The other day my sister-in-law in Australia sent me a s**t e-mail. That is, an e-mail that purported to explain the derivation of the word. Apparently it was to do with the shipping of manure below decks, leading to catastrophic explosions and so ending up with the instruction “Ship High In Transit”.
Although somewhat concerned that she should think of me when she read a story about poo, I felt duty-bound to reciprocate with some edumacational nuggets about the derivation of some of our favourite traditions. With our British summer feeling distinctly autumnal, thoughts are already turning to the festive season, so consider the following when you start planning for Christmas.
First, the word Christmas is commonly mistaken for meaning Mass of Christ, but it actually goes back much earlier than this, to an old Celtic festival called Cris T’Mars, which translates as Cross The Marsh. During the depth of winter each year, tribes who populated the higher lands would send out messages to the lowland dwellers who struggled to survive the cold and wet in the bogs and marshes. In a show of apparent humanity and kindness, they were invited to ‘cross the marsh’ to share in the spoils of the higher, more fertile land. However, as the lowlanders extended the hand of peace in return, it was invariably hacked off and roasted over an open fire, as turkey was not easy to come by in those days.
You might also be forgiven for believing that the tradition of placing an angel on top of the Christmas tree has a spiritual basis derived from the story of the nativity. In fact, it relates to the time of the Saxon invaders, who were responsible for bringing Scandinavian pine trees with them, mainly as building material for the repair of their ships. Early Saxon settlers, in an attempt to scare off the local Angle population, would plant a tree outside their dwelling, having first rammed it up one of the tribal leaders. Thus, Saxon warriors were responsible for displaying dead Angles on their trees, a tradition adopted in a slightly less brutal fashion by Christians.
Under the Christmas tree, all is not what it seems either. The tradition of placing beautifully-wrapped gifts under the tree also has a rather sinister background. In the 12th Century, poor people living in what we now know as Essex were known for thieving from the aristocracy who would gather in London for opulent celebrations at Christmas. Legend has it they would conceal their loot by wrapping it in early copies of OK magazine and putting them decoratively under their tree. Not to be outdone, the working population of Essex soon wanted to outdo their neighbours and started wrapping their own presents. One thing led to another, and soon the whole country was doing the same and more, using lights and other pretty things to adorn the tree.
Some of our festive food would also taste a little different if it was still to its original recipe. You will no doubt be aware that Christmas pudding started off life as a good old Victorian plum pudding. Or did it? Parish records in areas of the west country reveal that long before any record of plum pudding, they celebrated the festive season with ‘plump pudding’. This wasn’t just a food, but a spectacle in which the local landowners would carry a large, boiled fruit pudding, strapped to their stomach and covered by a large shirt. In a ceremonial show of gratitude to the local peasants who had worked their land during the year, the landowner would lay on his back in the town square where locals would cut into his fat belly and suck out his juicy innards. Apparently the tradition suddenly ceased after an unfortunate incident one year when a particularly portly landowner filled himself one evening with too much scrumpy and forgot to attach his pudding before offering himself to the locals.
Finally, even the most famous royal tradition of the Queen’s Speech started off very differently. The tradition dates back to Queen Siobhan, a sixth-century ruler who one Christmas, after a particularly hard year of drought and disease, decided to cheer up the population of old London town by riding around in her horse-drawn carriage, displaying her royal backside for all to see. So, the tradition of the ‘Queen’s Peach’ was started. Only when Queen Siobhan abdicated after a nasty shaving accident did the tradition change to something less vulgar and interesting.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Fast-Track Treatment
This week I was lucky enough to have not one, but two hospital appointments. Lucky old me, and before any rumours start, it was just regular eye clinic stuff, nothing sordid or interesting.
Except for one thing – a little wave of excitement in the otherwise flat pond of ophthalmalogical ordinariness. “How so? Do tell!” I hear you clamour. Well, it all started several weeks ago when my appointments came through, accompanied by a map of the hospital. My NHS notes obviously include an erroneous entry that suggests I have a PhD in Orienteering, so I sent said map on its way to a new life after recycling, when it might come back as something useful, and decided that I would make my way to the main hospital entrance and ask for assistance.
