Sunday Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Sir Mo Farah, Usada

(Photo by Tim Hipps,

US Army IMCOM Public Affairs

21/8/16 cropped)

 

 

Sir Mo Farah,

referring to Usada*,

you appear to be clean.

But as for some coaches- it remains to be seen!

 

*US Anti-Doping agency

Marginal Improvement

Tags

Alice Keppel, Balsamic Vinegar, Daphne Fowler, Eggheads, gene therapy, Howard Hughes Medical Institute, Judith Keppel, Kettle Chips, knockout gene, Mario Capecchi, Matt Parker, Slimfast, Team GB Cycling, Tim Harford, Wallis Simpson, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?

A Wallis Simpson latte, please, said Brassica.  What’ll you have?

Well, I was going to say ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, but what is it

you’ve ordered?

Oh, it’s just something very skinny, said Brassie, picking up the

table number impaled on a cork and heading for our table in

the corner.

Okay, one of those.

Anything to eat, ladies?

No! we chorused.  Get thee behind me, etcetera. It’s Lent.

He didn’t catch the cultural references.

For me, weight gain isn’t about fizzy drinks, in spite of the

government’s assessment.  It is about Kettle Chips, Sea

Salt and Balsamic Vinegar.  Half a packet can disappear during

Eggheads while I am waiting for The Husband to return from

work.

With all those journalists on strike today, there have been

really interesting things on Radio 4, such as this morning’s

discussion- probably a repeat- from a pop-up undercover

economist, Tim Harford, who clarified the theory of Marginal

Improvement.

He explained that progress may result from short term strategies

which can appear to be giant leaps forward.  I suppose that is like

all the Slimfast Queens that shed kilos, but who pile it all back on

with hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top of their original

lardy BMI.

Then there are the long term bods, such as Mario Capecchi, who

shared The Nobel Prize for the delayed gratification of discovering

a fundamental of all gene therapy.

(Bear with me, folks.)

Do you want to be a knockout female?  Then have one of your

genes knocked out: the one that tells you to keep snaffling Kettle

Chips.

Capecchi’s discovery was a long time in the revelation, but,

according to Matt Parker, Head of Marginal Improvements, lots of

little steps add up to one massively successful leap forward.

You might look like a loser in the process, but you will come out

victorious in the end, big-time.

The FT analyst said that short term solutions look sexier, but we

should go with the long term plan of action.  Slowly, slowly

catchee monkey.

So, maybe if I stick to skinny lattes long term, I can continue to

scoff half a bag of crisps with Eggheads. Compromise.

Seventy year old plus, Good Egg, Daphne Fowler is a positive

advert for the long term. She has clearly been accreting facts for

decades. Judith is sexier.  I bet she doesn’t cram herself with

crisps-only non-calorific facts.  Though, after winning Who Wants

To be a Millionairess? she can stuff herself with anything she

fancies.

She probably doesn’t have that self-destruct gene, the one that

makes you lick salt like an elephant in an African cave.  I bet her

famous ancestor, Alice, had similar DNA, which included

an inbuilt- Higher Evolutionary code- that knocked out any

inclination to stick her nose in a bag of Keppel crisps!

Anyway, Team GB’s cycling coach assured its members that small

1% improvements can add up to overall success, and with 7 gold

medals to the rest of the world’s 3, who can argue?

And Cappecchi now works for the Howard Hughes Medical Institute. 

Well, its namesake was a bit of an obsessive compulsive, but he is

doing good now from beyond.  So, maybe I will have that excessive

focussing gene knocked out of me thanks to his sponsorship and then

I won’t gravitate towards the big blue bag prior to every tea-time.

Meanwhile, as marginal gains can make all the difference:

Brassie, do you want to share this muffin with me?  I couldn’t eat a

whole one.  (Lie)

Oh, go on then.  There aren’t many calories in half. (Lie)  Actually,

they aren’t all that big.

We can start in earnest next week.

