I feel like Benjamin Button. Not only do I wear shorts and sandals but I have started adding fractions to my age.
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All posts in category: Kids/Family/Relations
So bad they named it twice
Why...
Do drug companies give their products not one but two instantly forgettable names? Is this because they all themselves have multiple names. GlaxoSmithKline, F. Hoffmann-La Roche or the puzzling Johnson & Johnson. Were they twins? Take statins? I do. Everyday. Lowers cholesterol and good for your heart. The actual name for mine is Rosuvastatin. Sounds like a Russian spy. However they sell it under the name brand Crestor. Why? It is confusing for me and plain difficult to remember. Isn’t it a toothpaste? And as for marketing, the name Crestor does sweet F.A. in telling me what it does. How about Heart-help? Ticker-tablet or Pressure buster? Same with just about any drug you can think of. Here is a list of the most common drugs with their retail name and fancy name. Levothyroxine (Synthroid) Lisinopril (Prinivil, Zestril) Gabapentin (Neurontin) Amlodipine (Norvasc) Hydrocodone/acetaminophen (Vicodin, Norco) Amoxicillin (Amoxil) Omeprazole (Prilosec) Metformin (Glucophage) Losartan (Cozaar). Unless you are actually taking them how many do you recognise or know what they treat? Yet they are sold by the gazillions! With the $€¥ billions these guys syphon off us, does their marketing department really think that unpronounceable and hard to remember names gives them gravitas and therefore the right to charge like the Light Brigade for their product! It’s loopy. I suppose Viagra comes close with association with vigour but Hard-as-rock is much better. Vicodin should be Zonked and Gabapentin Ouch-away. As for herpes busting Zovirax (real name Acyclovir) how about No-sex-just-yet.
Today’s blog was too good ... You can’t read it
Why...
Am I getting brain fade? I have written these little ditties for over four years now, on over 200 topics ranging from my dog’s television viewing habits to me never being around when moving house. It is getting increasingly challenging to find things to scribble about. Last week whilst driving in the shoal of Malta’s kamikaze drivers I was struck by a subject so ripe that I actually started laughing. For a moment I wondered whether I should stop and write it down or record it into my phone. Nope! No need. It was too funny. How on earth could I forget? Try as I might, I cannot remember it. I even drove down the same road listening to the same songs in the hope the Muse of blogs would reach out and jog my memory. Nothing.
Exactly what is the definition of survival of the fittest?
Why...
Is it always portrayed in the media that only ‘Tarzans’ can survive in the post apocalyptical jungle? What exactly do people mean by survival of the fittest anyway? I am prepared to admit most of the contestants on Gladiator could run circles around me (or trapeze above me waiving a giant Q-tip trying to knock over another contestant) but how much use would they be in a post apocalyptic Armageddon? Without whitening toothpaste and an endless supply of spandex, not much. In fact the gap between dumb as dog-slobber and super smart seems to double every 5 years. Technology has made dimwits of 99% of us. I mean how many reading this actually knows how a smart phone works, yet I suspect 200 years ago, 99% of us understood how to make smoke signals. And what skills would we need to survive? I suppose that depends on the environment of survival. If it’s all 1984 or even Terminator, being a geek looks a good bet. Q rather than 007. Planet of the Apes apocalypse and I suspect being able to run fast is critical, as is having an endless supply of nuts. A post nuclear disaster, I’d suggest being a welder who can whip up a lead suit to keep radiation out is a plus or a decent cook if you have to spend eternity in a bunker.
Are you a lockdown fashionista
Why...
Has Covid-19 superseded Vogue as the trendsetter of fashion? I suspect less than 0.1% of men have worn a tie over the past ten weeks with bras going the same way. Stilettos, false eyelashes, leather shoes with laces and evening attire have also been banished to the cupboard whereas fashion no-no’s such as the onesie, head band and tracksuit have made a comeback even Sinatra would have been proud of. The most shocking aspect of lockdown is the sudden appearance of facial hair; mostly, though not exclusively, on men. As someone who has sported a well trimmed beard and moustache for a decade, I am amazed at the birds nests many friends have now got stuck on their faces. Even my beloved father-in-law, decorated pilot, Diplomat and US Government Advisor suddenly looks like Uncle Sam with his natty goatee beard! The first question is why?
- Is it an act of defiance to the old rules? No more office, suit, tie and hair as slick as a second hand car salesman’s patter? “I am the master of my destiny and phooey to convention like shaving.”
