Posts Tagged ‘humor’

So today, beavering away at the coal-face of capitalist society, we took a break to have a laugh about pushy parents – you know the type, the ones always lurking in the wings at performances – usually artistic, thespian or sporting – abusing the world from the sidelines, photobombing their famous kids, cheering over-enthusiastically and generally making a public arse of themselves as they live vicariously through their offspring.

What, someone pondered, was the right name for a collection of such people? Was there a collective noun for these horrible folks?

Someone else suggested A Smother of Parents, which had us all giggling with its appropriateness. So spread the word. A Smother of Parents. Let’s see if we can get it popularised!

murder_of_crowsCollective Nouns are a bit of a thing of ours. We all know “A Murder of Crows”, of course – that’s a favourite – but did you also know that it’s an Unkindness of Ravens?

Don’t know what the Corvus ever did to offend everyone.

Maybe the genus is on the nose because Ravens became forever associated with the Tower of London and the bloodthirsty goings on there, and Crows are carrion feeders, of course, so, you know, just generally, “ugh”.

But then again some of their close relations get off a little more easily. Jackdaws – well, they’re “A Clattering” – and Rooks are the wonderful “Parliament” of Rooks, which perfectly reflects the racket generated by a rookery. The same noun is often applied to Owls, by the way. One can surmise the former is because of the mindless noise generated across the benches, and the latter a reflection of the supposed wisdom of owls.

Some as less well known, and quite obscure. Did you know those guys caterwauling in the back alley are called a “Cluster” of cats? No idea why. Or that a group of Peacocks are (quite perfectly) called an “Ostentation”? It’s a Charm of Finches, which surely reflects their melodic chirping, but why is it a Knot of Toads? And what on earth is a “Neverthriving” of jugglers when it’s at home?

Brief_History_of_Wood-engraving_Wynkyn_de_Worde_Fishing

A group of monks seen together (in England at least) has been known since 1486 as “An Abominable Sight of Monks”, from The Book of Saint Albans (or Boke of Seynt Albans), a compilation of matters relating to the interests of the time of a gentleman. It is also known by titles that are more accurate, such as The Book of Hawking, Hunting, and Blasing of Arms. This edition credits the book, or at least the part on hunting, to Juliana Berners as there is an attribution at the end of the 1486 edition reading: “Explicit Dam Julyans Barnes in her boke of huntyng.” It contains three essays, on hawking, hunting, and heraldry. It became popular, and went through many editions, quickly acquiring an additional essay on angling. 

Interestingly, the section on heraldry contains many coats-of-arms printed in six colours (including black ink and the white of the page), and was the first colour printing ever carried out in England. Dame Juliana Berners (or Barnes or Bernes) was believed to have been the prioress of Sopwell Priory near St Albans but the book is in fact a metrical form of much older matter, going back at least to the reign of the ill-fated Edward II of England (1283-1327), and written in French: the Le Art de Venerie of the huntsman Guillaume Twici.

Anyhow, apart from the marvellous “Abominable Sight” of monks, the book contains, appended, a large list of special collective nouns for animals, such as “gaggle of geese” and the like. Amongst these are numerous humorous collective nouns for different professions, such as a “Diligence of Messengers”, a “Melody of Harpers”, a “Blast of Hunters”, “a Subtlety of Sergeants”, “a Gaggle of Women”, and a “Superfluity of Nuns”.

Sometimes there are multiple collective nouns for one item, reflecting the fact that different parts of Britain developed languages that remained quite separate until the middle ages, and thereafter continued with strong local dialects (some of which persist to this day). Thus a “Congregation of Plovers” can also rightly be termed a “band”, a “flight”, a “leash”, a “stand” or a “wing”.

Dabblers

Dabbling or Dopping Ducks, taking a break from Paddling

Ducks are even more complicated. The very obvious but nonetheless charming “Paddling” of ducks (which should only be used when ducks are actually in the water, apparently) is nevertheless contested by supporters of “badelynge” (an old Saxon word for paddling, perhaps, that has survived only in this context?), a “flush”, a “brace”, a “bunch”, a “dabbling”, a “dopping”, (possibly a corruption of dipping?), a “plump”, a “raft”, a “safe”, a “skein”, a “sword, a “string” or a “team”. Phew.

On the same bit of lake you might also spot a “Whiteness of Swans”, which is a very ancient name, also expressed as a “whiting”.

And it would be wrong of us, given our geographic location, not to remind everyone in the northern hemisphere that it’s a “Mob of Kangaroos”. And for other southern hemisphere types, it’s nice to remember that it’s “A Stubbornness of Rhinoceroses”. And for our Indian readers, don’t forget it’s an “Ambush of Tigers”. Your life may depend on it.

So what’s YOUR favourite Collective Noun, Dear Reader? Do please let us know.

And what’s your suggestion of the best possible Collective Noun for … Collective Nouns? We’ll dream up a prize for the best idea!

Just leave a comment in the box below:-) And if you like the blog, please subscribe – find the box top left of the page.

 

Tay Tay's girl gang at the MTV Awards in 2015

Tay Tay’s ‘girl gang’ at the MTV Awards in 2015

 

If you’ve got more than a handful of friends, it seems you may need to kick some to the kerb as science reckons our brains can’t handle more than five besties at a time.

A study by the MIT Technology Review looked at a theory by British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, who noticed that there was a direct correlation between people’s brains and how many friends they have – basically the bigger your brain the bigger your friendship group and the smaller your brain, the less friends you’re bound to have.

According to Dunbar, humans are only able to have FIVE best friends, with maybe another 10 close friends, 35 acquaintances, and 100 additional contacts, due to the size of our neocortex.

And if you were having doubts about his theory, Dunbar actually tested out it out recently by examining 6 billion phone calls made by 35 million people in an anonymous European country.

“The team assumes that the frequency of calls between two individuals is a measure of the strength of their relationship,” the MIT Technology Review states. The study found that Dunbar’s estimate wasn’t too far fletched: “The average cumulative layer turns out to hold 4.1, 11.0, 29.8, and 128.9 users,” researchers found — again, that’s besties, close friends, acquaintances and “contacts” respectively.

So maybe Katy Perry and Rihanna had the right idea when they chose a girl squad of two as opposed to Tay Tay’s massive army? And who are Taylor’s best besties from among the girl gang? We think the people should be told.
We reckon we’ve got at least six friends, Dear Reader. Coz we’re really, er, you know, brainy. You know who you are.

Simon-Titley-009We were sitting at our desk this morning, thinking about our rambunctious, opinionated, stubborn, cheeky and very longstanding friend Simon Titley, who died ridiculously young at 57 a couple of years back, of a brain tumour. For a man of such luminous intelligence to die of a brain cancer was ironic indeed.

