Humour

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It’s My Funeral

Published 26/01/2020 by davidgward

I had to go to a funeral today. It wasn’t mine.

I tend to categorise funerals these days – this was a Category C Funeral.

Category A would be your parents, step-parents, your partner, your siblings or (God forbid) your offspring.

Category B would be your grandparents, your best friend, your ex-partner and, maybe, the bloke from down the pub that, in a moment of weakness, you lent £50 just before he went out and got knocked off his bike on his way home from the pub.

Category C would be that neighbour that you chat to twice a year, once when it starts to snow and once when you’ve managed two consecutive days of constant sunshine. Work colleagues and members of the same club would fall into this category.

Today was definitely a Category C affair where the deal is to turn up early enough to be near the front of the congregation so that the chief mourner will see you, shake their hand solemnly after the service and to have a ready-to-use excuse as t why you can’t go on to the wake afterwards – unless, of course, you particularly like stale tuna sandwiches and weak cordial with a bunch of complete strangers who will have been more affected by the ceremony than you were.

That said, whatever the category, unless you have had some kind of emotional bypass, every funeral will touch you at some point. Today, for example, I felt critical about the eulogy delivered by a full-frocked vicar who happened to be a cousin of the deceased. He knew everything about this person up to the age of eight but diddly squat about everything else: the marriage of 45 years; the children from this happy marriage (one of each); her stellar career in the NHS which had brought out a large number of healthcare professionals and grateful patients to pay their respects. For them, this would have been at least a Category B funeral.

Obviously none of my cousins had ever been pious enough to qualify for Holy orders so this would not be a specific problem for me but how would I ensure that my own funeral stayed ‘on message’? And what features would personalise my ceremony to mark it out as clearly a ‘Dave Funeral’?

Well, my favourite film is, probably, The Blues Brothers, so I could request that all attend in the signature black trilby and dark glasses. Mind you, to the casual onlooker this might simply present as particularly sad congregation concerned about avoiding head colds.

I’ve never been especially keen on The Rocky Horror Show, but I have seen the fans queuing up outside our local theatre in their exotic finery. If I themed my funeral on this it would certainly sort out the men from, well, the men from the men! It would definitely guarantee that those who see me anywhere below a Category A would find a reason, any reason, to be elesewhere on that day.

And I know that many would consider a Claret and Blue theme to be suitable but I disagree. I recall, prior to my Dad’s funeral, Mum insisting that there should not be an over-riding West Ham motif. We all accepted that Dad was so much more than simply a Hammers fan – mind you, I still managed to wear my understated West Ham tie when I delivered my eulogy (the toughest speech I have ever had to deliver, and, still, an event that gives me strength to meet the challenges I have had to face since.)

I’ve always thought that I really need TWO funerals. Not out of any kind of conceit, it’s just that my kids are such poor timekeepers that if I went straight for cremation they would miss the big finish. The solution is a burial followed later by the cremation – thus they would get two shots at being there.

And of course, anyone who knows me well knows of my morbid fear of fire so why would I subject myself to this phobia post mortem? Also, what would cremation do to my carbon footprint? I don’t need Greta Thunberg turning up with her hang-dog expression and monotone expressions of disapproval.

In spite of all this, it will have to be a cremation, I’m sure, but how to get my body to the furnace? If I were a biker I could arrange for the local chapter of Hells Angels to sweep me in on the sidecar of one of their Harley Davidsons. Or, even more exotic, strapped on as a pillion passenger on one of the bikes! But as I have only ever ridden a very small motorbike for a very, very short period of time, I can’t see this working.

My short skydiving career never reached the heights (get it?) where the Parachute Regiment would be wiling to parachute my coffin to a drop zone outside the Chapel of Rest.

However, I could envisage a flight of drones whisking my remains to the nearest Crematorium. That would be pretty 21st Century, I reckon. One would have to consider the weight issue (not mine, you understand) so the coffin would need to be of bio-degradable cardboard. But that would present potential problems if it started to rain mid-flight. Imagine the headlines the next day as my body spilled from the rapidly degrading papier mache coffin?

Clearly a lot more thought needs to go into this, so I will put it onto the back burner for another day.

Senior Moments

Published 15/11/2016 by davidgward

Life has a habit of reminding us of our own frailty at times when we least expect it.
Feeling fit, strong and healthy at the moment I am still able, in my mind’s eye, to envisage myself as that twenty-five year old that stood on the edge of maturity full of confidence, bravado and hope.