- Is it to show the ‘outdoorsman’ in face of lockdown. “Hey Covid-19 I’m Grizzly Adams. I cut down trees with my teeth and drive in masonry nails with my bare hands. Don’t screw with me.”
- Or is it simply:
Beware, Card Shark
Why...
Do I get roped into imaginary celebration days? Before I start this week's blog......I have a confession. For a few years I was the co-owner of the Hallmark Channel (Internationally) that I bought with a consortium from the eponymous card company still owned and controlled by the Hall family. There were some pretty freaky things that I learned about cards (before the digital universe blew a hole in Hallmark with Blue Mountain, Moo, Jibjab, Moonpig and Funky Pigeon). Firstly, was that the more Catholic or Protestant the country, the more cards it sent. You expect the major European countries, but right up near the top was the Philippines! Now for those of you who have never been there, I beg you, go.... I adore all of Asia (with a special love for Vietnam) but if you want to see a race in self-conflict you cannot beat the Philippines. Nothing on earth trumps Catholic guilt and boy, the Filipinos, with their lust for life and smorgasbord of sin, have a tsunami of things to feel guilty about.....and yet Christmas carols start blaring from the radio in September. They send a shedload of cards, several to the same recipient!!
Please stop interrupting during video lessons and eat more
Why...
Is a dear friend and teacher more frustrated than a brain surgeon with hiccups? In this new world, teachers are struggling during on-line lessons because of continuous interruption and comments from parents. It seems that when little Johnny is having a problem with algebra or the date of the Battle of Hastings, know-it-all parents cannot wait to chip in with their answer... which in the case of algebra is nearly always wrong. It’s bad enough having to deal with delusional parents during PTA meetings who believe their offspring is the love child of Einstein and Madonna - see earlier post HERE. But to have parents digitally hanging over the teacher’s shoulder is enough to have anyone mainline Clorox. In addition, in some households there is a queue to use the one decent size computer. Dad for porn, Mum for gambling, elder kids for on-line dating, games or movies. Everyone wants the youngest off the machine as quickly as possible. So instead of the rest of the household being on-line themselves, they are constantly operating the only other thing outside of the Internet they continually use; their teeth. Lockdown has turned everyone into elephants in more than one sense. We have grown huge and munch constantly. Many of the locked down are so fed up with long distance relationships, they are moving the fridge to their bedroom.
It’s not Dr. Doolittle who talks to the animals
Why...
Is there no kind of border, post code or demarcation point for where dogs can crap without the owner having to pick it up? At what point do you say to yourself when bending down wearing a cheap smelling pooh bag as a glove “What am I doing this for? I’m nearly a time zone away from the nearest village.” I always clear up in town after my dogs have answered the call of nature (cats seem to get away scot free though). If I see people let their dogs foul a footpath or park, I march up to them and hand them my own dogs pooh in a bag saying, “I think you forgot this.” They usually are quite shocked, then embarrassed, yet accept the bag. A small victory but quite satisfying. The other day I took my two pugs out to the country. They are essentially town dogs, as metrosexual as David Beckham or P.Diddy. They think mud is what you put on your face whilst having a ‘manny/peddy’, the TV remote is for chewing not sharing and strenuous exercise is running in from the garden to eat their lunch in the kitchen. However I convinced them to go for a walk with my brother-in-law’s labrador way out in the wilds last year. As soon as the big dog got into the forest, it answered the age-old question about what a bear does in the woods. The labrador had a sh*t. After a moment he casually carried on with his walk. My two pugs started barking and ran after the labrador, twitching their noses at him. They then shot me a look. “Hey, buddy. Watch this. Each time we have a crap that idiot comes up with a bag and scoops it up.” The lab stopped, a foreleg lifted in mid-air. “You gotta’ be kidding, ” he said, raising his ears and giving me a furtive glance. My two pugs immediately squatted down and in perfect unison like a pair of synchronised swimmers did their business. I calmly walked by leaving their gift to nature in the grass, relieved at one advantage of being way out in the country. The look of shock on my dogs was palpable. “What the f…? He always picks it up, ” they pleaded looking at the lab who had been watching the non-show. “Lying Townies, ” replied the labrador and with a snort ran off. We may not talk to the animals but they sure talk to each other. And they try and talk to us.
I wish you all a Happy New Year... now here’s something to add a little sparkle!
Why...