A few years earlier he was irked by the use of jargon in something he was reading and to make his point he very wittily translated the opening of the Bible into PR speak (he was a PR professional and consummate writer) to illustrate his point. We recalled it when grumpily seeking to persuade a colleague of the joys of plain English earlier today. It bears re-reading.

1. At the outset, God’s agenda was to basically focus on his core deliverables, namely two new leading-edge products, (a) heaven and (b) earth.

2. However, the earth lacked an overall concept, and had a low profile in terms of its key audiences. Obviously the Spirit of God had to step back and benchmark the existing waters before his game plan could get the green light.

3. And God’s key message was that light was a strategic objective, and it was covered-off.

4. And God’s perception of the light was that it was fit for purpose. However, his desired goal was that light and darkness should be differentiated in the marketplace.

5. So God branded the light ‘Day’, and the darkness he branded ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Light’. And the evening session and morning session made up Day One.

6. Then God set out with the object of factoring-in a firmament to interface with the existing generic waters, to bring to the party two segmented brands.

7. So God tasked himself with the job of rolling-out a firmament, to supply a proactive vehicle for launching his two distinct waters products, and it was up and running.

8. And God branded the firmament ‘heaven’. And at close of play, the prioritised actions for Day Two were ticked off.

Simon was an atheist, so probably found himself somewhat surprised to be in a heaven where unctuous black pudding and Lincolnshire sausages were available daily, and the fountains gushed forth good Belgian beer 24/7. What’s for damn sure is the angels are pissing themselves at his wry humour and admiring his gentle goodness.

We miss him so much. One day it will stop hurting that he’s gone: until then the legacy of his writing is a comfort.

More memories of Simon can be found here, written soon after his illness was announced.

coffee (1)

In another confirmation of what we have always fervently believed, you can chalk up another benefit to downing your favourite morning brew: drinking coffee may protect your liver, research from the our old alma mater the University of Southampton in the U.K. has found.

After analyzing data on 432,000 people from 5 separate studies, the researchers concluded that people who drank one cup of coffee a day were 22 percent less likely to develop cirrhosis—scarring of the liver that eventually causes it to fail—than those who didn’t drink any.

But it gets better. The more coffee they consumed, the better their livers fared: People who drank two cups a day were 43 percent less likely to get the disease, while those who drank four cups a day had a 65 percent lower risk of it.

The study didn’t separate between decaf and regular coffee. But it’s likely that the caffeine does play a protective role, says study author Oliver Kennedy, M.D.

Caffeine blocks the adenosine receptors in your body, which are responsible for activating certain liver cells that lay down scar tissue. If this process is hindered, scar tissue—and eventually cirrhosis—may be less likely to occur, he says.

Still, it’s possible that there’s something in coffee itself that may be responsible for the beneficial effects, too.

For instance, one component called diterpenes — found in both regular and decaf coffee — may tamp down inflammation in the liver, reducing the risk of cirrhosis, Dr. Kennedy says.

So if you want to keep your liver safe, consider adding a cup or two of coffee to your day, as well as maintaining a healthy weight and limiting alcohol consumption, says Dr. Kennedy. And stick to no more than two alcoholic drinks a day.

We’re not sure about that last one, frankly, and we’d love to stay and talk, but right now we’re off to make another coffee.

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We do love a good F*** Up, as you know, Dear Reader. Mostly (as it’s the business we are in) we have concerned ourselves with glaring errors in commercial advertising, packaging, signs and so on. But with #election2016 in full swing, it’s the pollies in America that are now making some classic mistakes. Such fun.

Case History #1

 

Jeb-Bush

 

It’s really very important, peeps, that you keep your website URL registrations up to date. Not like dear old Jeb Bush, who in keeping with his bumbling campaign for President forgot to keep the registration current of jebbush.com. So Donald Trump grabbed the registration and simply re-directed it his website. D’oh!

Smart move by Trump, as there is an increasing trend for people not to link to websites from online advertising, or even to Google the correct link, but simply to type in what they assume to be the right URL. In America people normally assume that’s the name plus “dot com”, in Australia name plus “dot com dot au”, in the UK name plus “Dot co dot uk” and so on.

People in each domain “learn” their local suffix and assume that’s what the URL will be. Well done Trump and his staff (the only time we expect you’ll ever hear us say that) and big black mark for Bush. Not the last time we’ll say that. (Telling his audience to “clap now” the other day wasn’t all that smart, either.)

Case History #2

 

MARCO-RUBIO-VANCOUVER-facebook

 

Hilarious mistake by Marco Rubio’s campaign.

“It’s unmistakably Vancouver,” the Sun wrote.

The tugboat also features a Canadian flag, according to BuzzFeed News, who first flagged the footage on Monday.

The size and length of the ad buy was not immediately clear. But Vancouver-based videographer Guy Chavasse told CBC News on Monday that he shot the scene last August.

“It’s pretty funny, isn’t it?” he told the CBC. “It’s a good-looking video, no doubt, but it’s pretty recognisable as Vancouver.”

Chavasse estimated the campaign paid $80 for his footage. He also said he’s not a “Republican fan” or Rubio supporter.

Well, if it isn’t morning again in America, at least it’s morning again in Canada, eh?

So dumb it fair takes yer breath away.

For more F*** Ups, from all spheres of public communication, just go to the search box top left of this page and type in F*** Up. Then sit back and enjoy. Innocent fun for all the family. Well, not so innocent really.

PS We have promised various correspondents that we will faithfully report any F*** Ups from the Democratic side of politics, fearlessly reporting Hillary or Bernie burying their heads in a passing bucket of ordureful incompetence. But of course we know that won’t happen, because Democrats are incredibly clever and skillful and unicorns are real and so is magic fairy dust.

 

We have decided, Dear Reader, to have a regular-cum-occasional posting that collects together those snippets of news that fall into the “Wait … what?” basket. You know, those items where you simply shake your head in disbelief at how incredibly inappropriate, silly, bizarre, insulting or head-scratching the world can be.

Usually about poliphiltics. But by no means exclusively.

Today we have the retirement from the Australian Parliament of  dear old Phil Ruddock. The current “Father of the House”, which means the silly old bugger has been there longer than anyone else having racked up 42 years at the grindstone – way past any realistic use by date – Ruddock’s unemotional delivery has become so dead pan over the years it’s sometimes necessary for interviewers to stick a pin in his thumb to see if he’s still alive.