Effect on muffin tops: marginal!  Definitely less than 1%.

 

 

 

 

 

Nice to see you; to see you- NICE!

Tags

Border Terrier, Brucie, Craig Revel Horwood, Dordrecht, Heat magazine, Jenny Packham, Johan Huibers, Lisa Riley, Louis Smith, Paxman, Strictly Come Dancing, Wembley

The whole St Swithun day prognostication thingy seems irrelevant as

it appears to rain incessantly whatever the season.  A Dutchman

named Johan Huibers built an ark in Dordrecht, complete with plastic

animals.  Well, I suppose they would float in any deluge.

Such meteorological topics did not interest Tiger-Lily, nor

Scheherezade, who were caught up with their £40 sweepstake

winnings from Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly party. They had

accurately predicted that Louis Smith would win the Strictly Come

Dancing finals and, being altruistic girls, they donated part of their

winnings to their favourite charity, Curs in Crisis.  This was in spite of

Andy, the destructive Border Terrier having chewed the Christmas

tree lights and having caused mayhem at the party by plunging everyone

into darkness at the opening of the show.

Tiger called in to see how her grandmother, Ginevra was, after

having been abandoned the previous evening, when everyone ran to

Sonia’s house, in order not to miss the opening group dance by the

professionals.  In actual fact, once Cosmo had woken the wheelchair-bound

guest, she had been refreshed and then no one could get her to stop partying

until 2am.

Tiger’s mum, Carrie had eventually put her mother-in-law to bed as

the carer was off duty.

As mum was busy helping Ginevra with her morning ablutions, Tiger

had been left relatively unsupervised and she had ‘Googled’ Louis

Smith.  Almost immediately a very saucy photograph of the said

Olympic gymnast had popped up and he was not wearing anything at

all. Tiger was intrigued.  She was frustrated by the strategically

placed champagne bottle.  Apparently it had been a feature from Heat

magazine -a publication that would never be afforded entry to

Nutwood Cottage.  She immediately printed it off and Blu-tacked it

to her wardrobe’s inner door.

Imagine Carrie’s volcanic eruption when she discovered the same

indecent image on hanging up her daughter’s beaded Jenny

Packham dress later that morning.  (Tiger kept on having to correct

her mother.  It was Packham and not Packman.  Carrie should have

realised that Jeremy was not into bugle beads and fringing.  At least,

she didn’t think so.  But Paxman was different again.  It was very

confusing.)

Whatever.  Carrie sustained a shock as sensational as that

experienced by Craig Revel Horwood– and indeed the rest of the

nation’s viewers- when Lisa Riley did the splits at Wembley.

It was painful to think that her sweet, innocent Tiger of tender years

had downloaded such an image.

Gyles!  she called and then thought better of involving him.

The bedroom door was open and she jumped as a voice asked: Did

you call, Mrs Brewer-Mead?

It was Mrs Hatch-Warren, her cleaner.  She had let herself in with the

key she had been given.  Carrie was so overwhelmed that she had

forgotten that she had asked her to come in early to do some

ironing and other chores.

Shall I start by vacuuming Tiger’s bedroom? she inquired.

No!  I mean yes. Eh…  Carrie turned red and it wasn’t a hot flush.

Are you all right, Mrs Brewer-Mead?  the kindly cleaner asked

solicitously.

Carrie gulped.  Mrs Hatch-Warren, I know that you are a

grandmother to a fifteen year old girl.  Well, do you mind me asking

if this is normal?

She opened the wardrobe door.

Ooooh!  I’d say it was more than normal.  I’d say it was b*****

fantastic!  Mrs Hatch-Warren was from Yorkshire where this rather

crude modifier was in constant use and was considered an intensifier,

rather than being tinged with any offence.

So you think I should ignore it?  Carrie was prepared to take the older

woman’s advice.

Ignore it!  No, not at all.  I should come in here every day and have a

good look myself.  Fab-u-lous!  It’s not just Len who would give him a

10!