This week has served to pull me back and remind me that I am not immune to the ageing process and can fall foul of the senior moment or three, just like anyone else.

The first ‘episode’ occurred when I was being driven into town. We pulled up at a parking spot and I reached down to my left hand side to release my seatbelt. Fumbling further down the left side I bemoaned the fact that I couldn’t find the button and was starting to feel like the hero of a Chuck Berry song with no particular place to go, when my wife pointed out that the seatbelt was actually secured on the right hand side.
“Oh yes,” I replied, “I thought I was driving.”
Scary!
Things got worse. I purchased myself a new hair and beard trimmer on the basis that the price equates to two haircuts from a standard barber. Now I’ve been using this sort of trimmer for a number of years but this was ‘state of the art’ with a choice of safety guards to suit varying lengths of hair and beard along with a dial to further increase the choice of lengths.
I read the instructions. Let me repeat this phrase so that it beds in: I read the instructions. They were confusing and impenetrable. Now I have very little hair but I cherish what I have left and was anxious not to make matters worse and for several days I was reluctant to trial my new toy. Eventually I resolved to test my shaver on the least obvious area of hirsuteness – my chest hair. I chose the longest guard specifically for long hair and turned the dial to what I assumed to be the longest setting and set to work on my lustrous chest hair. I looked at the results of my efforts in the mirror. It was like a channel that had been dredged through the Amazon undergrowth. I was horrified at the sight but the feeling of naked flesh where naked flesh had not been for some fifty years was traumatising. A week later and I am now at the itchy stubble stage. I have cancelled my appointment for a Brazilian – no way could I cope with that level of intimate scratching after five days.

Let me tell you of my final senior moment of the week. I was invited for an interview and was given the address along with an assurance that there would be parking available at the rear of the building. As I drove down the main road I spotted my destination on the right with a very large arrow on the side of the property with a sign ‘Parking at the Rear’ in bold print. I followed the arrow and turned right. To my horror two sets of car headlights were heading towards me – I had turned down a one way street the wrong way! I managed to manoeuvre into the parking area before the oncoming cars were on top of me. This faux pas was doubly embarrassing as I was to be interviewed for a driving job!

I decided that three senior episodes in one week was more than enough but sadly I now have to recount one more.

We are away this weekend and I have just realised that I did not have my razor with me – two cans of shaving foam but no razor. ‘No problem’ Libby reassured me, ‘use my lady razor. It’s not very good but it will do.’
I lathered up and started to shaving, observing how smooth these lady razors are. No dragging or pulling, painless!
Shaving completed I jumped into the shower and, as my first ablution, I washed my face to remove any residual shaving foam. My beard was coarse and gravelly! I couldn’t put up with this for too long so I jumped out of the shower to have another shave when I made a brilliant discovery – lady razors cut a lot closer if you remove the cover!

I am now sitting in a darkened room considering my past and more importantly my future. It’s a worry.

Self Indulgence

Published 05/09/2016 by davidgward

“So, mate, have you done this before?” he asks me in a broad Essex accent, tinged with a touch of the Mediterranean.
I settle into the black leather chair and allow my mind to fly back some fifty years to an identical black leather chair situated near the station in Brixton. The accent on this occasion was more Caribbean than Mediterranean and the atmosphere was more exotic than in sunny Southend in spite of the efforts of the vapes being enjoyed by one or two of the other clients.
Back then, my new Rasta friend, Leroy, looked searchingly at me.
“How old you, man?” he demanded.
I felt that if I gave the wrong answer I would be ejected from the chair and the premises and denied this moment of self indulgence that I had promised myself for some weeks.
I weighed up my response very carefully before admitting that I was only eighteen years old. In those days the voting age was twenty-one, remember.
“Then why you gotta grey patch in your hair, man?”
“Where, where!” I exclaimed leaning forward in a blind panic. He pointed to an area around my left temple and I stared into the enormous mirror that was in front of the chair, seeking out this stain on my crowning glory. Twisting and turning my head, I finally spotted the offending patch, reflecting the spotlights that were all around me in this Brixton emporium.
“Oh, that,” I said, dismissively, “I’ve had a hard life, man!”
My dark and leather-skinned Rasta-man searched my (near) flawless pale skin for signs of lining, or scars or even weathering but found none. With a dismissive shrug of his large shoulders he bent forward and picked up a blade, testing the sharpness menacingly on a piece of paper.
Blade poised he leant into my personal space (although back in the sixties I’m not entirely sure that we actually had ‘personal space’). I could smell the sweet aroma of ganga on his breath as Leroy asked me in his deep and strangely threatening voice,
“So, son, what’s it to be? A wet shave and a trim?”