Mr Ruddock was previously attorney-general, Indigenous affairs minister and immigration minister, and when announcing his retirement nominated counter-terrorism and family law changes as his key achievements.

He has campaigned against the death penalty and chaired the human rights sub-committee of Parliament’s joint foreign affairs committee. Foreign Minister Julie Bishop announced that Mr Ruddock would now be Australia’s first Special Envoy for Human Rights, with a hardly-defined brief to trot around the world, as she puts it, to “focus on advancing Australia’s human rights priorities of good governance, freedom of expression, gender equality, the rights of Indigenous peoples, and national human rights institutions. Mr Ruddock will actively promote Australia’s candidacy for membership of the Human Rights Council for the 2018–20 term. He will represent Australia at international human rights events and advocate our HRC candidacy in selected countries.”

Widespread rumours that Ruddock is actually the evil Emperor from Star Wars are very unkind and will get no credence in this column.

Widespread rumours that Ruddock is actually the evil Emperor from Star Wars are very unkind and will get no credence in this column.

Hmmm. Once renowned as a “wet” Liberal and vocal on human rights issues, Ruddock nevertheless morphed into a very different creature in Government. Astute followers of Australian politics will note that following the Coalition’s rise to government at the 1996 election, Ruddock was appointed to the Cabinet as Minister for Immigration and Multicultural Affairs. In this role, he administered the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs and presided over the Howard government’s tough policies on asylum seekers. During his time in office, the previous Keating Labor Government’s practice of mandatory detention of asylum seekers was continued and extended. Under his watch, asylum seekers, including children, were locked behind razor wire in Australia’s deserts. Even a daughter, Kirsty, publicly turned against him over the mandatory detention of children, which continues to this day.

In 2001 Ruddock was also appointed to the role of Minister for Indigenous Affairs. By this time he had become a high-profile figure enjoying considerable support within the Liberal Party, while being strongly opposed by left-wing activists and some human rights advocates. His “Pacific Solution” – which prevented asylum seekers receiving legal access to Australia – was condemned by Human Rights Watch as contravening international law, as being a human rights violation: Oxfam and the UNHCR (United Nations refugee agency) agreed with this viewpoint. At one point he was one of the few senior ministers (besides the prime minister) to have needed personal security details. Some of his decisions were highly controversial in Australian politics, and led to Amnesty International’s public attempt to distance the organisation from him (he had once headed the Amnesty International group in Parliament) by asking him to remove his lapel badge.

In 2003, Ruddock became Attorney-General in a cabinet reshuffle. On 27 May 2004, Ruddock introduced the Marriage Legislation Amendment Bill to prevent any possible court rulings allowing same-sex marriages or civil unions. It has prevented same-sex marriage in Australia ever since.

Now, Ruddock will represent Australia’s human rights concerns overseas. We do not wish to be mean: we have no doubt he deserved some sort of sinecure for his long service. That it should be this one seems simply astonishing.

fashion_designer_1bbhvs2-1bbhvsbMeanwhile, mesmerised by imagined and real threats – often more imagined than real – the world continues on its overly terrified, for which read biased, way.

Waris Ahluwalia, who is a ubiquitous presence in the fashion world, was reportedly banned from a flight for wearing a turban.

The model and designer behind House of Waris posted a selfie to Instagram on Monday morning holding up his boarding pass with “SSSS” – which stands for Secondary Security Screening Selection – circled on the ticket.

“This morning in Mexico City I was told I could not board my @aeromexico flight to NYC because of my turban,” he wrote in the caption. He also included the hashtags #FearisanOpportunitytoEducate, #humanrights, #dignity, and #lovenotfear.

Ahluwalia, who appeared in a recent Gap advertising campaign (including posters which were subject to racist graffiti), and is a regular on the New York City party circuit, initially complied with the supplemental security measures before boarding his flight to John F. Kennedy International Airport, including having an agent swab his hands and the bottoms of his feet to test for explosives.

But when asked by an airline worker to remove his black turban, an accessory in his signature style he is never seen without, he refused. “That is not something that I would do in public,” the Grand Budapest Hotel actor told the New York Daily News. “That’s akin to asking someone to take off their clothes.”

After abstaining from removing his turban without being brought to a private screening area, he supposedly was told, “You will not be flying Aero Mexico. You will need to book another flight.”

On his Instagram post, commenters aired their frustration with Ahluwalia’s mistreatment. “This is outrageous. Sikhism is not even related in any way to terrorist extremists,” Angie wrote.

“What a sad day, a beautiful faith of love and peace is treated in such a horrible way.”

Kirthan Aujlay added, “Absolutely disgusted by this. How much longer are Sikh men going to be targeted by bigots?”

Many also shared similar experiences and praised Ahluwalia for publicising the discriminatory incident.

In our view the fact that many Muslims are profile-stopped because of some Muslim extremists is bad enough, but perhaps understandable given world tensions, if regrettable. But these idiots don’t even seem to understand that a Sikh is a unique northern Indian religion that is related to Hinduism. (In previous unprovoked attacks on Sikhs in America – aimed at terrorising Muslims – people have been killed.)

Mind you, not all social media comment was supportive. On Facebook, Sukhi Sagoo offered a counter argument: “Regardless of whether you are a Sikh or you wear any kind of headdress, I think for security reasons and for the safety of fellow passengers it’s not a bad thing to cooperate with the authorities. As long as it’s done in a private room and not in a public place. If you have nothing to hide, then why not cooperate?” Mahtab Singh Shergill also said that a hijab for Muslim women is just as precious yet they, in general, cooperate with security checks (the same can be said for nuns). “You need to understand that it’s their job to make sure that the flight is secure and retaliation can cause serious doubts,” he wrote. “They don’t make every Sikh they see remove the turban; if he was asked he shouldn’t have denied.”

The actor and designer was still at the airport more than 12 hours later. Mr. Ahluwalia, who has a record of anti-racist activism, said he planned to remain there as lawyers from the Sikh Coalition and Aeroméxico discussed the matter by telephone. He said he had no immediate plans to board another flight.

Sikh men wear the turban as a symbol of commitment to equality and social justice. Gurjot Kaur, a senior staff lawyer with the Sikh Coalition, said that the episode in Mexico City highlighted similar problems that men with beards, people with religious headwear and women in Islamic head coverings often encounter at airport security, where they are often unfairly associated with terrorism.

“It does play to the larger issue of profiling,” she said.

Ms. Kaur said the coalition had asked Aeroméxico’s lawyer for a public apology for Mr. Ahluwalia and a commitment for security personnel to undergo diversity training. She said she was speaking with the airline’s lawyer, John Barr. He could not be immediately reached for comment.

