After several years of searching for that elusive idea that would enable me to use Delboy’s immortal words ‘This time next year we will be millionaires!’ I have finally found it! This product will attract mothers, fathers and babies all over the world!
How did I stumble upon this ingenious concept? Well, I choose my words very carefully. I was walking down the High Street the other day when I was almost mowed down by a ‘TOWIE Mummy’ pushing her child in what looked like a Formula One racing buggie. How could she have missed me? Because she was glued to her mobile!
So here is the invention which will make my fortune. Let me introduce it to you in one of those seductive slow releases:
Dads – do you wonder what your newborn is up to whilst you are at work? Are you missing out on so much of your child’s development?
Grandparents – only get to see the grandchildren when the kids want you to babysit?
Mums – need to keep an eye out for danger when you are multi-processing? Skyping your mates whilst rushing to the shops?
Babies – do you think your Mum has got ‘Samsung’ tattooed on her head? Have you forgotten what she looks like?
Pedestrians – do you take your life in your hands negotiating the buggies and prams that fly around like headless chickens every time you walk through town?
Ladies, gentlemen and children, let me introduce you to
THE PRAM CAM
Install the Pram Cam on your supercharged baby carrier and allow your child to see your face rather than your mobile.
A feed to Dad’s office enables him to check up on his pride and joy and remind them whose loins they are the fruits of.
Nan and Grandpa can watch that familiar strain upon the little one’s face which says ‘That nappy is going to need some cleaning up!’
As important, Mum can open up up a small window on her screen and, whilst describing to her ‘bestie’ that pair of strappy mules she is thinking of buying for their next Prosecco-fuelled night out, she can check, peripherally, any oncoming obstacles.
The Pram Cam, more valuable than the dash cam, more litigious than the cyclists helmet cam and more wonga for my pension fund.
You know it makes sense. Cushty!