Back in the present my Turkish barber is unlikely to comment on the greyness, as, by now, I am entirely grey. His challenge is more likely finding enough hair to warrant his charge.
“Yes,” I tell him, “I have had the works before but not for many years – in fact back to when I had hair!”
“So what we are going to do is cut the hair tighter, trim the goatee, give you a wet shave with the hot towels then tidy up your bits and pieces. OK?”
Sounds good to me although I’m not entirely sure what ‘bits and pieces’ I will be having tidied up. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these particular shorts and T-shirt?
“So, what’s the occasion, mate, looking for a new wife?”
“Trying to keep the one I’ve got, more like!” I respond, “no, it’s more of a dry run for the daughter’s wedding in a couple of weeks.”
My Turkish friend assures me that the ladies would be delighted with the final effect and I settle down to let him do his stuff.
In a whirl of scissors and razors, this skilled technician sets to work to reduce my sparse head of hair to a neat nap across the areas of my head that still sports hairs. It is clearly a labour of love as my hairdresser appears to address each strand individually, making a last minute decision as to whether it will be the razor or the scissor for every follicle.
Let me be honest, I prefer to see a little more hair and a little less forehead but the criticism is pointless as, in the nature of these things, I will have my wish within a week – a close haircut is only a close haircut for seven days.
The barber is interested to know why the goatee goes so far down my neck and I explain that it is a failed attempt to camouflage my wobbly jowls. He has a better plan and sets to work with a look of deep concentration, shaping and trimming in precise strokes of his instruments.
I am very impressed with the final outcome but I am assured that it will look better after the shave. Ahead of this he is anxious to deal with my ‘bits and pieces’. I ask if I need to remove any clothing for this part and he laughs loudly and takes an implement to my nostrils and eyebrows. He then turns his attention to my ears, which are, and have been for some time, the most efficient producer of hair over any other part of my body. He snips and snaps away at the tree trunks that emerge from my ear canal.
I’m satisfied with the outcome but my friend is not. He searches around for what appears to be a giant cotton bud and dips it into a blue fluid. I’ve seen this liquid before but my brain will not register what it is until he puts a lighter to it. It’s paraffin – PARAFFIN for Gods Sake!
Now, me and fire have a healthy, even paranoid, respect for each other so I’m squirming away from this flaming torch. I think that my barber has noticed my discomfort as he starts to wave the lighted taper as if to put it out. In an instant he has run the flame around my ear and I can smell burning – the burning of the small hairs around my ears. For once I am speechless, giving my assailant time to attack the other ear before I can prevent it.
I sit rigidly in shock at having been turned into a human torch and before I can pass any comment he throws a boiling towel around my cheeks, wrapping it in a top-knot at the crown of my head. As I start to gyrate in a dance of panic my Turkish Delight spots the problem.
“Sorry, mate, I should leave you a gap for your nose so you can breathe!”
“And let this broiled scarf cool down before you start to blister the skin.”
I intone, but the towels act as a gag and my words are lost on my torturer.
After what feels like forty minutes, Gas Mark 4 in the centre of the oven, my face is released from its baster and my florid chops are lathered up – including the newly sculptured goatee. Discretion dictates that I do not mention the damage that he has already inflicted on my skin as he is now holding a cut-throat razor close to my neck. He had said that he had a plan for my wobbly jowls – maybe this is what he has in mind.
In a flurry of blade and lather, my face slowly re-emerges and, I must admit, I look pretty damned good!
“Nearly there, mate.” he tells me before applying a new hot towel. Now this one feels lovely. Comforting, soothing, like slipping into a flannelette onesie on a snowy evening.
This time I am disappointed when I am released, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Pleased to look so good but sorry to lose my sanctuary.
I start to rise from the Mastermind Chair, only to be pushed back for the final flourish – stinging après rasage followed by soothing moisturiser, applied to my cheeks and on the sides of my nose.
Seizing this opportunity to escape, I jump from the chair, pay my dues and rush out of the barbers shop. Two doors along is a coffee shop. I rush in and order a double espresso, down it at one gulp, my shaky hands barely able to manage the tiny cup and demand another.
As I sit there slowly regaining my equilibrium I review the experience that I have just endured. Actually, I really enjoyed most of it. You will never sell me on the flaming ears but, that aside, it was nice to have a bit of pampering for a change. I glanced around the coffee shop demanding that the other customers look at me and admire my new look. Naturally, I failed dismally – only I knew of the full transformation that had taken place. Well, me and the guy sitting over in the corner of the room looking from side to side. He looks like a man who recognises good grooming when he sees it. He looks pretty well-turned out himself.
Hang on a second – is that a mirror??
Indeed it is and over my shoulder I’m sure I can see Leroy, my barber of fifty years ago.
“Warned you man ’bout the grey hair!” He announced smugly.
“I know, Leroy, but you could have warned me about the hair loss! I might have got some treatment for it!”
As I replied to my Mum many years ago when she said, “You don’t mind losing your hair, do you?”
“Well, I would have liked to have been given the choice!”

