Excuse me for not being so attentive to this blog recently, but big changes are afoot and this blog will soon be getting a gritty reboot, Batman style. All the news now follows (warning: one is a lie):
Leaving work
After five years working for a terrific small(ish) oil service company, in a job with all manners of ups and downs, I have handed in my notice, taking effect from the start of June. Perhaps I will write a little more in the near future about what I will miss and not miss about this work, but needless to say it's been a remarkable five years that was entirely unanticipated upon my return from Korea in early 2006.
Travelling
As of September this year, I will head off travelling for the next two-to-three years. I have decided to create a new Seven World Wonder lists, as six of the original seven no longer exist and a recent worldwide poll was conducted by a Swissman, therefore fraudulent. I have selected ninety-three man-made monuments that I'll visit on the travels, and that I've researching for the last few years, so to hopefully come up with a definitive list. More details will follow on this blog.
Weddings and Babies
My brother, after an awe-inspiring decade-long engagement, got married at the beginning of the year, and any time now will produce a baby via his new wife, Katherine. This means that some time in this month of May I will become an uncle for the first time. I'm not terribly sure what this entails. What do uncles do?
I also became a semi-uncle just a week ago when my cousin gave birth to a child. Yes, a child. I think a semi-uncle has less responsibilities that a full-uncle, so I can probably get away with just patting it on the head when I see it.
And for those of you who have heard of the delectable Handsome Matt you will be delighted too to know he will be producing a child. The timing of its arrival is excellent, as it arrives in August, and I will begin my travels in Sydney - Matt's home - in September. He has promised to call it "Baby Nev".
Aside from my brother's January wedding, I've got a couple more weddings lined up, both for friends of my girlfriend. My friends never seem to get married but hers seem much more keen. One wedding is in mid-August, and I haven't told anyone yet but I intend to dress up like a clown to make the day so much more memorable. The other wedding is next January in India, where my girlfriend - whose name I keep meaning to remember so I can share it with you here - will fly in and join me, in Goa. That is, if she's still talking to me for, ahem, leaving the country for many, many months.
Finally, due to work commitments I had to miss the recent Royal Wedding between will.i.am and Jane Middlemass - or something like that - which I was quite sorry about, as I was well up for a day of Union Jack waving and gin disasters. Instead, I slept through the entire thing. I hope they gave someone my seat.
Ghana
Right now, I'm offshore Ghana. I arrived here a month ago, spent two weeks onshore and have been offshore since. It's a pretty full-on job, with probably the most equipment I've seen in one location before, and as such the last ten days have been spent in near-continuous action. It's really been quite tiring. Gone are the days of leisurely coffee breaks, and Football Manager extravaganzas (it is the year 2031 and Thurrock are in League 1 - but I haven't played in ages) and they have been replaced by set shifts of sweat, grease and stifling heat. Why, it's enough to make a man quit.
My colleagues are Bigboy, the Rabbit and SHAKATTACK, making up what is quite a strong team, and probably what will be my last ever team. I'm keeping my emotions in check right now, as there's obviously some time to go, but I fully expect to be a weeping, sobbing, shaking wreck of a man by the end of the month.
Dancemaster
I came fifth in the annual Dancemaster UK finals, beating the likes of Chris "Swan Manoeuvre" Thomson and "Dynamo Kid" Aaron Mulberry, but couldn't overcome The Rhombus Triplets or, of course, Tricky Masterton. I totally nailed the Swoophoof round and my Human Beatbox wowed the crowd, but I was lacklustre in the Slidestep and the Charleston. But overall, it was a truly wonderful experience that words could never do justice, so I won't even attempt to.
Film
Despite not having been to the cinema in almost five years, I wrote a film. It was under some duress, from ex-castlemate and last year's Edinburgh flatmake Mike. Early this year the documentary he shot in 2009 and edited in my flat last year was shown on the BBC, and he's set to another documentary in the summer about Faroese whaling, with consent from the Faroese government and with, I believe, interest from Channel 4. For the last year he's been interested in making a proper feature film, and had discussed at length an idea with me. We'd made a very rough start last year, but just a couple of months ago were able to sit down and talk about it properly, leading to the very rapid processing of a full script.
It still needs plenty of editing and adjustment, which we'll do over the summer, but has potential. For the curious, here's the "logline": A tale of two worlds colliding in a small village in the Scottish Highlands. Gordon, 80, an eccentric cantankerous crofter finds himself rescuing a Chinese illegal worker on the run, Grace, 20. The unlikely couple stumble into adventure as they discover they share a mutual enemy, which leads them to a dark realisation.
