Further lamentations

Peritis in sua arte credendum (Beware the know-all)

An event this morning has convinced me to enter into a diatribe against the self-styled expert, the enthusiast, the driven fiddler and tweaker for whom life's entire raison d'etre is the improvement of all that they happen upon.

Jerome K Jerome in his book "Three Men on the Bummel," makes clear his own antagonism towards the dastardly self-assured (the bike improver).

My own sad encounters with these blithe, excremental do-gooders began in the first year of marriage
My first T.V. set, cheap, second-hand and cheerful an excellent instrument until it fell under the scrutiny of an electronics expert, a visitor whose immediate reaction upon seeing it was a sharp intake of breath through pursed lips, "Oooh, your wobbulator's misaligned and the focussing coil needs re-setting, it'll just take a few minutes." Sadly the bastard didn't die when the set did; his excuse, "It was on it's way out anyway." So was he and 4 months elapsed before I could afford another T.V.

A year or two later, the story of my mortice chisels, sharp enough for D.I.Y needs and in a pleasant red plastic case. Enter stage left another bright bastard, again the required sharp intake of breath as I hacked a hole in the back door, "God knows how you can work with these, let me have them I'll have them sharp in no time." I was still young and green so instead of saying, "Thank you for your concern, fuck off," I relinquished them to the mercies of this enthusiastic Chippendale. After 2 weeks of phone calls their remains, now a good 3/4" shorter, were delivered back to me minus (of course) the hardened edges which now lay as filings beside this f***pig's* grinder. His excuse, "Had a little trouble with these, this is what comes of buying cheap tools and I'm sorry I've lost the case." Oh dear, 3 fucking useless lengths of soft steel and he apologised for the case!

Time heals, and so it came about that 4 years ago I fell foul of the smooth and convincing tongue of another enthusiastic fiddler. I had just finished cutting my grass when a former neighbour had the goodness to inform me that the motor on my mower was missing. I pointed out, quite reasonably, that had this been the case it wouldn't have started and in any case it was evidently still in place.
"No, no, no I mean that it's running unevenly, if you don't adjust it the grunge wheel will cause wear to the spigot drive, you'll ruin it, I'll adjust the carburettor for you."
Now, a brighter and more worldly person would, at this juncture, have simply stabbed him in the throat with the garden fork; I am kinder and stupid. The later cost of professional repair ran to £45!

This mornings encounter with a "Skoda" enthusiast on ASDA's car park who, in return for me opening the lid of my machine, was prepared to "advise me" on certain "improvements to the setting of (again, the carburettor) which would improve the m.p.g. of my motor. This led me, after an initial good natured refusal, to become quite scathing of experts and enthusiasts. He seemed a little put out at the thought of having his scrotum and its contents boiled and departed in a huff. I'm learning.
P.S. My self-appointed proof reader (the Mem) informs me that I owe any readers a missing word from my last Lamentation - "where"- Last paragraph. Satisfied?

* An appellation brought to my youthful attention by a certain Drill Sergeant W. "Billy" Wright which, he assured me formed the backbone of his descriptive vocabulary, used to describe the indescribable, the f***ing excremental and the totally f***ing useless. His words not mine but how apt.

Lamentations amd Punctuation

Dear readers, you, will, I'm sure have noticed that I employ a goodly number if commas, parentheses, semi-colons, interjections and other minor punctuation marks in my text.
For this, I make no apology.

I stand accused, close to home, of superabundant, even, dare I say, plethoric use of these devices; even my own "Babbage Engine" has turned against me chiding me thus:- ( this sentence is fragmented consider another option) Sodding cheek! "Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me." *
Well, the cheeks of my arse to my detractors!

I hold the view that if the Almighty had intended simple sentences then SHE would not have given us punctuation. What, I ask, is the point of all these little delights if they are not going to be used? Do my critics fear that they will run out, become exhausted through overuse?
Why do we have subordinate clauses and other grammatical sub-constructions if they are going to left in the drawer like unwanted gifts?** How would we successfully parse a sentence without guidance from the little buggers?
If complex sentences were good enough for Dostoevsky then they're fine by me.
Of course, I realise that there is some virtue in using punctuation correctly and I freely admit that my enthusiasm for giving it an airing oft supersedes care but "ARSE" I will not see these grammatical devices left unused.

I, further, hold the view that punctuation is truly Universal, indeed, that The Creator (Bless Her) has put in place a continuous creation of commas etc. (were Hoyle and Wickramasinghe almost right?) a veritable cornucopia, and that in all civilised societies including that on the small, but nicely marked, planet of P'tong in the constellation of Orion highly intelligent grubby little bastards are merrily puctuating with The Creator's (Bless Her) plenitude of grammatical gifts.
Well, that's it then, I suggest a collective noun for punctuation - a proliferation? What think you m'learned friends?