An Essex Excursion

Published 15/08/2016 by davidgward

It was a bright summer’s day and so we decided to take ourselves off to the County Town for a ‘meandering mooch’. For those of you who do not know this concept (and I suspect that it will mainly be the men) let me explain it to you. There are two kinds of shoppers, and it has to be said that it generally splits on gender. There are those who have a list of items to purchase and they move directly and without distraction through the list and those who have only a vague idea of what they might want to be buying, if anything, but insist in visiting every nook and cranny for fear of missing a bargain. We will call the former shopper ‘The Exocet’ whilst the latter is ‘The Meandering Moocher’.
My personal instinct is that of ‘The Exocet’ – home in on my target, go in for the kill and get out with the minimum of collateral damage in the shape of unwanted purchases and mythical bargains.
On the other hand, my wife is definitely a moocher and today was one where I had agreed to cede to her approach rather than impose mine. On such occasions I set myself two personal objectives. The first is to maintain a broad smile on my face at all times. The second is to enjoy one of my main hobbies, that of people watching.
The smile is a valuable weapon in the locker of the reluctant meanderer. It has the benefit of tricking your brain into thinking that you are having a good time, thereby avoiding a descent into a well of despond. There can be a range of reactions from passers-by to my smiling face. With some, I can see their minds ticking over as they try to fathom out what I can possibly know that they don’t. With others, my friendly smiling face has a familiar look and they assume that I am smiling at them and so they will acknowledge it with a smile of their own or a cheery word in passing.
“You ‘at it’ too?” one offered to me darkly.
“Afraid so!” I respond, as if I fully understand what he is talking about, “it has to be done.” I share conspiratorially.
We nod knowingly to each other and move on our way.
Of course, the smile does have its risks attached to it, as happened today. Libby decided that she would try on a dress – an interesting design, being shorter at the front than the back. We disagreed over which colour would suit her best which was quite arrogant on my part as I am notorious for my lack of colour co-ordination. Anyway, having raised a doubt in her mind, I was now committed to watching and waiting while she tried on both versions of the same dress. Experience told me not to wander too far from the changing room as I would be required, at short notice, to agree with her decision about the two items.
To describe the facility as a changing ‘room’ is giving it more status than it deserved. In fact it was an alcove with two curtains stretched across it. Libby disappeared behind one curtain and I took a short meander of my own around the adjacent lingerie department as I continued my search for knowledge about the difference between the balcony bra, the under-wired, the push-up bra and the shelf bra. And what is the difference between a T-Shirt bra and, presumably, a Shirt bra?
None-the-wiser, I returned to my station outside of the changing cupboard, ensuring that my grin was fully deployed just in time to see a curtain being thrown open and a partially dressed lady, who I did not recognise, strode out looking from side to side for her consort. A man mountain, arms inked in aggressive patterns of flick knives interwoven with knuckle-dusters, came into view and looked from one to the other of us – his wife with her blouse unbuttoned and me with a smile that was morphing through a smirk and into a leer. The disgruntled spouse stepped threateningly towards me but fortunately at that moment Libby emerged from her lair in her new dress and the hiatus was broken as I rushed towards her enthusing about her look. I decided that I would pass on my true opinion on the way to the cash desk, or, indeed anywhere away from the Neanderthal whose wife, I’m pretty sure was wearing a balcony bra under her blouse.
Escaping back into the High Street, we headed towards our ‘favourite’ restaurant, McDonalds for a refreshing milk shake when my second recreational activity – people watching – came into play. Outside the golden arches eatery squatted a duffle-coated, hairy ‘free spirit’ with a rough cardboard sign which read “ex-service and homeless”. As we walked towards the entrance a customer emerged from the restaurant and handed over a basic burger and with a brief “there you go mate” he was off.