Beer
I'd love a beer right now.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Triumph
Today, for the first time ever, I managed to complete the Press & Journal crossword, without using any references or external assistance.
Monday, 31 January 2011
2011 Update
My blog... is dying...
(Here's a picture nothing to do with anything, but I need to host it somewhere)
(Here's a picture nothing to do with anything, but I need to host it somewhere)
Saturday, 25 December 2010
Christmas Nomad
Merry Christmas... from the North Sea.
Yes, alas, this year instead of spending the festive period surrounded by the laughter and joy of loved ones, with a roaring log fire and the mess of shiny wrapping paper torn open with excitement, I am adrift in the bitter North Sea, covered in sticky tar-like oil like the excrement flung by a debased Santa’s elf.
I am aboard the Oc. Nomad, a couple of hours helicopter journey from Aberdeen (although due to snow I intended up taking the scenic route: flight to Bergen then chopper from there), somewhere between the Shetland Islands and Norway. I arrived a mere four days ago, just to wrap up a two-month long job that was in its very final stages, replacing my old childhood friend and neighbour and current work colleague but now SWORN ENEMY Burness, who has been able to escape home to his family’s embrace, and joining my long suffering colleague, The Mountie, a very familiar face this year after months of our souls fading together into the ennui of twilight that was the Novotel in Nigeria.
In almost five years as a burly oil-giver, this is my first actual Christmas Day offshore. I’ve spent a couple of New Year’s Days offshore before, but always had luckier breaks for Christmas itself. As you might imagine, a rig in the North Sea in the winter isn’t the traditional image associated with a season that otherwise surrounds itself with reindeers, pine trees and baby saviours of mankind. However, despite being a mechanical hell devoid of the qualities that normal human beings would regard as desirable, the 25th December still exists out here, and Christmas is still, in its own way, celebrated. So I’ll quickly take you through a Christmas Day offshore.
I woke around 8.30am, a splendid lie-in after a tough day previous (more on that later). The Mountie appeared and wished me Merry Christmas, and I rose and showered. Then it was present time. I’d taken three presents with me from normal life, and opened them in front of the Mountie, who had none. I received a “Return of the Jedi” DVD and 50ml of “Allure Homme Sport Chanel” from my girlfriend, and a £30 cheque from my grandfather; I think I’ll spend it on a prostitute, or drugs. I went through to check my email – I received no Christmas wishes or, in fact, any emails whatsoever – then watched Soccer AM with the Mounty until lunch at 11.20am.
Lunch was a special treat. Laid with tablecloths, and with crackers, Shloer and a paper menu. Unlike the buffet style service that exists on rigs, for the first ever time in my years eating on rigs, there was table service by kitchen staff – ladies, no less. There was a good selection of three different courses, and I opted for vension with raspberry sauces, turkey with all the other stuff, and Christmas pudding. From my cracker I got a small yellow comb; a history of Tom Smith, the apparent inventor of the Christmas cracker, and a paper crown. I didn’t wear the crown, it didn’t seem right.
After lunch, I wrote an email – to my boss – and spent £20 playing Deal or No Deal online. I thought I had a system. I didn’t. I phoned home to listen to the sounds of family enjoying themselves, and phoned my girlfriend who was very full of the cold and so wasn’t enjoying herself quite as much. Then myself and the Mountie settled in for an afternoon watching “Return of the Jedi” on my laptop. Observation made: Princess Leia murders quite frequently; as well as shooting dead a number of faceless Empire troops without flinching or moral reflection, she sets a bomb that kills hundreds – bad guys, slaves, musicians, employees, AI robots – in Jabba the Hutt’s palace (and that’s after murdering Jabba by hand, effectively). Her body count is second only to Lando Carlrissian, who by blowing up the Death Star kills several millions surely.
Dinner – chilli con carne – was fine and normal, and it was back to the internet after. My boss had replied, wishing me Merry Christmas. Myself and the Mounty then went through the football fixtures and placed two £10 accumulator bets on the Boxing Day games. Tomorrow has the football, which is very exciting as it means the day passes quickly. I bought some Irn Bru and a Yorkie from the rig bond and enjoyed this daily treat when Top Gear started. It’s now finished and I expect the rest of the evening to pass by smoothly with some internet and mindless Christmas TV.
You may have noticed that at no point during my offshore Christmas extravaganza did I do any work. That’s not because I decided to specially take it easy today, but because there isn’t any work to do – I finished everything yesterday and my container is on the boat. It’s a slight source of frustration: both myself and the Mountie are spending Christmas offshore precisely because it’s Christmas. No helicopters today or tomorrow. There were two yesterday, which our names were on, but we simply couldn’t get everything finished. Christmas Eve was not a fun day. Our equipment appeared at 7am, many hours later than scheduled hence we’d been up all night waiting. It was delayed due to the thick, gloopy, tar-like oil that this oil well has been testing, that clogged everything up. Our tools very much included.
