC News website claims that polar bears’ skull sizes have decreased by between 2 and 9 per cent over the last century.

The report blames “physical stress”, and quotes the lead scientist as saying “Because the ice is melting, the bears have to use much more energy to hunt their prey”.

I have read that sentence a couple of times, and there is only one possible meaning. The bears are running around more, and as a result their heads are smaller.

In other words, exercise makes your brain shrink.

So I no longer feel envious of Tinson1 as he gets up at 6.30 to do his morning run. I’m no longer embarrassed by my flabby abs, my fecky pecs, and my abundance of moobs (the fact that I’ve a pacemaker means that I have three). I’m no longer ashamed of the fact that I’m not a member of a gym.

In fact, I feel quite big-headed about it.

What’s Brown and Has a Trunk?

…  a mouse coming back from holiday.

I’m in my second day back at work after my week off stuck at home, since we can’t really afford to go anywhere nice after Tinson1 turned out to be surprisingly bright and we’ve to pay €1,585 next month for him to start in Trinity.

I’ve just read that the Space Shuttle, due to take off this morning, is bringing six mice to the International Space Station.  The report says:

“Although Nasa has flown rodents on the shuttle and station previously, they have never been left behind for a long stay in space. The mice are scheduled to return aboard Nasa’s next shuttle mission in November.”

It’s a bit galling when mice have a more exciting holiday than you have.

Normal Service is Resumed

I’m back. Did you miss me?

I was off last week but, as I said, wasn’t going anywhere, so I fully intended to keep posting, as I knew my massive readership (no, I’m not calling any of you fat) would pine away if I didn’t.

I did Monday and Tuesday, went to see Inglourious Basterds on Wednesday (with a friend who loves the movies and who needed cheering up. I hate violent films and still can’t get some of the images out of my head – and they weren’t even the gory ones, coz I had my eyes closed for them), came home, wrote half a post about the film, had to turn the computer off for some reason, and didn’t turn it back on for the rest of the week. Instead I watched the Ashes cricket all day and the World Athletics Championships all evening, and I’m only back at a computer now because, well, I’m back at work.

There wouldn’t have been a lot to say, anyway. Life with the Tinsons, while Mrs Tin & Tingirl were away, consisted mostly of  monosyllables and pizza, and we’re at that time of the summer when there is no real news in the paper to get animated about. At this time of year newspapers have about ten pages less than usual in them, though costing the same amount, and contain variations upon just three different types of article:

The Human Interest Article:

A letter posted to Mary Murphy of Swinford, Co Mayo in 1943 has been delivered to her – sixty-six years late. The letter, from Joe O’Toole of Kiltimagh, Co Can’t-remember-what-county-that’s-in-and-can’t-be-arsed-looking-it-up, contained a proposal of marriage, as the two were “walking out” at the time. Mary, a spinster, has decided to accept the proposal, which is unfortunate as Joe by now has a wife, five children and seventeen grandchildren. “Well, I thought the old cow had ignored my letter,” explained Joe.

Or, the Scientific Claptrap Article:

New research has shown that toddlers who throw a tantrum and lie on the floor screaming in supermarkets are more likely to dive on the pitch feigning injury during football matches. This is due to an unusual gene, which scientists are calling “The Ronaldo Gene” (he’s left United, so he’s fair game).

Or, the Weather-Related Article:

People who have complained that this is the wettest summer on record have been told  to stop whining by the Met Office. People who decided to have a (wait for the horrible new word) “staycation” (aaargh!!!) in Ireland have moaned about the ordeal of being stuck in a tiny caravan staring out at the rain, while surrounded by four squabbling children and a dog. Met Eireann have pointed out, however, that there have been worse summers, citing in particular the one where a Mr Noah and his family spent a six-week staycation stuck in a tiny ark (it should have been bigger, but none of them had been sure what a cubit was) with two of every creature and, by the end of the holiday, 46,000 rabbits.

So, it’s just as well I didn’t post anything.

Short Stuff (Stop Calling Me That)

Some things that happened this week:

• An Irish Rail staff member has got on my train each of the last two evenings. His bright orange jacket proclaims him to be part of their “Revenue Protection Unit”. That’s right, he’s a ticket-checker.
• At my friend’s 50th Birthday Party last weekend I discovered that one of his sons is called “Queue” by his mates, because that’s what you get if you type “Steve” into predictive text. His friend Amy (boy, box, cow) is not a predictive text fan.
• I’m taking this afternoon off to take part in a sailing race, even though I’m a complete landlubber (i.e., a Chinese man who polishes South African currency). It’s a charity race, where each yacht is crewed by 4 experienced sailors and 3 novices. I did it last year, and it was great fun.
• Finally… back in 1970 we went on a school tour to Penrith, in the Lake District in England, but I don’t remember it being as much fun as this…..

Er, sorry about that… not only have I this afternoon off, but I’ve taken next week off as well (not that I’m going anywhere or anything), so I think I’m a little giddy.

Dead Fed Up

Yesterday’s post about Honey, to whom the angels came “one day when he was not at home/when she was there and all the alone”, has made me wonder.

Do you reckon there’s a corner of heaven where all the song characters who were born just to die young and tragically so that callous songsters could milk the royalties hang out together?

I like to think there is.

Somewhere up there there’s a bar called “The Falling Piano” where Honey, the Leader of the Pack, the guy from “Seasons in the Sun”, Joanie from “Hello, This Is Joanie” and Billy- who was told not to be a hero – all meet every night to lament about the virus/bullet/runaway truck that cut short their lives.

Now there’s a bar where you don’t want to have to listen to the sing-song.

Dunmovin

Beside my house there’s a walkway into the next housing estate. Since the shops, train station, pub, etc are all in the other direction, however, I almost never walk through it.

I had to deliver a letter to a house in the estate this evening, though, so I walked through and noticed that the second house in, just twnty yards or so from mine, has a lovely wooden name plate.

The house is called Meanmemot.

Genius.