“Our blood pressure is a little high this morning” exclaimed Nurse Annie with more than a small amount of concern in her tone.
“I’m hardly surprised!” I respond (in my imagination only) “you’ve just shaved me from anus to ankle and made me put on the equivalent of a dish cloth with armholes but no fastenings and made me lay in a public ward with my family jewels on display and then put a child’s blood pressure cuff onto my Bingo Wings!”
“Maybe we should try another arm?”
“Good idea, let’s choose one of yours.”
Wrongly, I had made some assumptions about a nurse who carried the name badge of ‘Annie’.
To my mind Ann, or Anne belongs to a big-bosomed, business-like no-nonsense nurse. Annette, on the other hand, conjures up thoughts of a harsh dominatrix who enjoys inflicting pain and suffering.
Annie is fun, frivolous and flirty with a ready smile and a quick wit. Annie Get Your Gun.
Clearly this is wrong. My Nurse Annie went on to explain in all seriousness that it would only be possible to obtain MY blood pressure reading by using one or other of MY arms.
The second arm and the second reading proved to be slightly more acceptable despite me fretting as to how complete my humiliation would be if all this demeaning assault had been for no purpose and my operation was going to be postponed because a case of embarrassment had brought on hypertension in me.
Nurse Annie left me on the bed with a pillow over my groin contemplating my next few hours, days and months.
By any standards, this was a minor operation to improve a skeletal problem – OK let me say it: to improve the performance of a dodgy knee, a condition that seems to run (well, limp) in my family. It wasn’t a tumour, it wasn’t a blockage, it wasn’t very invasive, and the recovery would be rapid in comparison with other procedures I had been through. In fact, I rather felt that they were only giving me a general anaesthetic because I am a bit of a wimp. Hard men probably only went for a local anaesthetic and Sylvester Stallone probably just bit down hard on a twig!
I was just lulling myself into my happy place when the anaesthetist came through and checked that I was who I claimed to be. Up to this point it had not occurred to me that I could delegate this pleasure to someone else. What an opportunity missed! Equally, it had never crossed my mind to undergo the surgery for someone else!
He ensured that we were in agreement about which knee they would operate on to remove the damaged cartilage. I pointed out that the other knee is a prosthetic and finding cartilage there might be a challenge.
“You’d be surprised what we can do these days” he informed me, his comment left hanging in the atmosphere between us.
My mind raced as I tried to imagine the surprise that they would have had when they stuck their camera into my false knee looking for damaged tissue. It would definitely blunt their scalpel, that’s for sure!
“Do you have any adverse reaction to anaesthetic usually?” he enquired.
“I sleepwalk” I advised him in a matter-of-fact tone.
He scrutinised my face for the punchline and seemed disappointed when there was none.
“What, you get up off the operating table and stroll around?” he smirked.
“No, I suspect that you would make that pretty difficult for me by sawing through my femur,” I responded, “it generally occurs in recovery or soon after my return to the ward. One time they found me at the end of my bed restrained by the drains and tubes that you had inserted in various parts of my body. Another time they found me in the shower.”
My anaesthetist, a handsome, elegant young man from the subcontinent, paled to a complexion akin to an English tourist on the first day of his summer holiday in Skegness. He rushed to the nearest phone and spoke into it with the rapidity of a submachine gun, looking in my direction from time to time. He replaced the handset facing away from me and stood for a couple of seconds before turning to me with a rictus grin on his face.
“Oh yes, Mr Ward, we have these things happen all the time. We will deal with it no problem if and when it arises. See you in theatre.” With that he strode off, stalling only long enough to talk to three nurses, nodding in my direction as he did so. All three nurses looked across at me. Two of them laughed uproariously as they observed me from a distance; Nurse Annie was still looking for the joke.
An anxious hour later a porter showed up looking to take me through to theatre. He was ambushed by the two nurses who spoke to him briefly. I heard him say something that sounded like ‘handcuffs’ before heading towards me.
The journey across the corridor was achieved effortlessly apart from a small matter of ‘trolley rage’ as my porter, lets call him ‘Pete’, attempted to manoeuvre me through the double doors ahead of his colleague coming in the opposite direction. Things could have turned nasty until it was clear that Pete had something like ten stone advantage over his adversary who reversed his trolley out of harm’s way, allowing us full access to the theatre ante room.
Pete entertained me with small talk about how few trips he could do in a typical working day simply by fetching patients before they were called and thus being forced to wait with them until he could do a handover.
“Dunno why they don’t all do it!” he remarked with incredulity, “some of ‘em think they get more respect for running around like the Red Arrows with their trolleys. As if!”
As I lay on my temporary bed, Pete attempted to distract me from my impending procedure by showing me his array of tattoos starting with a heart on his left forearm.
“It’s clever, this one. See the wording? C-O-N-C-E-R-T-I-N-A. Get it? ‘Concertina’! It’s another name for an accordion, like a squeeze-box. Want to know why?”
I nodded more in confusion than curiosity.
“See, I had this girl called Tina and I had the tattoo done when we were all loved-up. Then she ran off with my best mate. Well, I say ‘ran off’ but she was such a porker it was more like ‘waddled off’ to be honest”
“So, I see the need to get rid of the name Tina, but why ‘concertina’?” I enquired.
“So, I’ve got this lovely new girl. Beryl is her name.”
My brow furrowed still deeper – had they already dispensed the sedative without my noticing?
“Beryl’s got these two outstanding assets, if you get my drift. I love ‘em! And she loves that I love them. So, I call her my squeeze-box, but she says that I have to keep that private, like, just between the pair of us. And she thinks the word ‘concertina’ is just our secret code because of her squeeze-box. She loves that I did that just for her. She thinks the reason the word isn’t right inside the heart is because I used a dodgy tattoo-ist, and I’m not gonna tell her any different, am I?”
I started to warm to Pete and his scally-waggery, but our time together was rapidly coming to a close.
My anaesthetist came in and looked at my file and again I heard the word ‘handcuffs’ bandied around – I was beginning to wish I hadn’t mentioned my somnambulism and just leave them to deal with my wandering around with my backside hanging out, if and when it arose.
I had assumed that my raised blood pressure would make finding a vein so much easier. How wrong I was. Instead, the initial needle insertion was slightly off target and a lot of prodding and poking was needed before the vein was pierced and the anaesthetic was pumped into my arm. A discussion was started about whether or not I would need a face-mask to provide gas and air. I started to offer my view on the subject………
I lay in a spartan and brightly lit room, mouth as dry as a nun’s gusset and gasping for a drink. I decided to make myself a coffee and started to swing my legs off the bed when two things happened at once. First, the bulky bandaging around my right knee prevented me from bending the leg. Second, like a sprinter on the starting blocks, a nurse ran over to me in seconds before my shoulder blades left the mattress and eased me back into the bed.
“Not yet, lovely, you’re still asleep, dear!”