Arriving in good time, I found the reception desk and requested the help, which I fully expected to be in the form of a porter’s arm to hold onto, and depending on the budget, possibly a porter’s body to go with it.
Wadda-mistaka-to-maka! Not only did I get a whole porter, but he had his own battery-powered motorised vehicle. Me had a ride on the choo-choo! Again, again!! It was all I could manage not to cal out “Wheee” as we sped…ok, crawled past the peasants made to walk the long Victorian corridors. To add to the excitement, the driver tooted his horn as we approached every corner, shouting hilarious remarks like ‘I’ll get you next time’ to the pedestrians.
I tell you what, don’t let anyone tell you that the billions invested over recent years in our NHS haven’t been wisely spent.
Except for one thing – a little wave of excitement in the otherwise flat pond of ophthalmalogical ordinariness. “How so? Do tell!” I hear you clamour. Well, it all started several weeks ago when my appointments came through, accompanied by a map of the hospital. My NHS notes obviously include an erroneous entry that suggests I have a PhD in Orienteering, so I sent said map on its way to a new life after recycling, when it might come back as something useful, and decided that I would make my way to the main hospital entrance and ask for assistance.
Arriving in good time, I found the reception desk and requested the help, which I fully expected to be in the form of a porter’s arm to hold onto, and depending on the budget, possibly a porter’s body to go with it.
Wadda-mistaka-to-maka! Not only did I get a whole porter, but he had his own battery-powered motorised vehicle. Me had a ride on the choo-choo! Again, again!! It was all I could manage not to cal out “Wheee” as we sped…ok, crawled past the peasants made to walk the long Victorian corridors. To add to the excitement, the driver tooted his horn as we approached every corner, shouting hilarious remarks like ‘I’ll get you next time’ to the pedestrians.
I tell you what, don’t let anyone tell you that the billions invested over recent years in our NHS haven’t been wisely spent.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
If you wanna be the best, if you wanna beat the rest..
Being something of an armchair sportsman, I have to admit that, despite some of the appalling commentary and punditry, I am rather enjoying the sudden deluge of Olympic sports. You have to admire the dedication that goes into the elite athlete’s training and preparation for their moment of glory. This is perhaps epitomised by the 100m sprinters – the fastest men on earth – who spend, if we believe the hype – four years preparing for their 10 seconds of performance. It’s not easy to comprehend that input-output ration, so I’ve done a few calculations:
The Olympic sprinter has 4 years, or 126,144,000 seconds to prepare for the 10 second race, a ratio of 12,614,400:1 – and just for clarity, I haven’t included an additional day for a leap year – no need to get anal about this is there?
Let’s say you put the same dedication into preparing a meal that takes 15 minutes to scoff. You’d have to have started shopping 360 years ago. Some of my meals might taste like they were prepared that long ago, but I can assure you it’s not down to culinary dedication.
Or, what about those career-minded amongst us. What would be Olympic preparation for a 45-minute interview? Around 1080 years by my reckoning. Just imagine if you didn't get the job! Gutted or what?
On the plus side, life might be a bit easier for mums – a 9-month pregnancy could end in a 1.875-second labour. Not even enough time to swear at hubby.
As for conception – it would be very bad news for us chaps. Those of us who think 15-minutes of foreplay is more than generous would need supersonic sperm – never mind little Duncan Goodhews – we’re talking Phelps on acid!
The Olympic sprinter has 4 years, or 126,144,000 seconds to prepare for the 10 second race, a ratio of 12,614,400:1 – and just for clarity, I haven’t included an additional day for a leap year – no need to get anal about this is there?
Let’s say you put the same dedication into preparing a meal that takes 15 minutes to scoff. You’d have to have started shopping 360 years ago. Some of my meals might taste like they were prepared that long ago, but I can assure you it’s not down to culinary dedication.