I have never seen anything like this before. Usually when stuff comes out from the deep recesses of the earth, it will be a bit muddy, a bit dirty, a bit oily. This time it was virtually glued together with this evil black tar that immediately transferred itself to my entire body and everything else around me. When handling equipment and moving away, my glove would remain stuck in place as my hand pulled out. New gloves would immediately turn black and sticky. Everything stuck to everything as though dipped in tar, which it kind of had, and made work impossibly slow. Our main piece of equipment is a 30ft length of pipe, inside of which a 20ft pair of tools are placed inside. Usually they slide out with a bit of manpower, this time they were jammed solid. In the end we had to use the rig mechanical tugger in an improvised set up to yank the tools out in bursts. And we had three separate sections of this 30ft pipe to work with.
All this was time consuming. If we’d started at midnight, as scheduled, then we’d have finished on time and made the helicopter, and have been home for Christmas. Or if the oil had just been normal instead of crazy glue from hell we’d have made the chopper. But a 7am start with evil tar was too much, and in the minus temperatures in the North Sea, during bursts of hail, we watched as one, then two, helicopters landed, filled with people destined for home, and then took off again, without us. We then crouched back down, and futilely went back to attempting to scrub tar off metal using diesel and detergent.
So Christmas Eve was very disappointing and not the greatest fun I’ve had, but today was calm, work-free and tinged with a smattering of festivity, as well as the first booze-free Christmas I’ve had in over a decade. And as I’m booked on the Monday chopper, I’m guaranteed a New Year onshore, something I suspect will not be entirely booze free.
Yes, alas, this year instead of spending the festive period surrounded by the laughter and joy of loved ones, with a roaring log fire and the mess of shiny wrapping paper torn open with excitement, I am adrift in the bitter North Sea, covered in sticky tar-like oil like the excrement flung by a debased Santa’s elf.
I am aboard the Oc. Nomad, a couple of hours helicopter journey from Aberdeen (although due to snow I intended up taking the scenic route: flight to Bergen then chopper from there), somewhere between the Shetland Islands and Norway. I arrived a mere four days ago, just to wrap up a two-month long job that was in its very final stages, replacing my old childhood friend and neighbour and current work colleague but now SWORN ENEMY Burness, who has been able to escape home to his family’s embrace, and joining my long suffering colleague, The Mountie, a very familiar face this year after months of our souls fading together into the ennui of twilight that was the Novotel in Nigeria.
In almost five years as a burly oil-giver, this is my first actual Christmas Day offshore. I’ve spent a couple of New Year’s Days offshore before, but always had luckier breaks for Christmas itself. As you might imagine, a rig in the North Sea in the winter isn’t the traditional image associated with a season that otherwise surrounds itself with reindeers, pine trees and baby saviours of mankind. However, despite being a mechanical hell devoid of the qualities that normal human beings would regard as desirable, the 25th December still exists out here, and Christmas is still, in its own way, celebrated. So I’ll quickly take you through a Christmas Day offshore.
I woke around 8.30am, a splendid lie-in after a tough day previous (more on that later). The Mountie appeared and wished me Merry Christmas, and I rose and showered. Then it was present time. I’d taken three presents with me from normal life, and opened them in front of the Mountie, who had none. I received a “Return of the Jedi” DVD and 50ml of “Allure Homme Sport Chanel” from my girlfriend, and a £30 cheque from my grandfather; I think I’ll spend it on a prostitute, or drugs. I went through to check my email – I received no Christmas wishes or, in fact, any emails whatsoever – then watched Soccer AM with the Mounty until lunch at 11.20am.
Lunch was a special treat. Laid with tablecloths, and with crackers, Shloer and a paper menu. Unlike the buffet style service that exists on rigs, for the first ever time in my years eating on rigs, there was table service by kitchen staff – ladies, no less. There was a good selection of three different courses, and I opted for vension with raspberry sauces, turkey with all the other stuff, and Christmas pudding. From my cracker I got a small yellow comb; a history of Tom Smith, the apparent inventor of the Christmas cracker, and a paper crown. I didn’t wear the crown, it didn’t seem right.