Mr. Ahluwalia said he was in Mexico to attend an art fair as a guest of L’Officiel magazine. He said he did not encounter similar scrutiny at John F. Kennedy International Airport when he boarded his Aeroméxico flight in New York last Tuesday.

Mr. Ahluwalia said it was not the first time that his turban had caused consternation. He said he had been questioned about the turban at airports in the United States and abroad but had never been denied access to a flight.

At some airports, however, he said he has had to “rub the turban,” while trying to hold a straight face, for security officials “and then put my hand in front of them, and they swab my hands.”

Anyhow, in response, Waris, who has a runway show as part of New York Fashion Week this week, sent an additional social media note to his fans. “Dear NYC fashion week. I may be a little late as @aeromexico won’t let me fly with a turban. Don’t start the show without me.”

More nonsense soon.

The current GOP race is something of an un-reality show, frankly.

The current GOP race is something of an un-reality show, frankly.

Aaaaand … we’re back.

Happy New Year everyone, and yes the holiday was lovely, thank you. Will write more on what we saw – and the conclusions we drew – soon.

Meanwhile. So. Here we go.

Deep breath.

Welcome to a year of trying to save America from itself.

Beginning with:

Trump

 

No apologies whatsoever for posting partisan stuff.

We will seek to make our political commentary and predictions unbiased, but any sane, rational person must surely campaign against the current crop of Republican candidates.

They are universally awful. Even the RNC is terrified of them.

Even worse, for the health of public discourse, it means that Hillary (and almost certainly it will be Hillary, although Bernie Sanders will have a couple of creditable early results) will have a coronation rather than get elected on her merits or otherwise, and that ain’t good for America, or anyone who respects democratic debate and the great contest of ideas.

Oh, and you heard it here first. Trump will NOT be the Republican nominee. But if by some miracle we are wrong, he simply cannot win a general election. Demographically, he has simply no chance.

Mind you, what damage he will do to both the Republicans and the broader American body politic along the way is another matter.

Of course, the only hell-toupee fake tan machine ever to run for President is generating some good jokes. Our current favourites are:

What is Donald Trump telling Barack Obama supporters? Orange Is The New Black.

What plane does Donald Trump aspire to fly on? Hair Force One!

Why are Muslims worried about Trumps immigration plans? Once you deport Juan you deport Jamal.

Trump supporters’ new campaign slogan? “We shall over-comb.”

And then one we actually wrote ourselves:

Donald Trump. Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

We feel a t-shirt coming on.

OK.  That’s enough Trump for now – Ed.

Bobbing along

 

Well, Dear Reader, a very Happy Christmas and a Bonnie Hogmanay and 2016 to you.

We have been a little remiss in not posting much in the last few days due to two simple and conjoined facts: one, Mr and Mrs Wellthisiswhatithink are officially on holiday, (on a swanky cruise ship, no less), and two, the internet is so cripplingly expensive that we decided to hold off a few days before plunging headlong into our usual travel-ese. That this has kept us off the all-consuming Facebook has been a relaxing coincidence.

We are, in fact, swooshing up from Sydney to Vanuatu and New Caledonia for a brief and – trust us – well-deserved break, and so as we write we are somewhere south of Lougainville and north of Port Vila in international waters off Vanuatu. It’s easy to work out that we’re in international waters, because the casino is open.

There, a bunch of dour Chinese and one cheery Brit will take your money with remarkable rapidity if you absolutely can’t think of anything else to do at all, and you have to be somewhat desperate as there are at least three trivia competitions running concurrently 24 hours a day, and the brain training they offer is free – and we simply luuuurve trivia competitions – so you’d have to be dead keen on the masochism of cards, craps and roulette to spend too much time buried there in the bowels of the vessel.

Then again, we did notice some other people actually winning, which is somewhat of an alien concept to us, so maybe we just haven’t got the knack of it yet. After thirty years playing Blackjack, and almost invariably losing, we are close to assuming the knack will never arrive. Or that there is, in fact, no knack to be got. But we are not quite at that point yet.

And then again, again, there do seem to be a large percentage of young couples in there, with her gazing adoringly up into his eyes, as he rashly slams down another $20 to buy a card on twelve, and ends up duly eviscerated with 22. It’s as if, time after time, the young lad is saying to his belle, “there be no dragons around for me to slay on your behalf, sweet Princess, so have a look at how painlessly I can lose a week’s wages while you watch”. Maybe it’s not masochism but rather machismo that’s on display. Indeed, it deserves it’s own word. Masochismo works.

As first time cruisers, we have been simultaneously entranced, horrified, and sometimes simply bemused by the experience.

It’s hard, for example, not to simply sigh with pleasure when this greets you as you sit down to write.

 

IMG_4966

 

Cruising is gaining rapidly in popularity around the world as the new “go to” middle class vacation. We say “middle class” because the upper classes only cruise in uber-luxury mini-liners with 20 guests and 437 crew, either on a bateaux of their own or at a pinch a ship owned by a friend or even a discrete tour company called something like BlueOcean Wanderer – the name chosen to imply “unhurried, un-shackled, off the beaten track, and above all, daahling, no middle class people”. (We apologise in advance to the owners of BlueOcean Wanderer, which no doubt exists somewhere.)

The poor can’t afford anything more than a quick trip up and down their local capital city waterway on a Sunday. Even if they plumped for an interior cabin and no drinks package* – of those, more later – they couldn’t chuff up the vast sums cruise companies charge for all-you-can-eat corned beef hash** – more on that later, too – and hot and cold running 70s music trivia.

Which leaves us ensconced with our fellow middle-class pretend-riche, some of whom are very nice, and some of whom are utterly horrid. A bit like life in general, really, but with waves.

We have discovered that we can ascertain someone’s status back on dry land pretty accurately by the grade of orange in their fake tan – the more orange, the more entre nous – and their level of bling.

Bling is in inverse proportion to social status. A discrete golden chain married to a demure and only half-awful pair of what used to be called Bermuda shorts suggests an accountant in training, or a teacher. Especially with a tired looking wife and squalling toddler in tow.

When blinded by what looks like half of Australia’s national debt coiled round and round a neck the size of a small bull matched with a disturbingly tight pair of bathers revealing, as it were, a substantial package, you can pretty much assume “delivery driver who earns twice what you do, but who missed out on Mrs Dalyrymple’s finishing school”. And that’s just the girls.