Or, what about those career-minded amongst us. What would be Olympic preparation for a 45-minute interview? Around 1080 years by my reckoning. Just imagine if you didn't get the job! Gutted or what?
On the plus side, life might be a bit easier for mums – a 9-month pregnancy could end in a 1.875-second labour. Not even enough time to swear at hubby.
As for conception – it would be very bad news for us chaps. Those of us who think 15-minutes of foreplay is more than generous would need supersonic sperm – never mind little Duncan Goodhews – we’re talking Phelps on acid!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
From Bosnia With Cheese
The Eurovision Song Contest is something of an institution in the Bogsey household. Like watching England football matches, you know it's going to be painful but there's a certain attraction in putting yourself through it again. so, the new musical show "Eurobeat - almost Eurovision" was a must see event. Besides which, having two kids, Mrs B. and I had a valid excuse for going.
No sooner had we entered the lobby when we were allocated our adopted countries for the evening and, armed with flags, clackers and hooters, we entered the auditorium feeling that this was going to be a different theatre experience, and we were not disappointed!
Having whipped up a frenzied sense of anticipation, the ridiculous Bosnian hosts, Boika and Serge, introduced the ten entries with more ham than a Tesco meat counter. What followed was a wonderful collection of the bizarre, the camp, the kitsch and the very funny, all done with superb singing and dancing that the real Eurovision would be delighted with. All of which had me hooting my horn in a way that I haven’t done for many a year.
The night's winning entry was a Russian boy-band, “The K.G. Boys”, whose slick dance routine and tight white trousers certainly scored douze points with the ladies. Mrs B. nearly choked on her ice cream at the sight of the fifth member of the four-piece group thrusting in her direction. I'm all for European co-operation but sitting in Newcastle, cheering for Germany, in a contest in Sarajevo, watching a Russian with a Pole down his jocks was admittedly taking it a bit far.
No sooner had we entered the lobby when we were allocated our adopted countries for the evening and, armed with flags, clackers and hooters, we entered the auditorium feeling that this was going to be a different theatre experience, and we were not disappointed!
Having whipped up a frenzied sense of anticipation, the ridiculous Bosnian hosts, Boika and Serge, introduced the ten entries with more ham than a Tesco meat counter. What followed was a wonderful collection of the bizarre, the camp, the kitsch and the very funny, all done with superb singing and dancing that the real Eurovision would be delighted with. All of which had me hooting my horn in a way that I haven’t done for many a year.
The night's winning entry was a Russian boy-band, “The K.G. Boys”, whose slick dance routine and tight white trousers certainly scored douze points with the ladies. Mrs B. nearly choked on her ice cream at the sight of the fifth member of the four-piece group thrusting in her direction. I'm all for European co-operation but sitting in Newcastle, cheering for Germany, in a contest in Sarajevo, watching a Russian with a Pole down his jocks was admittedly taking it a bit far.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Rowing takes the biscuit (just)
I’m sure he meant no harm by his words. After all, he’s a nice chap, and I had just about forgiven him for his earlier misdemeanour…the one where he had spoiled the little mental game I play with myself whilst on the dreaded rowing machine. The one where, after about two minutes, I pretend that I’ve only done a minute, in the desperate hope that when my five minutes are done it’ll come as a nice surprise. Being told that I’d done 3 minutes, when I was busy telling myself I was approaching 2 minutes, was upsetting, but nothing compared to what was to come.
The words slipped out so easily – an afterthought – an ‘oh, by the way.’ – he told me my five minutes were up and then he just said it. “You rowed 1,084 metre’ which I was quite happy with, followed by ‘you used up 61 calories’. 61? Never has 61 felt like such a pitiful number.
I knew, from recent attempts at ‘watching what I eat’ that 61 bloody calories equates to about what you get from one very low fat biscuit, or about half a pot of low fat yoghurt. I couldn’t believe that I’d spent five minutes on what can only be described as a torture machine that left me sweating, weak and breathless, to lose such a pathetic amount of calories.