Mrs Hatch-Warren seemed energised and did all the ironing in

record time, but kept finding excuses to do more dusting in Tiger’s

bedroom.

Carrie was so shocked that she forgot to give the cleaner her

Christmas tip.  But the Yorkshire gran-with-attitude didn’t seem to

notice.  She felt she had had a huge bonus and spent the rest of the

day repeating Brucie’s catch-phrase: Nice to see you- to see you

NICE!

 

Gallic Gall

Tags

France, Olympics, Tom Daley

Monday

It rained all day.  The French are madly jealous of our success and are accusing us of having magic potions or supernatural wheels.  They whine that the judges were favourable to Tom Daley in giving him a second go when he was distracted by overexcited flash photographers. Their Hassan Hirt had been sent home over his hormone levels.  Just get over it.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Closing Time

Tags

Annie Lennox, Boris Johnson, Brave New World, Darcey Bussell, David Cameron, Duchess of Cambridge, Eric Idle, Fatboy Slim, Grayson Perry, husband, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, Poor Clares, Prince Harry, Prince William, Ray Davies, Russell Brand, The Queen, The Tempest, Trinity, Vivienne Westwood

The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

Clare of Assisi, Founder of the Minoresses (Poor Clares), 1253.

Maybe she would have something pertinent to say about the economy?

A scorcher with threatening thunder which disappeared after 2pm.

9pm saw my hubby and myself on our starter sofas, ready for action viewing.

A strangely nasal singer commenced the proceedings and a bad Churchill impression did not light my Olympic flame.  Same speech from The Tempest ; different hats.

Prince Harry appeared, instead of The Queen.  A solitary Duchess of Cambridge was there. Probably Wills was hovering overhead in a helicopter, watching in case his brother became too flirty with his wife.  If Harry got too fresh, Wills might have Kate sent to the Tower and could marry Pippa the following day.  They can be like that.

Batman came out of a Robin, but he was American, wasn’t  he?  What’s he got to do with it?

There was too much Our House, or One’s House, as someone joked at the Jubilee.  Probably the Royal version is One’s Hice.

The Ku Klux clan appeared to be cycling past, or was it a belated Semana Santa procession for the Spanish contingent?  No, it was The Pet Shop Boys.  One Direction  had the crowd singing the annoying Na-na-na-na refrain, while the whole of London seemed bent on street sweeping, which isn’t a bad idea.  Cameron wants 100% youth employment, so there’s your answer, Dave.

Ray Davies of The Kinks understood that the crowd were not completely thick and so gave them a variation to join in – namely, Sha-la-la-la, which made a change.  At least it was a catchy tune and distracted you from the bankers committing suicide by hurling themselves out of the Gherkin, which some would have found the best bit.

Russell Brand did his I am the Walrus act and I was glad that that awful mate of his, who only gets  him into trouble, wasn’t there, namely Mr Woss.  Grayson Perry, as Clare seemed to be with him, but, then again, it all happened so quickly that I might have been mistaken.

Fatboy Slim – I recognised the oxymoron, was at the centre of a huge octopus, while Jesse J gave everyone their big chance to sing La la la la confidently, because by now most of them knew the words.

The fashion parade was interesting but the commentators did not elaborate on the designers. I thought that Annie Lennox was probably in Vivienne Westwood for her number, but I failed to recognise the Dracula connection.

The pixels and lighting were stunning throughout. Eric Idle’s skating nuns would not have been out of place on Duddingston Loch .  Idle wasn’t shot out of the cannon, but Russell Brand, no, Russell Grant could have been. He had had plenty of practice on Strictly. Now that he has stopped dancing, he might have put on weight and got stuck, however. Sergei, the meerkat might have done it well, but he is anxious to maintain his dignity, so he might not have been too enthusiastic.

The rap did not appeal to me, even though the audience now had the opportunity to repeat, Ay-oh in response to Baby, let’s go.  I thought that was Teletubbie lingo.