We agreed that it was heart-warming to see such an act of altruism as we passed through into the heaving counter area. We even considered adding an extra drink to our order so that we could continue this act of generosity, but decided not to. This proved to be the right decision because, on exiting Maccie D’s we noticed that our homeless ex-serviceman had departed, replacing the original sign with a card which read “gone to lunch”. What was even more baffling was that he had left behind the burger that had been given to him plus his cap which contained the ten, twenty and fifty pence pieces that had been donated by passing strangers throughout the morning. A strange couple of decisions to make for a homeless person.
We continued our perambulations around the shopping precinct and some hours later (seriously –hours later!) we returned to outside McDonalds just in time to see our old soldier pulling yet another placard from his pack, this time reading “Back in 10 Minutes” and, leaving behind his uneaten burger and his cap full of booty, he shuffled off away from the High Street.
My curiosity now had the better of me and so, sending my wife off into yet another shoe shop, I decided to follow my vagrant friend. Even with my slow walking pace, he was easy to follow, given his slouched shoulders and scuffling gait. However, after a hundred yards strange things started to happen. Firstly, my quarry appeared to be getting taller and secondly, with this transformation his shuffle was turned into a stride and the pace quickened into something like a military yomp. I was now struggling to keep pace with him but determination had fired my curiosity and I would not be left behind.
As I strode out my mind was whirring into gear trying to second guess what was going on.
Was this man a drug dealer, rushing to his next deal?
Or, maybe, an undercover drugs cop who had just received a tip off that he was chasing down?
Or perhaps he just needed the loo – and fast!
Rounding a corner the truth finally dawned on me. The ‘squaddie’ had walked up to a machine, inserted a credit card and, having punched in his information, he waited whilst the machine churned and spewed out a ticket which he withdrew from the opening and, walking over to his Bentley Continental Convertible, he popped the lock and slipped the parking ticket onto the dashboard of his sumptuous car.
I followed, open mouthed, as this imposter returned to his pitch. The closer he came to the High Street, so the chameleon changed his deportment, shoulders stooping and legs stiffening into his trademark shuffle. His head, a moment ago held high and proud, was now bowed in subservience and submission as he went back to work – conning the public out of their hard earned cash out of misplaced sympathy and gratitude for service to his country.
Affronted by this man’s deceit (but not so affronted that I wanted to challenge him face-to-face) I sidled past the conman and muttered,
“Don’t forget your burger, mate! Wouldn’t want to put crumbs in the Bentley, would you?”
My point made, I moved back into the High Street and found myself following a young lad, suited and booted and ready for work. I assessed him to be some kind of civil servant, or maybe an aspiring local government official.
A lad of similar age, wearing a tatty and grubby grey tracksuit, recognised my ‘office worker’ and rushed over to him.
“Alright, John, haven’t seen you for a while!”
The lads greeted each other with the trendy flying arm-wrestling grip and topped that off with a gentle chest bump.
“Alright, Che? What you doing?”
“Just wasting time before I go to the dole office for another review. F-ing waste of time. Still working for the Council?”
I patted myself on the back for my perception as I strode past the pair but continued to listen to their Estuary accents with Rasta lilts which merged into one voice.
“Haven’t seen you down the club lately.”
“No, had a bit of aggro so I haven’t been out much.”
“What aggro?”
“Beat up this tosser from London, didn’t I? He was getting handy with my mate’s bitch but when the bill came both him and his bird had it on their toes, didn’t they? I think she was 14 or something.”
“Wanker! So what happened?”
“Got an ASBO, or whatever they call it now. Still I’ve never had a tag before so I can tick that one off.”
“An ankle tag – you got it on now?”
“’Course”
“Let’s have a butchers, then”
If he hadn’t asked, I would have because I haven’t seen an ankle tag either. Turning around I watched as John lifted the trouser leg of his suit and proudly showed off his new jewellery.
Not for the first time in my life I had a ‘books and covers’ moment