Most of the passengers are white. Most of the staff aren’t. Many of the staff are from the world’s low-income countries –  Indonesia, Philippines, India, Bangladesh, China, South Africa, Mexico – and they work very long hours and extremely hard. It’s also easy to assume that they get paid the best part of bugger all, as the cruise line charges a quick and easy 18% “gratuity” charge on everything you spend on board – although one has no way of knowing whether that gratuity charge actually gets to the workers, or if it does, whether that simply makes up a substantial portion of their wages, thus reducing the wage bill of the employer.

One is also encouraged to tip exceptional service directly, which means that 95% of the staff are obsequiously gracious, ineffably cheery and obsessively intrusive the entire time.

This is due to a number of factors – including their quite and innate genuine niceness – but also very clearly their desire to get tipped.

To an egalitarian Aussie eye it appears forced, and demeaning, for both staff and customer. It is, of course, the “American way”, a country where a campaign to establish a national wage of just $15 an hour has been met with furious opposition from employers happier to pay $6-10 an hour. To put that in perspective, Miss Wellthisiswhatithink gets A$25 an hour for babysitting/nannying, and wouldn’t accept less, nor would it be offered.

 

Cocktails. Or as the young and restless with a drinks package call them, "Breakfast".

Cocktails. Or as the young and restless with a drinks package call them, “Breakfast”.

 

The other outcome of this low wage environment is that all staff – and we mean all staff – seem utterly preoccupied with selling drinks packages*, whereby one (outrageously expensive) daily charge covers all your drinks, except top shelf stuff, but where that tariff is set so high that you basically have to set out determinedly to drink your weight in rum and coke from about 10am every morning to get your money’s worth. Selling a package equals kudos, and job security.

For the delivery van drivers this temporarily-arranged alcoholism isn’t a problem, so long as there’s going to be a decent break between them getting off the ship and getting back behind the wheel, and they are all cheerfully smashed pretty much 24-seven. For those who don’t wish to be unsteady on our feet by lunchtime, or who want to avoid falling overboard, it’s an egregious waste of money.

But every time one orders a drink or a bottle of wine – which are triple or quadruple what one would pay in Australia for very average drops – one is incredulously asked “You don’t have a package, Sir?” and the sales spiel starts again while you feel obliged to dream up new excuses for your parsimony. It is, in a word, bloody annoying. Two words.

 

"Hello Ladies."

“Hello Ladies.”

 

The English language skills of the staff also often leave much to be desired, but the effect is also frequently very funny.

Watching a diminutive high-pitched Chinese waiter go up to a table full of six giant buffed Aussie blokes and start with a squeaky “Hello, Ladies, my name is Kwan and I am your waiter tonight … now, ladies, I just need to tell you about our wine special for this evening” has it’s own wonderful schadenfreude.

Needless to say, the Aussie blokes are both too polite and too anal to correct him, so night after night the cabaret repeats.

The world that is today intrudes on our idyll every time anyone wants to get on and off. Security is as fierce as at any airport, with sniffer dogs checking for bombs, and machines that go ping scanning us all on at initial embarkation and on and off whenever there is a shore excursion. I am not sure what they think we’ll be bringing back on board – nerve-gas-infused coconuts? – but it seems churlish to object and no one does. This is the one place that all the smiles disappear to be replaced with rapt attention and scowls. We are not aware that the South Pacific is a key target for terrorists of any ilk, but “you can’t be too careful nowadays”. The security officer busting a quick dance move to SuperTrooper by Abba which was blasting out to keep us amused was a welcome and timely diversion from pondering just how depressing much of the world has become. Before we left from Sydney we happened across two Border Force (customs) personnel taking snap after snap of the Sydney Opera House on their iPhones from an upper deck of the ship. “Refuse to believe that’s security focused” we opined. “Nope,” said one, “We just don’t get up here much.”

Somehow their extra-curricular casualness made us feel safer, rather than worried. But somewhere, as we write these words, we know this very scene will be stolen by a hack writer in Hollywood and coming soon to a screen near you will be pictures of the soul-less terrorist or brutal bank robber unknowingly snapped by a bludging Border Force officer, which happy chance is the vital clue that leads to their discovery and arrest. You heard it here first.

 

Corned Beef Hash

All hail the Hash

 

Which leads us, tortuously but inevitably, to the corned beef hash**. Which delightful concoction, as we haven’t traveled all that much in the USA, was a very pleasant and new experience for us, and which we have been devouring assiduously since Day 1. Corned beef, (yes, like the stuff that comes in tins), onions, and potatoes. Hashed. And fried. From the French, hacher. (Never let it be said our writing is not educational.) Or as the civilised world would call it, mashed.

Despite being a cholesterol bomb it is, quite simply, delicious, and goes perfectly with eggs and bacon and baked beans and tomatoes and fried bread and anything else one can squeeze onto one’s all-you-can-eat breakfast plate. Or plates. And it is matched very well with scaldingly hot American coffee, too, which actually isn’t anything like as bad as everyone else likes to pretend. Provided one adds lashings of milk. When drunk black it is indeed unpotable bitter mud and would be better used as tar on the bottom of passing leaky native canoes.

What is really interesting about the corned beef hash – beyond its Satanic moreishness – is that it appears to be comprised of at least 50% salt.

As was the buerre blanc on the escargots, the bifteck minute which was cut so thin that anything over thirty seconds would turn it into leather, and the beouf bourgingon which had no discernible red wine in it (not even the cheap crap; it hadn’t even had an open bottle of cheap crap waved anywhere near it) but plenty – plenty – of salt.

We are most grateful that our arteries are only temporarily being loaned to America. God knows how anyone there over the age of 50 ever survives their middle age – their blood pressure must be at least 200 over 120. In all seriousity, the difference between the two cuisines is stark. The food quality is genuinely pretty good, especially considering the number of people being fed, (nigh-on constantly), but the salt content of many dishes would put the Dead Sea to shame. We reckon someone, somewhere, as we speak, is injecting honeydew melons with salt water.

The cheese is, needless to say, inedible.

Anyhow, tonight is New Year’s Eve, meaning we are now going off to be dragooned into a mass party (all dressed in formal clothes, no less), by our talented and relentlessly cheerful MC/Factotum/Trivia Quizmaster/Tour Director, who will cram us into a small and sweaty space to shout “Ten, nine, eight, seven …” before what seems like ten thousand yellow balloons are dropped on our heads, and everyone starts kissing each other frantically.

As the outbreaks of Norovirus on cruise ships has led them to placing hand sanitisers everywhere – Heaven forfend that you would try and get into a restaurant without the cheery chappy from Indonesia squirting germ killer onto your hands – “Time for Washy-Washy! Time for Washy-Washy!” – there’d be a bells going off and a near riot if you tried to sneak past un-washy-washied – one would imagine that thousands of extremely drunk and hot strangers kissing each other repeatedly might not be the wisest activity. But hey, when in Rome.