After lunch, I wrote an email – to my boss – and spent £20 playing Deal or No Deal online. I thought I had a system. I didn’t. I phoned home to listen to the sounds of family enjoying themselves, and phoned my girlfriend who was very full of the cold and so wasn’t enjoying herself quite as much. Then myself and the Mountie settled in for an afternoon watching “Return of the Jedi” on my laptop. Observation made: Princess Leia murders quite frequently; as well as shooting dead a number of faceless Empire troops without flinching or moral reflection, she sets a bomb that kills hundreds – bad guys, slaves, musicians, employees, AI robots – in Jabba the Hutt’s palace (and that’s after murdering Jabba by hand, effectively). Her body count is second only to Lando Carlrissian, who by blowing up the Death Star kills several millions surely.
Dinner – chilli con carne – was fine and normal, and it was back to the internet after. My boss had replied, wishing me Merry Christmas. Myself and the Mounty then went through the football fixtures and placed two £10 accumulator bets on the Boxing Day games. Tomorrow has the football, which is very exciting as it means the day passes quickly. I bought some Irn Bru and a Yorkie from the rig bond and enjoyed this daily treat when Top Gear started. It’s now finished and I expect the rest of the evening to pass by smoothly with some internet and mindless Christmas TV.
You may have noticed that at no point during my offshore Christmas extravaganza did I do any work. That’s not because I decided to specially take it easy today, but because there isn’t any work to do – I finished everything yesterday and my container is on the boat. It’s a slight source of frustration: both myself and the Mountie are spending Christmas offshore precisely because it’s Christmas. No helicopters today or tomorrow. There were two yesterday, which our names were on, but we simply couldn’t get everything finished. Christmas Eve was not a fun day. Our equipment appeared at 7am, many hours later than scheduled hence we’d been up all night waiting. It was delayed due to the thick, gloopy, tar-like oil that this oil well has been testing, that clogged everything up. Our tools very much included.
I have never seen anything like this before. Usually when stuff comes out from the deep recesses of the earth, it will be a bit muddy, a bit dirty, a bit oily. This time it was virtually glued together with this evil black tar that immediately transferred itself to my entire body and everything else around me. When handling equipment and moving away, my glove would remain stuck in place as my hand pulled out. New gloves would immediately turn black and sticky. Everything stuck to everything as though dipped in tar, which it kind of had, and made work impossibly slow. Our main piece of equipment is a 30ft length of pipe, inside of which a 20ft pair of tools are placed inside. Usually they slide out with a bit of manpower, this time they were jammed solid. In the end we had to use the rig mechanical tugger in an improvised set up to yank the tools out in bursts. And we had three separate sections of this 30ft pipe to work with.
All this was time consuming. If we’d started at midnight, as scheduled, then we’d have finished on time and made the helicopter, and have been home for Christmas. Or if the oil had just been normal instead of crazy glue from hell we’d have made the chopper. But a 7am start with evil tar was too much, and in the minus temperatures in the North Sea, during bursts of hail, we watched as one, then two, helicopters landed, filled with people destined for home, and then took off again, without us. We then crouched back down, and futilely went back to attempting to scrub tar off metal using diesel and detergent.
So Christmas Eve was very disappointing and not the greatest fun I’ve had, but today was calm, work-free and tinged with a smattering of festivity, as well as the first booze-free Christmas I’ve had in over a decade. And as I’m booked on the Monday chopper, I’m guaranteed a New Year onshore, something I suspect will not be entirely booze free.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Age 32: Let The Hunt Commence
Happy Birthday, Nev! I can now - legally - make union with someone half my age.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Basil The Bow Wow Does Not Exist
Basil the Bow Wow does not exist.
That is the alarming, childhood-undermining discovery of late. Basil the Bow Wow, a cornerstone of my childhood, does not appear anywhere on the internet. Type in his name, in inverted commas, into Google and a total of zero hits are found (I guess the writing of this entry might change that to a single solitary hit). Zero internet hits = non-existence.
In fairness, up until a few weeks ago, Basil the Bow Wow had slipped down the sides of my memory too. It was during a visit up north, to see my mother in her lovely new home in the countryside, and in evening discussion with my brother that the name was brought up. I took a few seconds before the memories came flooding back.
Basil the Bow Wow was a toy sit-on dog-on-wheels, with a voicebox. A St. Bernards, though in a size suitable for children whose years on earth were in single digits, he could be pushed around by the frame at the rear, or sat on and propelled by eager child feet. Or more likely, in our family, my sister would be made to sit on him while my brother grabbed the frame and careered my distressed sister around at high speed until she inevitably smacked against a wall and cried. But let’s not blame that on Basil the Bow Wow.