Friends Reunited

Published 03/07/2016 by davidgward

Life and family seem to conspire against our being able to catch up as often as we would like with our long-term friends from Reading but after months of skirting around each other we had finally agreed on a weekend when we could get together at last. Unlike the usual arrangement of meeting for Sunday lunch at a restaurant equidistant for us both we had decided to get more adventurous. Here is a transcript of the text traffic between the movers-and-shakers as the plans developed:
Maur: We are free all that weekend; Phil fancies going to the RHA garden down in Sussex. Do you fancy that?
Lib: Sounds good. Shall I book a couple of rooms at a Premier Inn somewhere on the way?
Maur: Great!
Lib: What is the name of the garden?
Maur: There are two, one near Rye and one nearer to Maidstone.
Lib: We could do one on Saturday and the other one on the way home on Suday?
Maur: Good idea!
Lib: I will text you when we have left and or ETA.
Maur: We are always early risers, so we will wait for you in the car park, OK?
Lib: No problem but we will aim to get there about the same time as you.
Maur: OK, well we should be there about 9.30 for breakfast.
Lib: Now you are talking my language! Looking forward to catching up.
Maur: Hi you guys we are on our way and reckon we will get there about 9.15 but don’t worry, we will save a sausage for you!
Lib: Make that two sausages, I’m starving! The Satnav has us down to be there around 9.25 but the way Dave is driving we will either be there at the same time as you or not at all!
Maur: Tell him to calm down! I’ve just told Phil that we may be going past Brands Hatch but that still doesn’t make him Lewis Hamilton.
Lib: Not with that ginger hair, it doesn’t! And at 6’ 4” isn’t he a bit over-height? See you soon.
Maur: Just seen a sign post saying five miles to go so not long now.
Lib: We’ve just pulled into the Car Park. We are parked near the toilets, naturally, as Dave needs to pay a visit.
Maur: Phil is driving with his legs crossed, so I think that’s a great idea for us too. See you soon.
Maur: Can’t spot the toilets?!?
Lib: They are off to the left as you come in just in front of the Farm Shop.
Maur: What Farm Shop?
Lib: The big black double-fronted wooden building!
Maur: Where are you parked?
Lib: In front of the Farm Shop.
Maur: No, I mean WHERE are you parked?
Lib: About 10 metres from the entrance to the Farm Shop on the right. We are in the black car.
Maur: I don’t do metric. What I mean is where are you? We are in the car park and there is only one other car here and no Farm Shop?
Lib: You must be in a different car park! What is the postcode where you are? What can you see?
Maur: We didn’t use a postcode, we just turned in at the brown sign that said Sissinghurst Castle.
Lib: Sissinghurst!! We are at Great Dixter! Sissinghurst is Sunday!!
Maur: No matter, it’s really nice here but we are about 30 minutes away from you.
Lib: Got it! Yes, about 30 minutes according to our Satnav. See you soon.
Maur: Just pulling into the car park.
Lib: What do you mean “Just pulling in”? You’re already there. We are about five minutes away from Sissinghurst.
Maur: Oh bugger! We’ve just got to Great Dixter. Phil is in the toilet and I’m in the Farm Shop. You’re right, it is big.

Obfuscation

Published 17/03/2016 by davidgward

“Minister, in your statement to Parliament yesterday you advised the House that you intend to create a new ‘Super Department’ combining an NHS service specifically for the Over-70’s with the existing Department of Energy and Climate Change. What is the thinking behind this?”

“Well, Sally, thank you for letting me come onto your programme to explain the thinking behind this merger. As you know, there has been a lot of misguided information about this and I’m here, this evening to clear up any misunderstandings and I hope that you will see the benefits of what we are proposing. For the Over-70’s, with their highly specific set of medical conditions, they will know that we will take care of these needs specifically, and at the same time they will feel satisfaction that they continue to contribute to such major concerns for their children and grandchildren, and sometimes even their great-grandchildren over issues like Global Warming and escalating energy costs. I hope that this has helped to clear up any worries that have been expressed?”

“Not really minister, you see I’m still not clear where the link is.”

“So, Sally, let me put some meat on the bones for you. Let me give you some numbers. Did you know that, on average a cow will release between 70 to 120kg of Methane per year…?”

“Sorry, Minister, I can’t see the connection?”