More tomorrow. After the trivia, natch.

trump dogs

 

According to Mr Donald Trump, an extreme toupe who is running for President in the USA, police in London are terrified for their lives right now due to the terror threat.

By his logic I’d hate to think how Americans feel about their dogs right now.

syria photo

 

At the Wellthisiswhatithink desk, deep in darkest Melbourne, people occasionally pass us vital documents they think should be broadcast to a wider audience.

This is how we stumbled across this revelatory but top secret intelligence briefing on the situation in Syria and Iraq.

With luck, this highly restricted document will clear up any confusion you have on the situation over there. We publish so that the truth may be known. Eat your heart out, Wikileaks.

So … (deep breath) …

YOUR EYES ONLY

Let’s kick off with Syria. President Assad (who is bad) is a nasty guy with a bad moustache who only got the job because his Dad had it before, but then he got so nasty that his people rebelled and the Rebels (who are good) started winning. (Hurrah!) This is despite the dorky Assad having a rather dishy British wife who was universally believed to be good, until she spent too much on shoes and stuff and became generally considered to be bad.

Things were sort of going OK for the good rebels but then some of them turned more than a bit nasty and are now called IS or ISIL or Islamic State or Daesh (doesn’t matter what they’re called, they are definitely bad) and some rebels continued to support democracy (who are still good) and some we are just not all that sure about (who may be bad, or good, but time will tell).

IS are so bad even Al Qaeda (really bad too) don’t like them and start fighting them.

The Americans (who are good) start bombing Islamic State (who are bad) and giving arms to the Syrian Rebels (who are good) so they could fight Assad (who is still bad), which was good. But this ironically puts America on the same side as Al Qaeda in Syria, which is just plain odd.

Now. There is a breakaway state in the north run by the Kurds who want to fight IS (which is a good thing) but the Turkish authorities think they are bad, so we have to say they are bad whilst secretly thinking they’re good and giving them guns to fight IS (which is good) but that is another matter altogether and we’ll get more confused so we’ll let it go. Meanwhile the Turks have shot down a Russian plane which they say was flying in their airspace (which is definitely bad).

Anyway, getting back to Syria and Iraq.

So President Putin (who is bad, because he invaded Crimea and thejoker Ukraine and killed lots of folks including that nice Russian man in London with polonium-poisoned sushi) has decided to back Assad (who is still bad) by attacking ISIS (who are also bad) which is sort of a good thing?

But Putin (still bad) thinks the Syrian Rebels (who are good) are also bad, and so he bombs them too, much to the annoyance of the Americans (who are good) who are busy backing and arming the rebels (who are also good).

Now Iran (who used to be bad, but now they have agreed not to build any nuclear weapons and bomb Israel with them are now sort-of good) are going to provide ground troops to support Assad (still bad) as are the Russians (bad) who now have both ground troops and aircraft in Syria.

So a new Coalition of Assad (still bad) Putin (extra bad) and the Iranians (good, but in a bad sort of way) are going to attack IS (who are very bad) which is a good thing, but also the Syrian Rebels (who are good), which is bad.

Annoyingly, now the British (obviously good, except that funny and rather confused Mr Corbyn, who is probably bad in an ineffective sort of way) and the Americans (also good) and the Australians (who are generally considered good because they’re mainly about cold beer and beaches) cannot attack Assad (still bad) for fear of upsetting Putin (bad) and Iran (good/bad) so now they have to accept that Assad might not be that bad after all compared to IS (who are super bad).

So Assad (bad) is now probably good, being better than IS (but let’s face it, drinking your own wee is better than IS, so no real choice there) and since Putin and Iran are also fighting IS that may now make them good.

America (still good) will find it hard to arm a group of rebels being attacked by the Russians for fear of upsetting Mr Putin (now good) and that nice mad Ayatollah in Iran (sort of good) and so they may be forced to say that the Rebels are now bad, or at the very least abandon them to their fate. This will lead most of them to flee to Turkey and then on to Europe (which is bad) or join IS (still the only constantly bad group, and that would be really bad).

For all the Sunni Muslims in the area, an attack by Shia Muslims and Alawites (Iran and Assad) backed by Russians (infidels) will be seen as something of a Holy War, and the ranks of Daesh will now be seen by the Sunnis as the only Jihadis fighting in the Holy War. Hence many Muslims will now see IS as good even though they are the baddest of the bad. (Doh!)

Sunni Muslims will also see the lack of action by Britain and America in support of their (good) Sunni rebel brothers as something of a betrayal (not to mention we didn’t do anything about a corrupt Shia government being imposed on Sunnis when we took over Iraq: hmmm, might have a point there) and hence we will be seen as more Bad. Again.

A few million refugees are now out of harm’s way (good) but nobody really wants them (bad) and now winter’s coming (bad). Lots of people think the refugees are how IS will sneak bad guys into Europe (which would be bad, but there’s no evidence of it happening, which is good, but that doesn’t stop people being frightened of them even though they have no reason to be, which is bad). Meanwhile the French have decided to bomb Iraq to pay back IS for the attacks (bad) in Paris and other countries like Lebanon and Jordan also look like getting dragged further and further into the conflict (bad).

So now we have America (now bad) and Britain (also bad) and Australia (bad, but with good beer), providing limited support to Sunni Rebels (bad) many of whom are looking to IS (good/bad depending on your point of view, even though they’re still really bad) for support against Assad (now good) who, along with Iran (also good) and Putin (also, now, unbelievably, good) are attempting to retake the country Assad used to run before all this started?

There. I hope that this clears it all up for you.

And if in doubt, fuck it, let’s all just bomb someone else. ‘Cause that will help.

Game-of-Thrones-Season-6

You know nothing, John Snow? Officially, at least.

 

Is this the confirmation worried Jon Snow fans have been craving?

Winterfell will play host to a meeting between some big characters in Game of Thrones season six.

Fansite Watchers on the Wall reports a scene with Ramsay Bolton, his reluctant wife Sansa Stark and the endlessly conniving Littlefinger is being filmed in Northern Ireland this week.

Jon Snow is also in the scene, according to the fansite, and is also the subject of a new teaser poster from HBO, (see above), despite apparently dying (or at very least, becoming very over-tired indeed) from multiple stab wounds from his Wall-watching mates at the end of season five, adding further fuel to the rumour (aka desperate female fan hope) that he didn’t die or will somehow be resurrected.

The encounter takes place in the courtyard of Winterfell, the childhood home of Jon and Sansa that is now under Bolton (boooo!) control.