Although a mini-St Bernard’s on wheels would have been enough for a successful childhood toy, it was Basil the Bow Wow’s voicebox that elevated him into cult status in our family. Basil the Bow Wow had a string by his neck, which when pulled would allow him to say one of a random selection of friendly quotes. As my brother and I sat around, chuckling at the memory of Basil the Bow Wow’s chummy, lovable, and desperately eager voice, we tried to recall all the quotes he’d come up with. This involved a phonecall to our sister, who added an especially good one.
Pull Basil the Bow Wow’s string, and he would say:
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. What’s your name?”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Will you be my friend?”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. I love children!”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Will you play with me?”
and as my sister recalled:
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. AWOOOOOO!!!”
Of course, these days it’s illegal to say such things to children, but in the hazy nostalgia of my youth it was a more innocent world. Basil the Bow Wow would be pushed around the house, his string pulled, and his friendly and enthusiastic words would pour out.
Quite how it happened I don’t know, but it was Basil the Bow Wow’s decline that gave us the biggest laugh that evening. I blame it on my brother, but I’m sure I must have had a hand. Because after much wear and tear, poor Basil the Bow Wow went downhill, and frankly a little senile.
His head, first of all, became limper and bent down at an angle. I can only imagine this was from repeated assaults from my brother, who as a young child was a considerable horror. Once with head held high, now Basil the Bow Wow looked broken down and unhealthy. The worse he looked, the more my brother bullied, blow after blow raining down on Basil the Bow Wow’s broken head. What a horrible child.
And then his voice went. This may have been natural decline, or it may have been heavily exacerbated by the discovery that if we held the string upon pulling it, we could manipulate Basil the Bow Wow’s voice. By holding the string back as it tried to pull back in, his voice became slow and warped, but by sudden release would often go fast and ridiculous. Such a discovery for children is pure gold, and we never grew tired of it (even today I would derive endless amusement), including my sister, gentle back in these days, who usually disliked the torture of our dog-like toy. Yes, even she would laugh at Basil the Bow Wow as his pained, warbled voice groaned out: ““Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Aaaaaaaaaaa...... wwwwoooooo.....”
Such an assault on his voice, and the mechanism that powered it, eventually proved too much for Basil the Bow Wow to bear, and something snapped inside. He still had the power of speech, but now when his string was pulled, he would gasp out his random statement in ultra-rapid fire – one second and he’d said it. It was undoubted comedy – yet undoubted tragedy too. Basil the Bow Wow, with his broken head and broken voice, was dying. Now the only way to understand what he was trying to say was by the very means we’d broken him, by holding onto the string and letting it release slowly, thereby holding back the broken mechanism and preventing the fast release, with the result his statement would be delivered with a reluctant melancholy. Basil the Bow Wow was tired, he didn’t want to speak any more.
It was the end for him. Foul children we were, some other toy or game consumed us and he lay forgotten, and was eventually put into a cupboard and to the very back of our minds. Long after I’d grown up and left home, my sister retrieved him from his hidden spot in the cupboard. Basil the Bow Wow had grown mouldy, his voice didn’t work. He’d loved children, he’d wanted to play with us, and he’d wanted to be our friend – and without a second thought we put him out with the rubbish.
But much time has elapsed since then, and the reminiscence between myself and my brother was fond, as we laughed about all the happy times we’d had with Basil the Bow Wow. And so later, in discussion with my sister, we thought it would be a terrific idea to get hold of a replacement Basil the Bow Wow for my brother, who gets married early next year and will have his first child in around May (making me, incidentally, Uncle Nev. Yikes). Basil the Bow Wow, a commercial toy, might still be available, if not brand new in Argos or wherever, then at least on Ebay.
Which is why we are astonished that absolutely no trace of his existence appears on the internet. We’ve found various other toy sit-on dogs, though without voicebox, but none are Basil the Bow Wow, and his name does not register anywhere. This isn’t some obscure toy from the 1850s, this was a (surely mass-produced) toy from the 1980s. Even if he wasn’t available for sale, I’m surprised that nobody in the history of the internet has ever mentioned his name, or found him in their attic and tried to sell him for £10. Of the many toys that came and went during these halcyon young years, Basil the Bow Wow was once of the most memorable, along with our sledges, my computer chess and a giant cardboard box we spent a whole day playing in. But his memory appears to exist only with my direct family, the rest of the world, as well as discarding him, has fully forgotten he ever was.
So Basil the Bow Wow, to answer your questions after all this time: My name is Nev, yes I’ll be your friend, I love you too and I’ll be delighted to play with you - if only I could find you. And, of course, AWOOOOOO!!!