“Well, as you know, Methane is a greenhouse gas, just like Carbon Dioxide but the difference is that Methane is 23 times more powerful than CO2 in terms as the negative effect on climate.”

“Still not following.”

“So, in the UK we have around 1.895 million cattle – that’s an enormous amount of methane, Sally.”

“Indeed, but this merger of Departments, Minister, I’m still no clearer.”

“So, Sally, the census shows us that we have in the UK in the order of 11.4 million people approaching 70. This element of the population call for more and more resources from the NHS. Hip and knee replacement to give you one example. Then there is the number of reading glasses and hearing aids demanded by this population. And most of these people are only working part-time, so their contribution to our economy is on a downward trajectory whilst their gas emissions, in the form of flatulence, is rocketing skyward.”

“Is there a link with the cattle somewhere here?”

“Clearly, 11.4 million people is a greater number than 1.895 million cattle. The conclusion is undeniable. Greenhouse gasses, emitted by our Over-70 population is an enormous contributor to Global Warming.”

“So, your new Over-70’s NHS Department would be seeking a cure for flatulence? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“In an ideal world, Sally, and with time on our side, that would be a perfect, if incomplete solution. Sadly, we do not live in an ideal world and you know as well as I do, Sally, that those grandchildren and sometimes even the great-grandchildren will not wait for ever. They will not wait for their turn to smell the roses, whilst their grandparents are farting all over the country.”

“Surely, you’re not suggesting that you harness their gasses for energy in some way?”

“Not exactly, Sally, but what we have is an opportunity to take a series of negative outcomes and convert them into a series of positive benefits for mankind. What we are working on here is cutting edge – and I use those words advisedly!”

“Minister, you promised clarity but so far I am in more of a fog than at the start of this interview!”

“Sally, let me paint a picture for you and all will become clear. Sally, you are now over 70. You have the glasses, the hearing aid and, on average, three prosthetic joints and you’re trumping to kingdom come. The Government have offered a prosthetic equivalent to an Organ Donor Scheme. Let’s face it, you are hardly using that new knee joint anyway so, for a consideration, you can return it for recycling. And, let’s be fair about this, money is not much use to you either in your parlous state. So here’s what we are offering. We will, at no cost to you, remove all of your ‘enhancements’ and recycle them.”

“But, without a knee joint, or a hip joint, I can’t walk or move! Doesn’t that make me a bigger drain on society?”

“Sally, this is where the other department in the merger comes into its own. You are quite correct when you suggest that your quality of life will be non-existent, so, in return for your donations we will arrange, at no cost to you, for you to be cremated. And here is where the national benefit really starts to pay in spades, because we will be linking up all crematoria to the National Grid and as you are vaporised so you are adding energy to the national store.

Looking at it in the round, this scheme takes expensive Over-70’s out of the NHS, leaving more resources to people who are working and contributing. It recycles perfectly good but underutilised NHS prosthetics. It cuts down gas emission contributing to global warming and finally provides cheap pyre fuel to our factories and houses.”

Short and curly grey hair? It’s all in the genes, apparently!

Published 04/03/2016 by davidgward

So, scientists have now identified the gene that defines whether we are going to have grey hair, curly hair or, indeed, no hair at all.

As a follicly challenged male, I could really have done with this information much earlier in my life so that I could make plans.

I remember a conversation I had with my mother at a time when, to quote Harry Hill, I realised that every day it was taking longer to wash my face as my hairline receded.

“You don’t mind losing your hair, do you love?” Mum asked.

“Well mother, I would have preferred to have had a choice!” I observed.

My family, who are generally a fair haired, hirsute group, were not particularly sympathetic. My sister described my situation as a case of ‘over production, but poor distribution’ whilst my big brother, who, even in his seventies, sports a full head of curly, blond(ish) hair, questioned whether my hair loss was the result of a hefty blow to the head from a monkey wrench when I was around four years old. This explanation is probably more acceptable than the proposition that I am actually adopted given the fact that I am also shorter and stockier than any of my siblings.

The warning signs came relatively early in my life. Initially, at the age of around eighteen, my hairdresser (let me be frank, this guy was a barber in Brixton market) announced that he had spotted a grey streak at my temple.

“Makes you look distinguished, man!” he encouraged.

As was normal in the mid-sixties, I compensated for my thinning hair by growing it to shoulder length, adopting a windswept and mysterious image, the sort of image that evoked such questions as “Have you combed your hair today?” and “Why do you look so scruffy?”