So, I’ve just checked what else I could have done to use up 61 calories. And guess what, I could have had an hour’s sleep and used up the same amount of energy! Now that is something worth remembering. Apparently I could have had a 15-minute shower, or spent half an hour arguing on the phone! I could even have had about 40 minutes of ‘sexual intimacy’!! 40 minutes! Mmm…perhaps the rowing machine suits me after all.
The words slipped out so easily – an afterthought – an ‘oh, by the way.’ – he told me my five minutes were up and then he just said it. “You rowed 1,084 metre’ which I was quite happy with, followed by ‘you used up 61 calories’. 61? Never has 61 felt like such a pitiful number.
I knew, from recent attempts at ‘watching what I eat’ that 61 bloody calories equates to about what you get from one very low fat biscuit, or about half a pot of low fat yoghurt. I couldn’t believe that I’d spent five minutes on what can only be described as a torture machine that left me sweating, weak and breathless, to lose such a pathetic amount of calories.
So, I’ve just checked what else I could have done to use up 61 calories. And guess what, I could have had an hour’s sleep and used up the same amount of energy! Now that is something worth remembering. Apparently I could have had a 15-minute shower, or spent half an hour arguing on the phone! I could even have had about 40 minutes of ‘sexual intimacy’!! 40 minutes! Mmm…perhaps the rowing machine suits me after all.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Eyes Have It
Research has shown that around 70% of the meaning we convey when we talk to others is actually transmitted by our body language. Our posture, gestures, facial expression and our eyes reveal so much more about what we say than the words themselves. Being oblivious to these critical signals is therefore one of the most disabling aspects of my visual impairment.
The inability to make eye contact is one of the most difficult things I have learned to live with. Our eyes are so demonstrative, so individual and so meaningful. They are windows into our minds that tell people our state of consciousness, our mood, our level of fear, excitement, interest or honesty. Being visually-impaired is like having a curtain drawn over those windows which not only stops others looking in, but stops me peering into theirs for those vital clues that give that extra dimension to our daily communication.
I suppose, over the years I must have developed alternative strategies. I probably listen more carefully for auditory clues, like someone’s tone of voice or the rate of their speech. The sound of snoring is usually a good clue that I’ve lost the listener’s attention.
Cultural conventions demand that we maintain a typically British amount of personal space, so standing very close so that I can see a little more tends only to be possible with my immediate family, an even then it depends what I’ve been eating.
The two types of situation when it bothers me most are quite different. At work, I can find myself talking to a group of colleagues when it dawns omni that I have no idea whether they are listening intently or shooting bored glances at each other. Suddenly, I feel like I’m talking to an empty room and feel desperate for someone to jump in and set off a discussion – clearly, my deep psychological need for feedback cannot go denied for more than a few seconds. My other nightmare scenario is the social gathering where mixing and mingling is the order of the night. All too often for my liking I find myself caught between conversations, unable to read the visual clues that allow a timely contribution. Anxiety creeps in and, wanting to avoid the risk of the person disappearing and leaving me talking to thin air, it’s not uncommon for me to lean forward attentively and head butt them instead.
I wonder if this type of problem is as great in countries like India, where I’m told the culture encourages avoiding eye-contact, as a sign of respect. I could be so respectful in a place like that.
The inability to make eye contact is one of the most difficult things I have learned to live with. Our eyes are so demonstrative, so individual and so meaningful. They are windows into our minds that tell people our state of consciousness, our mood, our level of fear, excitement, interest or honesty. Being visually-impaired is like having a curtain drawn over those windows which not only stops others looking in, but stops me peering into theirs for those vital clues that give that extra dimension to our daily communication.
I suppose, over the years I must have developed alternative strategies. I probably listen more carefully for auditory clues, like someone’s tone of voice or the rate of their speech. The sound of snoring is usually a good clue that I’ve lost the listener’s attention.
Cultural conventions demand that we maintain a typically British amount of personal space, so standing very close so that I can see a little more tends only to be possible with my immediate family, an even then it depends what I’ve been eating.