Finally, my thanks to "Junket" and "Biddster" for supportive comments (if they were) over the last week and the wizzard Rincewind wishes it to be known that his centipedal wooden familiar is never far away.

* Mr. K. Williams as Caesar.
** Who did buy us the Korean travel clock that plays the Korean national anthem, apparently backwards at warp speed?

lamentations and slide rules

Do slide rules, as I remember them in the mid to late 60's still exist?Am I right in thinking that the truly avant-garde amongst the young carried a circular slide rule?

Lamentations continue

I'ts been a funny week, again.
Tensions in the Struthius household have been exacerbated by the following:-
1. An invitation to watch a friends play with their wee.
2. Upsetting the Memsahib (my dear lady-wife) by recounting a story of our wedding day
3. Failing to read the instruction booklet accompanying my latest car.

Last weekend found the mem and I visiting good friends where we were invited to play with their wee. Now, this is not a gross perversion for consenting adults involving bodily waste; it is a game (almost certainly Japanese) which requires the participant to hold a handset and flail his (or her) arms and generally cavort in front of the television in order to simulate sporting activity, (in this case tennis) following which, the machine gives an assessment of the age of the participant.
Considerable prompting and cries of "party pooper" eventually persuaded me to "have a go". It will come as no surprise, therefore, to those who know me that an assessment of my age based on speed and agility finally translated as being a few years older than "Heinrich" the 307 year old moribund tortoise of 17, Acaia Crescent, Galapagos! The mem is mortified.

An amusing but innocent story which I later recounted caused a frosting of marital harmony as I had not realised that the "D" notice slapped upon it 40 years ago by the mem. was still in place. It involved me, the mem, wedding photographs and a 6" slide rule, (do slide rules still exist?) I had intended to tell the story at the recent troglodytic wedding but given the reaction of "She who must be obeyed" it's a bloody good job that time ran out. I am, consequently, in the domus canem; woof woof.

On Wednesday I returned my car of 2 months (The Popemobile) to the salesroom with a faulty air vent. This slot on the dashboard had failed to produce wind since day 1. It is with a certain discomfiture that I must report that the "air vent" turned out to be a record machine for compact discs. This boob was well received at the garage who, to the mem's further mortification, have promised to treasure this story and recount it for the entertainment of future customers. My precarious intellectual standing in the eyes of the mem has dipped to an almost all time low.

On the whole, not a great week,
regards, A Pismo Clam B.Sc (Gt. Wittering) failed

Lamentations and Questions

This week I have re-read after 50 years, "An Imitation of Christ" by Thomas a Kempis. This and the accompanying commentaries has, left me wondering why, in my youth, I was so impressed by the the views of this mystic Divine, particularly, his emphatic view on humility a quality that, then as now, was never my strong point; in short I am, and always have been an arrogant bastard..
It is interesting to note that in recent years I have re-read Dostoyevsky with the same result. What is it that so impressed me in my youth that I learnt Russian just to read him in his own language? Why don't I enjoy with the same sense of wonderment "The Idiot" or "The Devils"? Why is it that today I would much rather read Terry Pratchett?
Is it just a matter of changing emphasis in my life as I enter old age or is it a fundamental change of philosophical and literary taste? If the latter, when did this change occur? Does everyone experience such profound changes of thought and outlook as they get older? Is it, perhaps, that memory plays me false and the enthusiasm of youth just never existed?
Bollocks!, does it matter?
Sincerely,
Algernon Quim (aka Rincewind)

The Lamentations of Struthius

Well, here I am in the the 21st. century still equipped with a 19th. century mind. In my dotage I find myself "Blogging". Now, over the last 65 years I have in all honesty done and even practised (usually unsucessfully) some strange pastimes but blogging never!

It's been a funny old weekend rescued only by the company of good friends. On the home front I have been under siege following my return from Crete. I stand accused of being a humbug, a dissembler, a deceiver, a tartufe; this calumnous slander of my veracity I vigorously deny.

Well, say I to the accusing shitniks, Arse. I really did see the posted ad. for the Cretin night and the fact that it was almost 11 of the clock p.m. is the reason I did not have upon me my camera to add supporting evidence, short of purloining a board measuring about 2ft. 6" by 4ft and carrying the sodding thing back to the hotel with the attendant risk to life and limb by enraged Cretins I could only expect to have my story believed. Further, the refusal of my detractors to visit the site of the restaurant in the cold light of day the following morning only reinforces my sense of betrayal. The fact that these same doubters plus a coachload of others saw the later ad. outside Heraklion (Real Greek Food) has not softened the opinion of Mrs. C and others that I am tantamount to being a lying toad.

Sincerely, Eustace Mc Gargle