Harry was getting a bit bored and started chewing, even just after the big We will rock you number.  I hoped that the Koreans  or Iranians wouldn’t get any ideas for a We will nuke you number.

The Greek flag was raised and that would have been a good moment for a whip-round, I felt.  The Mods on scooters could have whizzed around, collecting the bags.

From Greeks we fast-forwarded to Georgios Michael, who danced all over Damian’s sprayed flag, singing about Freedom and wearing a miniature For The Love of God skull on his belt buckle.  Again, that song title could have suggested a panty pad advertising jingle. Maybe he was out on bail or had a new release coming soon.  Wake me up before you go-go might have given the crowds a chance to vocalise the double syllables that they had been practising throughout the evening.

The London Eye becoming a baldacchino was a powerful symbol of immanence over a vacuum, I thought.  Maybe Zeus or Boris was meant to bless the gathering, but there was no sense of the divine that I could detect.  Lennon’s Imagine stated that there was no heaven nor hell, but only sky above us.  It was moving, but a profound sense of spiritual emptiness swept over me.  Were we meant to worship Man as Superman?  After the exposure of the clay feet of the Tiger Woods of this world, I could only feel limitation, not exaltation.

Past gods materialised in the shape of Mercury- Freddy, to be precise.  He raised the bar of audience participation by challenging the crowd to replicate fairly complex vowel sequences.  The figures on the screens made me think of Brave New World and the feelies.  Was I to become a pleb?

It must have been difficult to entertain everyone while 204 flags were being brought in and athletes were filling in the stripes, like painting by numbers.  Indian drums created tension and suspense, but the white box set building was a natural point for nipping off to the loo, but not if you were in the crowd, obviously.  I wondered about the facilities.  Basically, it was going on too long for anyone’s bladder capacity.  No wonder Philip had given it a miss.

Darcey Bussell’s Firebird section was dazzling, but then there were speeches and that French guy never seemed to smile, though he recognised that our hosting had been happy and glorious, to coin a phrase-not.  Coe smiled, but then he has a job lined up for the next few years, which is more than the marvellous volunteers probably have. To continue The Tempest references, we might echo Antonio, the usurping King of Milan:

Worthy Sebastian….

…methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be…

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head..

I was relieved when the accident-prone Johnson managed to avoid setting himself alight, by furling his flag too close to the flames.  Maybe that was why the Duke of Cambridge was hovering overhead, ready to unleash gallons of water from on high.  Or was he on standby to douse Boris’ burning bush or to dampen Harry’s passion? Maybe he was trying to persuade his granny to jump.  Coe addressed Your Majesties, so he clearly expected them to drop in. Perhaps they had missed their cue.  As a fallback, the massed pipe bands could have played:

Oh ye cannae shove your granny oot a ‘copter-x2

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Too Darn Hot

Tags

Beckhams, Ben Ainslie, Chichester Festival Theatre, coalition, Cole Porter, Danny Boyle, David Cameron, Kiss Me Kate, London 2012, metaphysical poetry, MItt Romney, Mo Farah, Nick Clegg, Nick Clegg rose garden, Olympics, Team GB, Tom Daley

Friday

27 degrees in London, but no gold medals for GB.

The synchronised swimming didn’t look that synchronised, nor was there a lot of swimming going on.  BMX I associate with kids.

More attractive was a trip to Chichester for Kiss Me Kate. When the chorus sang It’s  too Darn Hot! I concurred. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the general ideology, but the showmanship would have outshone a Danny Boyle spectacle any day.

Cole Porter was an absolute genius for lyrics and the cast’s diction was spot on. I’m always true to you darlin’- in my fashion might have been a coalition rendition for Nick Clegg to sing to Dave in the rose garden.

Day 15- 32 medals to be won- the most for any day thus far.

Flymo!

Romney has chosen his running mate, I see.  It sounds as if they are going to enter the 5,000 metres in Rio.