So, seventy, you say?
Never thought you’d see the day.
Wasn’t it just a decade ago
When you saw some codger you didn’t know
And without respect you’d always say
‘He must be seventy if he’s a day!’
Now you check the mirror and Pop smiles through
The florid skin and eyes so blue,
A mischievous air pervades the image.
And a little weariness, just a tinge.
You’ve still got stuff around to keep you young
That Sax to play, but just for fun.
The thoughts to explore and then to write
The good causes that need your fight
And above all else
There’s FAMILY near and wide
Your example might be their guide.
Do as I say, don’t do as I do
Might be the way to get them through?
So, seventy you say?
Never thought you’d see the day.

A discussion this morning about the late lamented Radio Rentals brought back memories of the evolution, through my lifetime of the eponymous television and what a circuitous journey it has been.

My Auntie Kath and Uncle Phil were the first people in our family to possess a TV and I naturally assumed that they were dead posh! I guess I would have been around four or five years old when we visited their home in Goodmayes and we were looking forward, as always, to Auntie Kath’s cakes. Auntie Kath’s cakes were legendary in the family and there would be a fresh batch waiting for us. Our branch of the family was given special treatment when it came to the cakes, because Auntie considered that Dad needed feeding up – Dad never corrected her. He could eat like a horse but always looked like a whippet!

On this visit, after the compulsory tea and cakes, we were led reverentially into the front room where we were presented to ‘The Box’. A great piece of curved mahogany now stood centre stage like a repository for a ton of conkers. Uncle Phil ran his hand lovingly over the shiny and imposing piece of furniture before opening the double-fronted doors to reveal a large goldfish bowl some three feet wide. With the words of the Radio Rentals man still ringing in his ears, Phil pushed one knob and turned a dial the size of a dinner plate then sat back into his armchair with a look of satisfaction on his face. The assembled masses gathered around the set, full of expectation.

Nothing! We glanced nervously at Phil who maintained his unusually calm persona in the face of – nothing! The kids were starting to lose confidence in this new contraption when simultaneously the Box started to hum menacingly and a pin of intense light appeared in the middle of the screen. As we watched, the picture opened to its full size of seven inches square, the white light being replaced by a sepia haze of moving images and the high-pitched voice of an announcer using an accent unlike any I had heard before.

“The Beefeaters, resplendent in their scarlet tunics, are the epitome of the Taar of London, and are recognised throughout the warld.”

Taar of London? Throughout the warld? What are they talking about? Scarlet tunics? They all look like they are suffering from jaundice, including the tunics.

The picture, being so hazy and so small could only be viewed clearly by two persons at a time and I was way down the pecking order. By the time it was my turn the Box was throwing out heat like a furnace (or should that be “farnace”?) and my dislike for anything fire related meant that I spent no more than a minute in front of the screen before concluding that a homemade scooter was more was much more interesting.

My next exposure to Radio Rentals came on the day of the Coronation and we proudly invited all our neighbours to enjoy Richard Dimbleby, father of David and Jonathan, adding colour to the black-and-white images we could see on our screen. The picture was no longer sepia and the Box was not as elegant and imposing in some ways, being more wood and plastic, although still the size of a small billiard table.