That is the alarming, childhood-undermining discovery of late. Basil the Bow Wow, a cornerstone of my childhood, does not appear anywhere on the internet. Type in his name, in inverted commas, into Google and a total of zero hits are found (I guess the writing of this entry might change that to a single solitary hit). Zero internet hits = non-existence.
In fairness, up until a few weeks ago, Basil the Bow Wow had slipped down the sides of my memory too. It was during a visit up north, to see my mother in her lovely new home in the countryside, and in evening discussion with my brother that the name was brought up. I took a few seconds before the memories came flooding back.
Basil the Bow Wow was a toy sit-on dog-on-wheels, with a voicebox. A St. Bernards, though in a size suitable for children whose years on earth were in single digits, he could be pushed around by the frame at the rear, or sat on and propelled by eager child feet. Or more likely, in our family, my sister would be made to sit on him while my brother grabbed the frame and careered my distressed sister around at high speed until she inevitably smacked against a wall and cried. But let’s not blame that on Basil the Bow Wow.
Although a mini-St Bernard’s on wheels would have been enough for a successful childhood toy, it was Basil the Bow Wow’s voicebox that elevated him into cult status in our family. Basil the Bow Wow had a string by his neck, which when pulled would allow him to say one of a random selection of friendly quotes. As my brother and I sat around, chuckling at the memory of Basil the Bow Wow’s chummy, lovable, and desperately eager voice, we tried to recall all the quotes he’d come up with. This involved a phonecall to our sister, who added an especially good one.
Pull Basil the Bow Wow’s string, and he would say:
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. What’s your name?”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Will you be my friend?”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. I love children!”
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Will you play with me?”
and as my sister recalled:
“Hi, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. AWOOOOOO!!!”
Of course, these days it’s illegal to say such things to children, but in the hazy nostalgia of my youth it was a more innocent world. Basil the Bow Wow would be pushed around the house, his string pulled, and his friendly and enthusiastic words would pour out.
Quite how it happened I don’t know, but it was Basil the Bow Wow’s decline that gave us the biggest laugh that evening. I blame it on my brother, but I’m sure I must have had a hand. Because after much wear and tear, poor Basil the Bow Wow went downhill, and frankly a little senile.
His head, first of all, became limper and bent down at an angle. I can only imagine this was from repeated assaults from my brother, who as a young child was a considerable horror. Once with head held high, now Basil the Bow Wow looked broken down and unhealthy. The worse he looked, the more my brother bullied, blow after blow raining down on Basil the Bow Wow’s broken head. What a horrible child.
And then his voice went. This may have been natural decline, or it may have been heavily exacerbated by the discovery that if we held the string upon pulling it, we could manipulate Basil the Bow Wow’s voice. By holding the string back as it tried to pull back in, his voice became slow and warped, but by sudden release would often go fast and ridiculous. Such a discovery for children is pure gold, and we never grew tired of it (even today I would derive endless amusement), including my sister, gentle back in these days, who usually disliked the torture of our dog-like toy. Yes, even she would laugh at Basil the Bow Wow as his pained, warbled voice groaned out: ““Hhhhhhhiiiiiiii, my name’s Basil the Bow Wow. Aaaaaaaaaaa...... wwwwoooooo.....”
Such an assault on his voice, and the mechanism that powered it, eventually proved too much for Basil the Bow Wow to bear, and something snapped inside. He still had the power of speech, but now when his string was pulled, he would gasp out his random statement in ultra-rapid fire – one second and he’d said it. It was undoubted comedy – yet undoubted tragedy too. Basil the Bow Wow, with his broken head and broken voice, was dying. Now the only way to understand what he was trying to say was by the very means we’d broken him, by holding onto the string and letting it release slowly, thereby holding back the broken mechanism and preventing the fast release, with the result his statement would be delivered with a reluctant melancholy. Basil the Bow Wow was tired, he didn’t want to speak any more.
It was the end for him. Foul children we were, some other toy or game consumed us and he lay forgotten, and was eventually put into a cupboard and to the very back of our minds. Long after I’d grown up and left home, my sister retrieved him from his hidden spot in the cupboard. Basil the Bow Wow had grown mouldy, his voice didn’t work. He’d loved children, he’d wanted to play with us, and he’d wanted to be our friend – and without a second thought we put him out with the rubbish.
But much time has elapsed since then, and the reminiscence between myself and my brother was fond, as we laughed about all the happy times we’d had with Basil the Bow Wow. And so later, in discussion with my sister, we thought it would be a terrific idea to get hold of a replacement Basil the Bow Wow for my brother, who gets married early next year and will have his first child in around May (making me, incidentally, Uncle Nev. Yikes). Basil the Bow Wow, a commercial toy, might still be available, if not brand new in Argos or wherever, then at least on Ebay.