A medal for each of his twins – that was Mo’s aim and he achieved it. The Bolt was incredibly well-mannered about Birmingham and Brunel Universities and their hospitality. I hope that someone will sneak the relay baton for him.

Yes, there were batons and successful bantams.  There was bravery in the diving with various degrees of waxing evident. The hirsute level did not seem to hamper success.

I hope that the Beckham boys hadn’t indulged in flash photography when Daley was concentrating.  David was babysitting so Posh could get in some much-needed dress rehearsal. How many black outfits does she have to try on? He must get fed up with hearing her saying, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.  He probably mutters under his breath. What I really want is a bit of peace round here. Hence the quality time with the boys.

Ben Ainslie came on screen, looking rather knackered and he announced that he would be carrying the flag in the closing ceremony.  He may/ may not go to Rio. (Cue for a Winehouse song):

They wanted me to go to Rio, but I wouldn’t go-o-o.

He might make a second career as a pop star. He has the looks and we all know that you don’t need a voice.  Maybe he is going to settle down and have four kids- one for each medal.  I thought of all those Metaphysical poems where youthful good lookers were persuaded to have progeny to continue their genetic line.  Don’t waste it, Ben!

One more day to go.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Strictly Come Prancing

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Brassica, Dan Snow, dressage, DVT, hanging baskets, husband, Kirstie Allsopp, Madonna, Moscow, NHS, OAP, Olympics, pelargonia, riot, St Kilda, teaching, Tiger Feet

Thursday

I went out with Brassica to buy some reduced pelargonia for my rotting hanging baskets. A crowd of orange lycra clad OAPs were showing off in the local garden centre café.  They should have been extras in the Opening Ceremony Tiger Feet number. They’d probably arrived by car and parked their bikes at the entrance for pure effect.  Nothing worse than the elderly behaving badly, I said to myself. They just propel themselves to the nearest sylvan cheapeatery to save on winter fuel in the coming seasons, which saves their annual allowance for luxuries such as ostentatious cycling equipment.  Mind you, they probably prevent DVT by squeezing themselves into such tight gear, so may be saving the taxpayer on NHS expenses.

I enjoyed the elegance of the Strictly Come Prancing dressage.  The winning horse, whose name was a bit like Viagra, could have shown Widdi a thing or two about dancing.  And she couldn’t have complained about the decency of what both horse and rider were wearing.

Madonna isn’t being very restrained in Moscow. Supposedly she had been asked there to sing.  A deputy minister told her to remove her cross and to put on some knickers, which wasn’t a bad idea.   She seemed to have inspired some girls in Leeds to lipstick the strapline: Moralising Slut over their boobs. It all seems rather adolescent and, as a teacher, I could have told them that the best thing to do with juvenile protest was to ignore it.

A poor athlete heard his leg snap during a race but carried on out of a misplaced sense of duty. I have always believed that one’s joints have a finite amount of wear or tread on them and so long ago I decided never to overstretch them.  My husband is a chief exponent of the theory too.

It is almost a year to the day since the London riots and several youths have been sent down for their part in the destruction. Dan Snow had been passing when some looters had run out of a shop, bearing trove.  Big Dan had tackled one and made a citizen’s arrest.  If it had been a female, I can guarantee that she wouldn’t have struggled too much. Dan could have taken wrongdoers to St Kilda for re-hab and could have introduced them to a fitness programme that included running up that chimney gully, or he could have made them harvest gannets, enduring fulmar spittle, as they abseiled down vertical cliffs.  Even worse, Kirstie Allsopp could have redesigned their psyches by forcing them to crotchet drag nets. Or Putin could have offered them judo training in Siberia.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Spare Tyres

Tags

Cath Kidston, Invisibility Cloak, sour grapes, Suzy Watson

Wednesday

Still raining, but not as bad as in the Philippines.