Adding to the tense scene, a giant then turns up at the gate and people have to fight it off. But it’s unclear whether the giant is Wun Wun or if another giant has made it south of the Wall.

Sophie TurnerPrevious spoilers have revealed that actor Alfie Allen, who plays Theon Greyjoy, has been in Northern Ireland to film Iron Island scenes. This latest news means Sansa and Theon did survive the jump from Winterfell they made at the end of last season. Which is encouraging for the growing legion of male fans of actress Sophie Turner, who has turned into a grown up at least as hot as her tumbling red tresses.

All of which is good news, but we are still reeling, Dear Reader, from the demise of Clara Oswald (aka Jenna Coleman, who is coincidentally Rob Stark’s girlfriend in real life) in the most recent episode of Doctor Who.

claraYes, we all know that the Who writers regularly kill characters off, and Clara’s behaviour had become overly-reckless recently, but it was nevertheless suprisingly emotionally distressing to see a character we have come to know and love killed off instead of having her leave the series for some other reason and in some other way (Billie Piper getting trapped in an alternate Universe from David Tennant’s Doctor, for example.)

Dakota JohnsonIt is really odd how we come to identify so closely with characters in either movies or TV shows. It must have something to do with the way our brains “suspend disbelief” to allow us to enjoy the drama. We watched an interesting discussion with Dakota Johnson, famously the daughter of Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, who plays Anastasia Steele in the schlock-BDSM pot boiler “Fifty Shades of Grey, and who is currently filming the sequel “Fifty Shades Darker”. She said she had difficulty finding a boyfriend because suddenly men seemed frightened of her, although apparently and happily she has recently rekindled her romance with her British rock musician boyfriend.

Apparently the men she was meeting thought she was “weird” because of the role she played, which was certainly “out there”. But why people would think the actress’s attitudes or behaviours would mimic those of a fictional character is curious.

Game of Thrones CycleAnyway, it looks like GOT fans might be grieving a little less next year.

And in late-breaking news, apparently Aslan in the Narnia Chronicles is not real.

I mean, really. Who knew?

Well done, Mr McClure, whoever and wherever you are. Well done, that man.

 

Well done, Mr McClure, whoever you are. Well done, that man.

Freudian slip? Star wars,

Freudian slip?

 

Interesting front page typo on Yahoo today (unless they are being incredibly tricksy, which I doubt) in a headline breathlessly wondering if the posters for the new Star Wars movie have quietly un-eviled a new Death Star to expectant fans.

Hmmm. We think they mean unveiled, especially as as that’s the way the story carries on past the splash page. But somehow, you know, we prefer un-eviled.

What would am un-eviled Death Star look like?

Line dancing stormtroopers?

Anger management classes for key personnel?

A new diplomatic corps replacing the Tie Fighters?

Cooking with SuperLaser classes?

We think the people should be told.

Jabba_the_HuttMeanwhile,  STAR WARS: THE FORCE AWAKENS now has a confirmed release date of December 18, 2015.

Somehow I suspect the Wellthisiswhatithink clan will be there for the 00:01 am screening, probably in fancy dress.

Your indefatigable correspondent will be going as Jabba The Hutt as this will require minimal preparation and thus less time out of the pub.

 

eclectica

Very excited to let all followers of the blog know that I have just started a new Kickstarter project to bring a whole new Variety show to the stage in Melbourne. Poetry! Music! Clowns! Improv! Circus! Theatre! Comedy! Dance! Stuff! Yes, all of that.

The show will focus on unearthing new talent, or giving a boost to established talent that need an outlet.

It’s a bit scary, but you know what? If you don’t do, you … er … don’t do.

This has been my dream for as long as I can recall, and I’ll be frank, a recent health scare (all is well, never fear) has made me realise time is passing.

I will post more news of the project in a few days when Kickstarter hopefully approve it. Watch this space!

PS! Performers in the Melbourne area, don’t delay, signal your interest to me by emailing me on steveyolland@yahoo.com now.

UPDATE! PROJECT NOW LIVE!

We told you we’re obsessed. And now, thank goodness, we have remembered this. And found it. Productive afternoon.

How jolly, jolly good Python were at their peak. They manage to skewer medical pomposity and the incompetence of most health systems in one wince-inducing spot. Enjoy!

What’s your favourite Python sketch and why?

Welcome to Hell.

Welcome to Hell.

Beware a man seeking some peace and time to think.

We have recently completed some renovations at home, Dear Reader, and we now have yet more electrical devices that helpfully go Ding when they want to let us know they’ve done their bit, don’t know how to do their bit, or maybe they’re just feeling lonely because we haven’t sworn at them recently.

We have a toaster. It goes ding. Because two pieces of toast soaring into the air and landing in the dog’s bowl isn’t enough of a clue that it’s done its job successfully.

We have a cooktop. Electric. Swanky looking. It goes peep whenever you press a button. Take a ring all the way up from one to nine and that’s nine peeps. Leave a tea towel within a hundred yards of it’s blinking red diode controls and it peeps. It probably peeps on the hour just to share the existential horror of its owners at the passing of the day, but we haven’t caught it doing that yet.

We have a new oven. It peeps when it gets cold. It peeps when it gets hot. It peeps all the bloody time. It probably peeps hello as you come through the front door. It also has a bell as well as a peep, for when one has inadvertently turned a timer on because one cannot master the buttons. Given time, we will write a multi-instrument symphony for the oven alone.

We have a dishwasher. Leave the door open. Peep. Finish a wash cycle. Peep peep. A celebratory extra peep for shiny, dry dishes.

fridge_angryIt lives in the kitchen with the fridge. That doesn’t peep, beep or ding. It bongs. When left open. Weird noise. Booo-ONG. Still, it’s Korean.

It has a little door on the front of it to let you get to the milk faster because it’s just too damn exhausting and time consuming to open, like, the whole fridge door. The little door has to be closed with the precision used to manufacture nuclear centrifuges because leave that open and a sepulchral bong sounds not once, but twice.

If you forget to switch your immaculate new iPhone to airplane mode on retiring you can pretty much guarantee that’s the night, as you lie there desperate for sleep, collapsed with sheer exhaustion, that you are awoken by a new Facebook friend you haven’t spoken to in real life in thirty years messaging you to tell you that he’s getting divorced over that little dalliance with a waitress and could he come stay for a bit. PING!

Do you think he’s ruined his life or is it a fresh start? PING!

Will the kids get over it? PING!

Should he be worried that he’s on his fourth scotch for the night? PING, PING, PING!