My recollection of the broadcast was pretty hazy but I remember clearly that we suffered two kinds of interference that day – the first from my newly born sister, Susan, and the second from the unreliable aerial and tuner both of which needed to be fiddled with every couple of minutes. Nevertheless, I can still feel the warmth and camaraderie created by this new piece of equipment that could bring the whole “warld” and our next-door neighbours into our humble living room.

Life changed in a major way for my family over the next few years but wherever we travelled, Radio Rentals travelled with us, providing a continuity that might otherwise have been missing from our lives.

Independent Television joined the BBC and we joined up with ITV with our new Radio Rentals TV which, by now, had replaced the fireplace as the focal point of any lining room. The half-moon of seating no longer took its pivot point from the fire; we were happy to forego a bit of heat for Hughie Greene and Michael Miles.

When BBC2 was offered Dad decided to hold out for colour telly before making the change. I’m not sure how long he actually held out – Radio Rentals was relentless.

What we did realise was that as the television aerial became more sophisticated so the need to play with a wire coat hanger diminished – in fact this artform only came into play in times of high winds and its performance had been handed down to the children (obviously not me, as I was too short and too clumsy to be effective – which meant more time in front of the screen for me!).

I guess it was the transition from valves to transistors and then chips that improved the reliability of the TV, reduced the size of the elephant in the room and led to the demise of Radio Rentals. In a desperate attempt to remain viable they went from offering rentals of radio and TV’s to renting out jewellery for those special occasions when costume would just not suffice – sadly, those special occasions did not occur often enough to keep Radio Rentals afloat and they disappeared into the mists of time just like Fruit Spangles.

Right now, I miss Radio Rentals more than I have in many years. This is not based on nostalgia for bygone times but because of a problem which has brought us full circle.

We have recently acquired a state-of-the-art, super-slim, HD screen which perches unobtrusively against one wall. The 3-D picture is so realistic that I recently attempted to swat the image of a fly on the screen using my state-of-the-art, super-bulky, rolled up newspaper. Not a good move for such an insubstantial piece of furniture that is the 21^st Century TV.

Matters became worse when we discovered that our new TV responds to our fridge-freezer in a bad way. Whenever the fridge kicks in to retain the coldness, so the TV screen picture pixilates before creating the kind of televisual snowstorm that I have not seen for decades. A temporary solution is to fiddle around with a wire coat hanger but, as I am still too small and too clumsy, it is not my role.

Now, if Radio Rentals were still about I would simply ring up the shop, threaten to cancel my payments until they sent out “A Man” to fix the problem, and I could guarantee that the problem would be resolved by the next day or they would replace the offending TV with a 22^nd Century version, which is probably an implant into my brain!

Oh, how I miss you, Radio Rentals.