Which is why we are astonished that absolutely no trace of his existence appears on the internet. We’ve found various other toy sit-on dogs, though without voicebox, but none are Basil the Bow Wow, and his name does not register anywhere. This isn’t some obscure toy from the 1850s, this was a (surely mass-produced) toy from the 1980s. Even if he wasn’t available for sale, I’m surprised that nobody in the history of the internet has ever mentioned his name, or found him in their attic and tried to sell him for £10. Of the many toys that came and went during these halcyon young years, Basil the Bow Wow was once of the most memorable, along with our sledges, my computer chess and a giant cardboard box we spent a whole day playing in. But his memory appears to exist only with my direct family, the rest of the world, as well as discarding him, has fully forgotten he ever was.
So Basil the Bow Wow, to answer your questions after all this time: My name is Nev, yes I’ll be your friend, I love you too and I’ll be delighted to play with you - if only I could find you. And, of course, AWOOOOOO!!!
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Pope Says Hi
Well, I got back home from Nigeria just a handful of days ago. Just in time to meet the Pope.
Yes, the Pope visited Edinburgh today, and though I couldn’t commit to meeting him due to my uncertain work schedule (he’s quite old now so needs lots of prior notice, and I thought I’d still be offshore), he decided to come anyway, and meet the Queen for lunch, some cardinal for a cup of tea, and have a little cruise round Edinburgh in between.
This simple arrangement has put Edinburgh into a bit of a tizzy, and they’ve closed every road and put every policeman onto Princes Street, where they jostle with people selling memorabilia, some collecting for charity, and thousands and thousands of schoolchildren. There was a lone protestor too, handing out leaflets about child abuse, but I give her short shrift as she was missing the spirit of the occasion.
Although I’m not a Catholic, I still share many things in common with the Pope and his many millions of followers, such as neverending guilt, an appreciation of the (now sadly defunct) S Club Juniors, and of course, papal infallibility. Of these, papal infallibility is the most important. A lot of people don’t seem to get this, when they complain about the Pope and some of the beliefs he espouses that they claim are outdated. The guy is infallible. He doesn’t make mistakes. Don’t you get it, guys? You’re the ones that’re wrong. If we can all just stop listening to our inner voices and start listening to the Pope’s voice, then maybe we can start to get things right too.
Today then, after getting out of bed and performing my morning ablutions, or whatever you call them, I thought I’d stroll into town to say hi to the Pope. I live just five minutes from Princes Street so it seemed rude not to. The Pope had originally planned to cruise down the Royal Mile, which would have been far more convenient for me, but it was deemed a security risk and Princes Street chosen instead. By security risk, I think they were referring to the cobbled streets, which no doubt would have been a little uncomfortable a man in his 80s, especially after having had lunch. When you’re the Pope, security in its normal sense doesn’t apply, because any bombs or bullets that come your way are deflected by flashes of glorious light. The former Pope, John Paul II, who was a more kindly Pope would just have the glorious light absorb the bomb or bullet, but the current one, Benedict Sixteen, is bit more badass and would actually deflect the bomb or bullet back at the assailant. For this reason, I guess all the police gathered today were here as much for the protection of the people as they were for the Pope.
My first jaunt down town, about 10am, was a pre-Pope stroll, and duly established that there were lots of people. I’d checked with the BBC news and they said the Pope would be arriving incognito at Holyrood Palace to meet the Queen, so I decided not to hang around just to watch a blacked-out vehicle pass, surrounded by noisy schoolchildren and excited Catholics, and so went and bought a coffee and a sandwich then back to my flat, where I played Football Manager. Football Manager, as ever, was quite engrossing, and I realised it was almost noon, and that the Pope would be doing his Princes Street cruise at half-noon, so I quickly got moving, to the National Gallery where I reckoned would be a good spot to watch the Pope.
...and I almost missed him. The Pope was early! He had explicitly told me he’d be going down Princes Street at half 12, which I naturally took to meaning he’d be starting the journey then. But no. It was 12.25pm, and he was already halfway down! Crafty Pope. If I’d been just thirty second later I would have missed him, but fortunately I arrived just in time to see him majestically swoop by in his rather odd Popemobile, which reminds me of something I’d expect to see old people drive in Florida, perhaps when golfing.
In truth, it was exactly as expected, a bit of an anti-climax. An old man drove by in a car – that’s basically the synopsis of the day. Fair enough, it was an unusual car, and the old man is God’s ambassador on Earth, but I don’t believe in God and aren’t particularly interested in cars, so perhaps it wasn’t the event for me. Besides, after learning that in the last eight years of the Queen Mother’s life, over 80% of her public appearances were, in fact, done by an animatronic puppet, I can’t help but feel sceptical when I see a famous old person in public. Was it really him? His smile was appropriately benign, but his gaze was unfocussed and his wave very fixed.