The two types of situation when it bothers me most are quite different. At work, I can find myself talking to a group of colleagues when it dawns omni that I have no idea whether they are listening intently or shooting bored glances at each other. Suddenly, I feel like I’m talking to an empty room and feel desperate for someone to jump in and set off a discussion – clearly, my deep psychological need for feedback cannot go denied for more than a few seconds. My other nightmare scenario is the social gathering where mixing and mingling is the order of the night. All too often for my liking I find myself caught between conversations, unable to read the visual clues that allow a timely contribution. Anxiety creeps in and, wanting to avoid the risk of the person disappearing and leaving me talking to thin air, it’s not uncommon for me to lean forward attentively and head butt them instead.
I wonder if this type of problem is as great in countries like India, where I’m told the culture encourages avoiding eye-contact, as a sign of respect. I could be so respectful in a place like that.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Finding cheeses may be good for your soul, but not your digestion.
If you are of a sensitive disposition, please read no further. Just knowing what I am about to write about makes me feel quite queasy.
However, I do feel it my civic duty to offer this warning to any Brits abroad, not least my brother-in-law and his wife who are currently in Greece and living on a diet largely composed of local cheese.
They are there to be with their oldest boy, who is recovering from a nasty accident out there, so they have all been very much in our thoughts over the past week or so. Having watched last night’s episode of “The F Word” I felt particularly compelled to get this warning to them.
The show featured a local Sardinian ‘delicacy’ – billed as the most dangerous cheese in the world. Made in the traditional way, the sheeps cheese is matured and then the crust is broken and it is left in a dank barn. Here, it attracts flies that have presumably got a bit bored with treading around in cow dung and come to cheeseland for a bit of a holiday. While they’re there they lay their eggs and in a few weeks, the cheese is teaming with maggots. Apparently it’s the little critters’ excrement that gives the cheese its ‘distinctive’ flavour.
Now, call me a fuddy-duddy, but what the hell is that about. I’m as partial as the next man to a spot of mouldy stilton, but I use a ruler and a fat black felt tip when it comes to drawing a line at spreading rotting, maggot-infested cheese on my digestives. I don’t remember it being
“Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her
Attracted by the smell of maggots on her breath.”
I mean, if that’s a delicacy, I could empty my wheely-bin each week and set up a bloody deli-bar. If I run short of rotting scraps I can scrape up some road-kill.
Sorry, I had to get that out of my system. So for goodness sake, be careful if you are offered any local specialities – remember, ‘tasty grub’ might be more than you bargained for.
However, I do feel it my civic duty to offer this warning to any Brits abroad, not least my brother-in-law and his wife who are currently in Greece and living on a diet largely composed of local cheese.
They are there to be with their oldest boy, who is recovering from a nasty accident out there, so they have all been very much in our thoughts over the past week or so. Having watched last night’s episode of “The F Word” I felt particularly compelled to get this warning to them.
The show featured a local Sardinian ‘delicacy’ – billed as the most dangerous cheese in the world. Made in the traditional way, the sheeps cheese is matured and then the crust is broken and it is left in a dank barn. Here, it attracts flies that have presumably got a bit bored with treading around in cow dung and come to cheeseland for a bit of a holiday. While they’re there they lay their eggs and in a few weeks, the cheese is teaming with maggots. Apparently it’s the little critters’ excrement that gives the cheese its ‘distinctive’ flavour.
Now, call me a fuddy-duddy, but what the hell is that about. I’m as partial as the next man to a spot of mouldy stilton, but I use a ruler and a fat black felt tip when it comes to drawing a line at spreading rotting, maggot-infested cheese on my digestives. I don’t remember it being
“Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her
Attracted by the smell of maggots on her breath.”
I mean, if that’s a delicacy, I could empty my wheely-bin each week and set up a bloody deli-bar. If I run short of rotting scraps I can scrape up some road-kill.
Sorry, I had to get that out of my system. So for goodness sake, be careful if you are offered any local specialities – remember, ‘tasty grub’ might be more than you bargained for.
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