Some of the athletes took their duvets to the stadium and crawled under them for privacy.  I thought how useful one of these would have been in the classroom.  Better still, an invisibility cloak.

Maybe the athletes will appreciate being able to take their duvets home. I could recommend a few people that would welcome them, though the needy can sometimes be quite picky about gifts.  They would probably specify Suzy Watson fabric, or Cath Kidston only. I wonder what happens to all the surplus stuff afterwards.  The French will probably nick the spare wheels so they can inspect them for hidden advantages. What is the idiom for : A bad workman blames his tools or Sour grapes. Dunno, but Tant pis!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Murray Mints Gold

Tags

Andy Murray, Ben Ainslie, Boris Johnson, David Cameron, James Naughtie, London 2012, Olympics, Pussy Riot, Roger Federer, Spice Girls, tennis

Sunday

Thunderstorms forecast.  Interesting for Ben Ainslie, I deliberated.

Twenty three medals up for grabs today.  Four weeks ago Andy was greetin’ on court.  I wondered who would be crying at the end of the day.  Would Federer treat Andy like a giant midge at a barbecue, ie/ like a harmless nuisance to be shooed away, or would he see him as a pesky wasp who might give him a fatal anaphylactic sting?

At 2pm I settled down on the sofa to start watching.  It was difficult as I had to keep flicking over to see Ben’s progress against the Great Dane.  Did that make Andy’s opponent a St Bernard?  I wouldn’t have minded being rescued from a crevasse by a brandy delivered on the rocks by the Swiss, to continue the canine and/or avalanche imagery.

Ainslie came in all flares blazing, having blocked the Dane’s wind.  That must have been painful for the Scandinavian.  I once read, in Suetonius perhaps, that Roman emperors, but can’t remember which one, had believed in never obstructing wind.  But Ben hadn’t been a Classicist, I remembered. Maybe Boris could give him a few lessons to round him off as a New Elizabethan.  Then James Naughtie could fit him into one of his programmes.

Hey, Andy was improving all the time and Roger was making unforced errors.  He won in three sets and Roger slunk off.  He looked as if he needed a brandy.  Andy even hugged a random child in the crowd.  Kim looked broody.

Meanwhile Jedburgh and parts of Pembrokeshire were being washed away, like Federer’s hopes.

The news is full of Pussy Riot.  Having worked in a girls’ school, I could recognise the concept.  One of the band members is called Squirrel and she was a spokespussy for the band. In a very un-Tuftylike pronouncement she accused Putin of being afraid of girls. Goodness knows how he will react to the re-formation of The Spice Girls. Probably pretty favourably, but he is only over on a flying visit to see the Judo and to get a lecture from Cameron, so he will probably miss their comeback.   David isn’t afraid of girls, I thought. He sends LOL texts to giant Squirrelly ones that you wouldn’t trust to teach your child the Highway Code, let alone the moral code.  But she is an endangered species now.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Something Sensational

Tags

Andy Murray, Boris Johnson, gold medal, London 2012, Lord Coe, Roger Federer, Stella McCartney, Team GB

Saturday

Three golds in less than an hour.  Good old Boris can challenge the gloomsters.

Apparently software enables computers to make decisions.  I wish I could have an algorithm which might help me to get out of bed.  I feel sure that some of my friends already have one that programmes them to make 10,000 purchases a day, so it isn’t so surprising that the Stock Market suffers similar compulsions.

The day ended brilliantly for Team GB after the doubles match with Andy and Laura. He will have to go to bed earlyish, I mused, as he is playing Federer tomorrow and then he has another doubles match.

I think Stella McCartney’s gear looks great, whether it is in the form of briefs or headbands.  Andy even has the sweatbands.  But who on earth designed those quasi-molar, Cyclops-eyed Wentworth and Mandeville creatures?  Probably the same weirdo who came up with Mr Blobby.

It was a day when things had come off – athletes’ shoes, or rowers’ seats.  Lord Coe said we had witnessed something sensational.