I’ll leave you to decide. For I managed to get one photo, very quickly taken, of him as he drove by. Look!
There he is, just on the right. To the left of the ice-cream stall. See? No? Honestly, just look a bit harder.
Ok, here’s a zoom in and arrow. What do you think? Pope or puppet?
Yes, the Pope visited Edinburgh today, and though I couldn’t commit to meeting him due to my uncertain work schedule (he’s quite old now so needs lots of prior notice, and I thought I’d still be offshore), he decided to come anyway, and meet the Queen for lunch, some cardinal for a cup of tea, and have a little cruise round Edinburgh in between.
This simple arrangement has put Edinburgh into a bit of a tizzy, and they’ve closed every road and put every policeman onto Princes Street, where they jostle with people selling memorabilia, some collecting for charity, and thousands and thousands of schoolchildren. There was a lone protestor too, handing out leaflets about child abuse, but I give her short shrift as she was missing the spirit of the occasion.
Although I’m not a Catholic, I still share many things in common with the Pope and his many millions of followers, such as neverending guilt, an appreciation of the (now sadly defunct) S Club Juniors, and of course, papal infallibility. Of these, papal infallibility is the most important. A lot of people don’t seem to get this, when they complain about the Pope and some of the beliefs he espouses that they claim are outdated. The guy is infallible. He doesn’t make mistakes. Don’t you get it, guys? You’re the ones that’re wrong. If we can all just stop listening to our inner voices and start listening to the Pope’s voice, then maybe we can start to get things right too.
Today then, after getting out of bed and performing my morning ablutions, or whatever you call them, I thought I’d stroll into town to say hi to the Pope. I live just five minutes from Princes Street so it seemed rude not to. The Pope had originally planned to cruise down the Royal Mile, which would have been far more convenient for me, but it was deemed a security risk and Princes Street chosen instead. By security risk, I think they were referring to the cobbled streets, which no doubt would have been a little uncomfortable a man in his 80s, especially after having had lunch. When you’re the Pope, security in its normal sense doesn’t apply, because any bombs or bullets that come your way are deflected by flashes of glorious light. The former Pope, John Paul II, who was a more kindly Pope would just have the glorious light absorb the bomb or bullet, but the current one, Benedict Sixteen, is bit more badass and would actually deflect the bomb or bullet back at the assailant. For this reason, I guess all the police gathered today were here as much for the protection of the people as they were for the Pope.
My first jaunt down town, about 10am, was a pre-Pope stroll, and duly established that there were lots of people. I’d checked with the BBC news and they said the Pope would be arriving incognito at Holyrood Palace to meet the Queen, so I decided not to hang around just to watch a blacked-out vehicle pass, surrounded by noisy schoolchildren and excited Catholics, and so went and bought a coffee and a sandwich then back to my flat, where I played Football Manager. Football Manager, as ever, was quite engrossing, and I realised it was almost noon, and that the Pope would be doing his Princes Street cruise at half-noon, so I quickly got moving, to the National Gallery where I reckoned would be a good spot to watch the Pope.
...and I almost missed him. The Pope was early! He had explicitly told me he’d be going down Princes Street at half 12, which I naturally took to meaning he’d be starting the journey then. But no. It was 12.25pm, and he was already halfway down! Crafty Pope. If I’d been just thirty second later I would have missed him, but fortunately I arrived just in time to see him majestically swoop by in his rather odd Popemobile, which reminds me of something I’d expect to see old people drive in Florida, perhaps when golfing.
In truth, it was exactly as expected, a bit of an anti-climax. An old man drove by in a car – that’s basically the synopsis of the day. Fair enough, it was an unusual car, and the old man is God’s ambassador on Earth, but I don’t believe in God and aren’t particularly interested in cars, so perhaps it wasn’t the event for me. Besides, after learning that in the last eight years of the Queen Mother’s life, over 80% of her public appearances were, in fact, done by an animatronic puppet, I can’t help but feel sceptical when I see a famous old person in public. Was it really him? His smile was appropriately benign, but his gaze was unfocussed and his wave very fixed.
I’ll leave you to decide. For I managed to get one photo, very quickly taken, of him as he drove by. Look!
There he is, just on the right. To the left of the ice-cream stall. See? No? Honestly, just look a bit harder.
Ok, here’s a zoom in and arrow. What do you think? Pope or puppet?
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