Sicily – Are you taking the pizzo??
When we agreed that we would meet up with the antipodean branch of the family in Sicily for our summer vacation I decided that I should do a little research into the island, its history, its culture and its geography.
I already knew about Mount Etna, a highly active volcano – the last eruption being in March 2017 which was sufficient information for me to believe that we would be safe for our August sojourn. Mind you, as a small precaution I did pack (and am now wearing, in 37*C temperatures) the full Formula 1 Nomex fire retardant and heat resistant suits worn by drivers and pit crew alike. These suits are capable of resisting 800*C for a full eleven seconds which was reassuring until I read that eruptions run at between 800-1,000*C which probably means I would need Justin Gatlin’s drug-induced speed to avoid a serious singeing!
The other point of interest about Sicily is that it is the birthplace, and continues to be the epicentre of the Mafia, the criminal fraternity whose tentacles spread throughout the world, without the possible exception of China, whose Triads are equally as ruthless and pervasive as the Mafia.
One interesting fact that brings the whole Mafia thing much closer to the Ward family came to light recently.
My paternal grandfather, Ernie Ward, was an artisan bread maker with leather hands like buckets which, when he clapped them together, made a thunderous noise like Etna erupting. His standard attire would be trousers and a shirt with a detached collar (I never saw a collar) and the eponymous flat cap. As a deterrent to his recalcitrant grandchildren (or was it just me?) he would admonish us with the unspeakable threat “D’you want me hat?”
I never found out in what way I might get ‘the hat’ or what I might do with it as those four words were always sufficient to pull me into line.
The connection to the Mafia? The symbol of the Cosa Nostra is the FLAT CAP!
For those of us who live in Southend or even Sydney the Mafia is a part of history whereas here in Sicily it is still a real and present danger, such that local Magistrates continue to be escorted about their legal duty by heavily armed members of the military.
The Mafia love an anniversary. They chose to silent a prominent local priest who stood against them on his fifty-sixth birthday. Only two months ago a Mafia boss was shot dead whilst cycling through the narrow streets of Palermo on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination of Antonio Falcone the anti- Mafia magistrate. This is believed to have been required to reinforce ‘omertà’ the code of silence imposed on all Mafia members.
The Mafia influence and its main revenue stream is being challenged by a growing group refusing to pay protection by joining the Contro il Pizzo society. As a unit they refuse to give into the Mafia demands.
Now you may be wondering why I am attempting a brief history into the life and times of the Cosa Nostra. All will become clear when I explain our first hour in Palermo.
The number-one son picked us up from Palermo Airport in a glamorous hired people carrier – spacious enough to take multiple adults plus a baby of some nine months and all of our accompanying luggage.
Pulling out of the airport he warned us to enjoy the comfort of the freeway as, when we hit town, we would come across some pretty narrow lanes and alley ways; so narrow that on the outward journey it had been necessary to pull in the wing mirrors as well as breathing in to enable us to squeeze through. The other major issue was that the satnav lady was insisting that we drive down a busy pedestrianised zone.
We circled the offending area a couple of times to see if we could find a road going our way that deserved the name ‘road’. Having failed in this enterprise and discovering our route down the pedestrian only precinct blocked by a dark blue car containing two armed and sweaty Polizai we decided that the narrow lane was the only option. Slowly we made our way down a narrowing road with a sharp righthand bend at the end. Credit to Andy as he manoeuvred this oversized monster truck with aplomb on roads clearly made for the eponymous Lambretta scooter and we eventually drew in the wing mirrors and I acted as the driver’s wingman to ensure that we had enough clearance on the passenger side. Several times we ground to a