Ping-is-an-app-that-keeps-you-notified-about-the-things-youre-interested-in.(Frighteningly, there’s even a popular iPhone app called, appropriately, Ping!, to send you random “humorous” or “useful” messages during the day. You’d have to really be Johnny No Friends to want that. Sad but true.)

A text message comes in. Buzz, Ding! (Yes, both.) Don’t forget the breakfast meeting at 6.30 am with the client. Except it’s now 4.30 am and you’ve been awake all night after being woken up by the suicidal Facebook friend.

We have a habit of getting in the car and starting the engine and then putting the seatbelt on. This upsets the car, which sings out a warning signal of not one, not two, but FIVE beeps.

Any messages the engine wants to send us – Windscreen washer bottle is empty – really? – we wouldn’t have noticed when we pressed the windscreen washer button and no water came out? – are accompanied by a beep.

As the sensors in the engine are so precise that they measure the coolant fluid dropping by as much as one one thousandth of a millimetre from full-to-overflowing – the only state it will accept for all oils and fluids – there are at least three beeps every time we start the engine, to go with the five reminding us to put our belt on.

While driving, the engine will sometimes send other messages – BEEP! – so randomly as to nearly cause us to drive off the road in shock, Mozart’s Requiem rudely interrupted to let us know that the boot isn’t so much open as just bored.

They’re building a home behind us. They start on site at 7am. The man on the little digger machine thingy who is digging drainage ditches has a device that makes his thing go beep beep beep (at a horribly screechy, high pitch designed to terrify dogs and cause them pain) when he’s reversing. Which we can just about see the common sense of, except he’s on the site on his own. So the only people he’s warning of his sudden backwards lurch are hundreds of yards away.

And they’re trying to get a lie in, after cancelling the breakfast meeting.

You know what cracks us up? The things that go ping in hospitals, on big imposing pingy machines next to very sick people. Ping, every time your heart beats. Ping if your blood pressure goes up. Or down. Or you wink, or move. You know how they reckon people in comas can hear you talking to them? Can you imagine days, weeks, months or worse lying immobile next to a machine that goes ping? Oh, the humanity of it.

Ding, beep, ping, pong, dong, bongy devices: you’re right. That is a shotgun in our backpack.

We are not even pretending to be rational. You have been warned.

All together now ...

All together now …

I am very grateful to Mrs Wellthisiswhatithink for finding this little gem.

It really works, too.

I know so many people who need this, I thought I’d share. A few of the commenters on this blog need this. You know who you are. Now close your eyes …

It will never quite match The Dalek Relation Tape, but then we all know that stands in a class of its own, right?

Which reminds us, the Season 9 trailer for Dr Who has just broken out. Oh. My. Lord. Excited much?

Starts September 19. We don’t want to wish our life away, but we can’t wait.

Tommy CooperFor no particular reason, Dear Reader, we felt inclined to share some of these brilliant gags with you today.

Maybe because it’s Friday.

Maybe because the world needs cheering up today.

Maybe because yesterday was our birthday and the love flowed all day and we had the day off, including discovering a fine New Zealand beer which is perfectly flavoured with coffee. Two of our favourite things in one.

#winner #whoknew?

 

Coffee Beer. We know, it sounds mad, right? It wasn't.

Coffee Beer. We know, it sounds mad, right? It wasn’t.

 

You can find this astonishing tipple here, or head to SlowBeer in Richmond, Melbourne, and go for it.

Anyhow, Cooper was a master of paraprosdokians – where the second half of a sentence or phrase is completely unexpected – and silly one liners. Here are some of his best:

I went to a fortune teller and she looked at my hands. She said, ‘Your future looks pretty black.’ I said, ‘Are you kidding? I’ve still got my gloves on!

I said to the doctor, ‘It hurts when I do this’ [raises arm]. He said, ‘Well, don’t do it, then.’

I said to the chef, ‘Why have you got your hand in the alphabet soup?’ He said, ‘I’m grasping for words!’

My doctor told me to drink a bottle of wine after a hot bath, but I couldn’t even finishbullshit drinking the hot bath!

A drunk was driving his car down a one-way street when a policeman stopped him. The cop said, ‘Didn’t you see the arrows?’ He said, ‘Arrows? I didn’t even see the Indians.’

Gambling has brought our family together. We had to move to a smaller house.

I took saxophone lessons for six months until I dislocated my jaw. How did I know I was supposed to blow in the small end?

You know what a racehorse is . . . it’s an animal that can take several thousand people for a ride at the same time

My wife said ‘Take me in your arms and whisper something soft and sweet’. I said, ‘Chocolate fudge’.

I bought some pork chops and told the butcher to make them lean. He said, ‘Which way?’

weekI said to the doctor, ‘Can you give me something for my liver?’ He gave me a pound of onions.

I sleep like a baby . . I wake up screaming every morning around 3am.

I went to see my doctor and he said ‘I want you to lie down on the couch.’ I said, ‘What for?’ He said, ‘I want to sweep up.’

And perhaps our personal favourite:

I told the waiter, bring me a chicken. So he brought me a chicken. ‘Just a minute,’ I said, ‘It’s only got one leg. ‘It’s been in a fight.’ I said, ‘Well, bring me the winner.’

Happy Friday everyone!

PS Stick Paraprosdokian in the search box top left for lots more fun examples!

And then, sometimes, there is this. Just sometimes, no one checks the words. No one bothers. No one cares. No one takes responsibility. No one is empowered. 

And then, this happens.
  
Thank you, Northampton General Hospital. Your advice is noted.

Please line up in an orderly queue for all your comments about young ladies in Northampton walking funny. They will be moderated.

sub editorWe have been laid up with flu for a while, Dear Reader, hence our output has been somewhat slowed, but we couldn’t resist whipping out the trusty laptop for this one.

So Boston is where all those posh Universities are, right?

Clearly they are not sending many of their alumni to work in newspapers as sub editors – that interesting crew whose main job is to fact check, slash verbilicious copy (yes, we made that word up) and – crucially – add headlines to news stories.

We are delighted to see that this ambidextrous Oakland Athletic relief pitcher can pitch left handed, right handed, and, apparently, underwater, too. Quite some skill, that.

 

amphibious

 

You might also enjoy these:

http://wp.me/p1LY0z-1lC – best Sub Editing F*** Up so far this year boosts scout membership. Maybe.

http://wp.me/p1LY0z-zy – the girl’s school everyone apparently enjoys.

For other F*** Ups of all sorts from the world of media and advertising, just put F*** Up in the search box top left of this page, and enjoy.

More news as it comes to hand. And when we stop sneezing. Nurse, we’ll take that little pink pill now, please. And a drop of chicken soup, if you can hold the spoon to our trembling lips.