With the inevitability of Canute trying to resist the tide I stood helpless in front of my bathroom mirror as I watched my hair recede and turn grey at around the same pace. Life prepares one for the loss of hair but the first sight of a greying pubic hair is traumatic to say the least. It brings into question whether I am simultaneously losing my vigour as a man at the same time. The impact can be quite sobering for a time. Is hair linked to strength as in the fable of Samson? Is there an, as yet undefined, correlation between grey hair and lack of libido?

As these questions and many others roll through my consciousness, nature plays its final ace, to further deplete my waning self-confidence. Suddenly I appear to have a spurt of hair growth. At first base, this might seem grounds for relief and celebration but this cannot be further from the actual reaction because this hair seems to be like fuse wire and growing in all the wrong places.

Initially I noticed my eyebrows forming a wire wool configuration on my now-naked forehead, sending out antennae in all directions as if seeking communication from some extra-terrestrial lifeform.

Very soon my nostrils were following suit, as were my ears. Eventually hair was sprouting from the top of my nose which, when caught in the summer sun would serve as a major distraction when driving as well as creating a minor tic as I crossed my eyes and twitched my nose in order to locate specifically the offending follicle.

Finally, as if to pour Just for Men onto my already vulnerable state, I detected the odd jet black hair standing out like a raven in the most inappropriate orifice. A dark hair amongst the grey in an ear seems to be saying “This is what you could have been if only you had not had a genetic malfunction!”

So, although it may be too late for me, I am delighted that, in the future, men will be prepared for the transformation that may befall them in later life. And, as I sit in my Home for The Bewildered plaiting my eyebrows, I trust that someone more fortunate than I will have enough respect for me to remove the raven developing on the bridge of my nose.

The trEUth about Brexit

Published 23/02/2016 by davidgward

In four months the people of the United Kingdom will be asked to make the highly significant decision about whether we should stay as a central player in the EU or leave and take a step into the unknown.

To put it another way, in four months we will be asked to decide whether to have the bureaucrats from Brussels tell us what to do or to stand on our own feet.

See the subtle difference in tonality, based upon the way in which these terms are phrased?

As a simple-minded person, what I need to know is exactly how these alternative courses of action will affect my country and me, both now and in the future. My issue is where do I get the facts in an unbiased and comprehensive manner, and by ‘comprehensive’ I mean both ‘complete’ – nothing left out to skew the argument – and ‘understandable’ to me and my fellow voters. There is little point in me being fully conversant with the facts and basing my decision on this research if I am to be in a minority where the majority are making such an enormous decision based on sound bites and personality politics, so this information should be easily available.

It was Xenophanes, the Greek philosopher, who is first credited with distinguishing between truth and opinion, between belief and knowledge around 500BC and yet current politicians will not allow us (or, indeed, themselves) to distinguish between what they actually know and what is simply an opinion! But in this current debate the lack of understanding of the difference between fact and opinion is not the exclusive territory of the politician. Academics, business moguls and celebrities from all walks of life are espousing opinions for and against Exit as if they were undeniable truths.

I am listening to the arguments (‘Look at what happened to Norway’ ‘It took Canada seven long years to get a treaty’) but I am forced to challenge every piece of information; to play ‘Devil’s Advocate’ to find out what is the commentator’s fact and what is merely opinion. In this role I find myself arguing for both sides, depending upon who I am talking with, testing their knowledge against my perceived view.

This fence-sitting, this looking both ways at once has led me to a greater truth – or is this just another opinion?

I now believe that the outcome of the referendum on 23 June 2016 is totally irrelevant! At the end of the day it will not make the slightest difference. Vested interest across the globe will ensure that the U.K. will contribute, in exactly the same way that it is doing right now, to the world picture politically, economically and militarily.

When David C suggested that he knew many people who had served divorce papers but none with the ultimate aim of renewing their marriage vows, I know what he meant. However, I know of quite a few who would have served the divorce papers if they had the courage to but, lacking that spark, had stayed in the relationship and over time things had improved and a contented and satisfied life had ensued. By the same token, there are a number of people I know who have taken the route to divorce and, after a few turbulent years, had emerged stronger and happier.

At the end of the day, as an individual and as a country we can only work with the hand we are dealt and we will make the best out of this hand for us and our companions.

And that is the TRUTH!