complete standstill to discuss the feasibility of one particularly tight alley or corner. Eventually we espied a more sensible bit of road some four hundred metres. All we needed to negotiate was the cafe tables set out for alfresco dining in this dusty thoroughfare on the one side and a corner shop on the other. We approached cautiously, at very low speed checking our distance on each side as we moved forward. Suddenly, a lady emerged from the cafe and hustled towards us before realising that there was not enough room for our vehicle, the tables and her at the same time. In horror she dived into the tables for protection, her hands flailing around in the international sign language for ‘You total arseholes, what makes you imagine that you can get that weapon down this orifice without killing someone?’
In a conciliatory manner I acknowledged her concern with a cheery smile and a salute that suggested that we had at least two inches to spare on either side.
A loud crack like gunfire echoed around the alley and car and we instinctively shut our eyes. Opening one eye I could see crimson liquid running down the car window beside me. Had I been shot and the trauma of it had caused me to feel no pain? I patted myself gingerly looking for the source of my bleeding. Nothing. Slowly two things struck me simultaneously. Firstly, it was not only ‘blood’ on the window, but also a blue coloured fluid and secondly, these liquids were on the outside of the windows. I had not been shot! We were safe!
But not for long as suddenly all hell was let loose as men emerged from the cafe and corner shop all shouting in Italian and gesticulating in that way that told us that this was not over by a long chalk. The language barrier is at its most insurmountable at times like these but one phrase continued to be slung in or direction. It took a couple of hits to discern it but is sounded like they were saying something like ‘slush puppy’. What could this mean? What was the English translation of an Italian phrase that sounds like ‘slush puppy’? Where is Google translator when you need it most? Then the bitter-sweet truth hit us. We had careered at two miles an hour into the corner shop’s precious Slush Puppy machine, spurting its colourful iced contents onto the car.
It was far from over yet. We remained impaled on the table holding the machine which was now lodged precariously against my door. The multitudes of angry Italians removed the machine back to its original resting place and we were encouraged to move slowly back, then forward to clear the alley. We were not allowed to travel too far however, as the man who was clearly the owner of both establishments but particularly a priceless Slush Puppy stood in front of the car, arms flailing, face puce with rage and voice travelling from basso profundo to soprano and back again in the space of one sentence.
Before I came away to Sicily I had done some reading about the culture a customs of the country and my image of the Mafia Don was a suave coiffured man in a sharp tonic Italian suit, white shirt and silk tie. The truth, apparently, cannot be further from the this image. In order to blend into the background the Mafia Capo is more likely to wear the simple garb of the agricultural worker. And so this scruffy unshaven maniac in front of the car had all of the hallmarks of my new vision of a very dangerous and ruthless character who murdered simply in order to join the Family.
We stepped out of the car, our palms raised in a sign of appeasement and when he realised that we were not part of a rival gang who had created this standoff to assert our authority over his, his decibel level lowered a couple of points. I think that it was my tartan shorts and ‘Grandpa Pig’ tee shirt that sealed the deal.
The catastrophe distilled down to a bit of a dent in the chassis of the Slush Puppy machine plus three cracked drip trays. In the UK we would have exchanged insurance details, shaken hand and been on our way. Here in Sicily, shaking hand could result in the loss of a couple of vital digits and the alternative currency to the insurance broker was the horses head on your pillow. The negotiations were speedy and somewhat one sided but we drove away content with our part of the bargain – our lives, our car and three cracked Slush Puppy drip trays for a mere €50. Deal!
So we’ve arrived!

Nature and me live in different worlds.
Here I sit in the depths of Kent, the Garden of England, in a National Trust estate with the reputation of being one of the most picturesque and manicured gardens in the country. Horticultural students flock here from around the world to follow in the footsteps of the illustrious writer and TV gardener, Christopher Lloyd. It is mid-summer and I am wearing the obligatory shorts and tee shirt. The weather is typical for mid-summer England: sheeting rain, gale forced winds and temperatures in single figures.
I have rejected the numerous garden options in favour of the Tea Room. This description would hardly pass any Trade Description scrutiny being, as it is, a roof (albeit a waterproof roof) suspended on half a dozen substantial wooden pillars – a timber gazebo in effect. Surely the term ‘room’ should require the edifice to contain at least three walls and, perhaps, the odd window or two. Maybe I’m just a bit too ‘old school’ when it comes to my Tea Rooms.
My foray into the world of soil, plants and creepie-crawlies is, in spite of how it may sound, a relief after too many weeks submerged by the urban challenges of ageing neighbours, infirm relatives and the growing contagion of dementia. A breath of fresh country air, the banishment of ‘to do’ lists and the freedom to just sit and observe, rather than act and advise, is just what my soul craves.
As I sit in my al fresco Tea Room avoiding, where possible, the encroaching wind and rain I feel my equilibrium returning. The soreness between the shoulder blades, my symptom for stress, becomes a fading memory and my expression morphs from a studious frown into a contented smile – not the full on grin that unsettles those who spot it, forcing them to check for a faulty trouser zip or a skirt tucked into a knicker elastic. No, this is just a smile that says “I’m fine, and so are you.”
My spirits soar still further as I spot, walking in my direction a dozen or so ladies of a certain age all favouring something purple and sporting bright red hats or whispy fascinators, the more ostentatious the better! Clearly, they must be members of the Red Hat Society whose philosophy is simply to grow old disgracefully:-
“When I grow old I will wear purple and a red hat, which do not go together and which do not suit me.” Just because I can!
I am pleased to offer up my single occupancy seat at a table made for six to this new group and am warmly thanked for my generosity.
“My Mum always told me to give up my seat to any lady wearing a red hat,” I explain to looks of concern from some of the ladies. It is not until later that I learn a new phrase, popular in the East Sussex/Kent area which is “Red hat and no knickers.”
I have never heard this before but offer the Hornchurch equivalent which is “Fur coat and no knickers.” Obviously, Hornchurch is a more affluent area than Sussex.
Some are concerned about the implications of my remark, others just see me as a sister from another mother.
The mission of the Red Hat Society is to meet new friends, visit new places and simply have fun.
When the weather closes in still further I am invited to perch on the end of the table with them. I accept gratefully and pull out my Ipad from my rucksack.
“I can’t be doing with them electronic flicky-dickies!” offers one of my new companions.
“Oh! I really enjoy my electronic flicky-dicky” laughs another, a wicked glint in her eye.
I join the debate, “I love an electronic flicky-dicky,” I claim, realising too late that there might be a double entendre lurking in this conversation, ” I’ve just been in contact with Southampton, for example.”
“Don’t like Southampton,” protests the first speaker, “now if it had been Eastbourne, you’d have had me!”
The Red Hat Society continue a lively debate about the relative merits of Southampton and Eastboune. Like a car changing gear from fourth to second without the aid of the clutch the conversation judders into a different direction.
“Can you hear that bird singing?”
“I love to listen to the birds in my garden every morning. I try to whistle back to them and see if they will respond.”
“You can whistle, then?”
“Of course, everyone can, can’t they?”
“Do you have to put your fingers in your mouth?
“Depends how I feel – sometimes I do.”
The table, as one, attempts to whistle. Scone crumbs fly across the table top like a snow storm. No-one notices, or at least no-one seems to care.
The quality of the whistling varies widely from something akin to transcendental modulation to the splutter of a burst water pipe.
They are enjoying themselves enormously and invite me to have a go.
I provide me with my masterpiece – a shrill piercing note guaranteed to get the attention of my children, when they were young, at a distance of 100 yards. This has all of the power of a four-finger whistle but without the use of any fingers! I nod my head and rhythmically shrug my shoulders like Mark Knopfler completing his seven minute guitar solo in ‘Sultans of Swing’.
My audience clap in appreciation and wonderment. The Red Hat Society call for an encore.
Stage fright suddenly hits me. My lips dry and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The best I can muster is the burst pipe splutter.
We all laugh.

Scientists at the University of Canvey Island (UCI) say that their research proves that the largest influence on the decline of the nation’s health is the humble TV Remote Control.
Bent Pinkie, Emeritus Professor in Social Anthropology at UCI (University of Canvey Island) makes this claim following research sponsored by Durexcell and The Milk Marketing Board.
“This was a difficult project to undertake, given the incompatibility of the sponsors – Durexcell claim that their batteries require fewer changes to the Remote Control than ordinary batteries whereas the introduction of any milk products seemed to reduce the effectiveness of the remote quite substantially.”
“Our usual subject for any kind of health research would be the common mouse, but in this investigation they were quite useless. You see mice rarely need to use the TV Remote Control. They usually just find the Cartoon Channel and watch Tom and Jerry twenty-four seven.”
Professor Pinkie explained how they overcame this first hurdle.
“We at the University of Canvey Island (UCI) used audience figures supplied by Nielsen Media Research and discovered that our optimum research subject would be someone who watched Jeremy Kyle in the morning, Tipping Point in the afternoon and Emmerdale in the evening. Our next problem was to discover enough amongst this demographic capable of completing our questionnaire, particularly those who were concerned that the Health Questionnaire might, in some way, affect the level of benefits they were receiving. Reassuring them that this was not a Benefit Office sting proved very time consuming.”
Bent Pinkie at this stage hands the story over to his colleague, Professor Poppy Pepper but not before explaining why she was ideal for this project.
“I had previously picked Professor Poppy Pepper for a previous project and she proved to be passionate and persistent in her research. Indeed,” Bent Pinkie laughed, “we nicknamed her ‘Passionate Persistent Professor Poppy Pepper’ and if I was going to pick any person it had to be ‘Passionate Persistent Professor Poppy Pepper’.”
Professor Pepper blushed at such fulsome praise before explaining the key findings.
“ UCI (University of Canvey Island) have a growing reputation for blue sky thinking, thinking outside the box, pushing the envelope. Indeed running controversial theories up the intellectual flagpole to see if anyone salutes it. My remit was to work within a very tight budget to prove some of the life-shattering ideas that had emerged from our observations.”
Professors Pinkie and Pepper split their research into a number of sections. Diabetes is the fastest-growing health threat facing the UK and the numbers of undiagnosed cases is a cause for concern for the NHS and their ability to cope in the future.
The connection between diabetes and the growth of the Remote Control is incontrovertibly linked. As the numbers of Remote Controls raised so did the increase in diabetes. But why? The answer, according to Bent Pinkie, is that, clearly the user does not have to get up every time they want to change channels and as such does not flush the blood through the bloodstream at regular intervals. In addition as the user is aware that they will not be leaving their chair that often they have now created a new habit of stocking up with lager and sweets before they settle down. Without the distraction around him the user is able to plough through their supply and over time will increase the stock and thereby their intake of alcohol and sugar.
As Poppy Pepper puts it: “Less calories consumed through less activity plus more calories consumed through more sugar intake equals diabetes.”
“Our research, sponsored by The Milk Marketing Board and Durexcell, recommends that, to reduce the health hazards attributable to high levels of alcohol and sweet consumption, Remote Control users should migrate to more dairy-based products – with fewer calories and less harmful to the liver and kidney.”
Professor Pinkie was keen to present the other element of their research, sponsored by Durexcell and The Milk Marketing Board.
“What we were expecting to find from our analysis was that by switching to an inferior quality of battery – maybe one with a life of only 28 days – would require users to become more active, at least when the batteries are running out and certainly when they are finally dead. What we found was the opposite of this. Twenty-eight days is not long enough to create a firm habit. A longer life battery – one that could last for 12 months or more – would enable Remote Control users to ignore the pressure of an imminent battery failure and concentrate on changing their lifestyle choices to more healthy and dairy-related options.”
“Our second major finding was the way in which use of the Remote Control was affecting the wellbeing of our eyes” explained Poppy Pepper. “Sitting for many hours with our eyes focused on the same distance to the TV weakens the muscles of the eyes. This means that when we need to focus at something nearer, for example when reading a book, the image is blurred or hazy. As a result people are avoiding reading, literacy levels are falling and the average size of their vocabulary is diminishing year on year.”
“Cataracts are also a by-product of Remote Control overuse. The connection is the amount of time spent in front of the bright television screen.”
Perhaps the most shocking findings from UCI (University of Canvey Island) was the deterioration in the nations hearing.
“Remote Controls change stations by emitting high pitched radio wave signals. These are indiscernible by the human ear but this constant assault on the upper register of our hearing forces our overall level of hearing to atrophy. Think of how many times when you speak to someone watching TV that you have to repeat yourself. The Remote Control Effect,” claims Bent Pinkie.
As a result of these findings UCI (University of Canvey Island) applied for more funding and were delighted to obtain sponsorship from SpecExpress. They were able to provide technical expertise to deal with the dual problems of high-level radio waves and lack of ocular exercise. The result of this was the development of a pair of spectacles which contain within the arms on the one side a jamming device to counteract the high level radiowaves and on the other a small hearing aid. The lenses resemble something akin to two pairs of venetian blinds which flip open and shut automatically.
Pinkie and Pepper explained that this has the effect of forcing the eyes to react by changing the range of focus, thereby exercising the eye muscles.
What can be done to reverse the Remote Control Effect? The boffins at the University of Canvey Island (UCI) believe that Government intervention is called for.
“Without being overdramatic,” say the worthy professors, “the health of the nation depends on this. Obesity, diabetes, eyesight and hearing problems are a costly drain on the limited resources of the NHS and the Government must act. Our solution is simplicity itself – make Remote Controls truly remote. Make them only function from a different room to the TV. To change channels users would need to get up and walk into the other room thus taking exercise, moving away from their stash of booze and grub and also giving their eyes and ears a rest from the harmful effects of the insidious Remote Control.”
We must wait and see if the Government has enough courage to act.