I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this blog over the past four years. My close friends were relieved as it stopped me sending them endless emails on my observations of the day and gave me a platform to pontificate to a wider audience. My secret passion (well the one I’m prepared to discuss in public) is writing. So in addition to the blog, I rolled up my sleeves, shut the door and wrote a book. My debut thriller FALL OUT launches in May and pre-sales are now available on Amazon both in the UK and USA. It is the first in a franchise of thrillers set in the film industry. My target is 5,000 pre-orders which kicks it into bestseller territory. FALL OUT An LA screenwriter is killed shortly after completing his latest script, FALL OUT - a thriller destined to be a blockbuster but written with a secret double purpose. Echoing events from the past the screenplay is sent to a very specific group of people and will change their lives forever. All are connected to a movie that had abruptly stopped shooting in the jungles of the Philippines years before. FALL OUT exposes the truth about a conspiracy and murder that led to a half-a-billion-dollar fortune for a select few. Follow the story of Producer Marcus Riley, who sets out on an increasingly dangerous quest to get FALL OUT made. From a powerful agent’s office in Hollywood, hidden treasures in Belgravia and a remote chalet in the Swiss Alps to murder at the Cannes Film Festival, Marcus teams up with designer Melinda (Mako) de Turris as they and the other recipients of the screenplay are pursued by an assassin from the past. With clues cleverly concealed in the screenplay, Marcus and Mako unravel a lethal puzzle that for some will bring death, others the truth and ends in a cave with a shocking secret..... If you have enjoyed the blog and fancy something longer than just a paragraph or two now is your chance! Click here for Amazon UK book location Click here for Amazon US book location
I will get arrested if I ask a stranger to stuff my pudding in her secret little container
Why...
By a remarkable set of coincidences have I managed to get to 63 and never spent Christmas Day in the snow? On the only two times up to age 24 it snowed in the UK on Christmas Day I was out of the country. Every other year was spent there. No snow. My wonderful parents never got the ski-bug, so I actually never skied till I was 42! Once I started making a few bucks, my love of diving had me spend nearly every Christmas somewhere hot. So that was nearly 25 Christmases doused in Ambre Solaire with the odd one spent again with family and friends in snowless England. Now married to my American wife, we live in Malta where Christmas is usually around 20c/75f. Occasionally we spend it with her family in Old Town Alexandria, just outside Washington D.C. I missed a snowbound Washington Christmas, coz the planes from the UK were grounded due to bad weather or a strike or both and again when it snowed in the UK a few years ago we were in Washington enjoying a heat wave. So, I have given up.
That’s a wrap
Why...
Is the ability to gift wrap beyond my and most men’s skill set? If there is one action, I find hypnotic at this time of the year, it is the origami-like skills of people in the gift-wrapping department... or my wife. They can wrap the most obstinate and obvious of shapes in a trice, disguising the original into something totally different; a starfish into a perfect cube, an umbrella into a triangle. My wife could wrap up Michael Angelo’s David and make it a perfect hexagon, with possibly a bow discreetly tied to his gentleman’s salami. Give me even a simple rectangle like a hardback book to wrap and it’s a disaster. Scissors never cut in a straight line, or snag and leave little waves of scrunched paper along the edge. Immediate ticking off from my scalpel perfect wife. Even if I trim again, the fold at one end will be pointy while the other end will be squared off. The top of the book will be face against the bottom of the join of the gift wrap paper. The finished object will have an excess of paper so large at one end that it will look like something is trying to escape from the book; like that little monster that popped out of John Hurt’s tummy in Alien.
The Grand old Duke of York
Why...
Does arrogance always trump common sense? I rarely write about “moments du jour”, that is what editorial in journals and newspapers are for but... I have never watched anything so toe-curlingly embarrassingly thermonuclear-awful as Prince Andrew’s performance on his recent interview with the BBC. Forget about when Pat Nixon (wife of President Nixon and accused of taking bribes) cried on TV that she never had a fur coat, only a good Republican tweed one, or Jimmy Swaggart blubbing from the pulpit begging forgiveness and swearing he is off hookers and cocaine for life...until the following week. It made Sarah Palin’s comment that she knows about Russia coz she can see it from Alaska look positively electrifyingly brilliant. Prince Andrew’s performance was a televisual feast of what not to do. No sympathy for victims, laughable excuses for staying in Epstein’s house for five days, just to tell him their friendship is over, that our hero can’t sweat from a condition from being shot at in the Falklands War, he never noticed girls running about any of Epstein’s houses because he never notices staff. The problem is he is just so honourable! Andrew has managed to take what was a bubbling under story into being front page news for five days worldwide. 6% of viewers believed him! He has lost a ton of sponsors to his charities, asked to not be Patron anymore to others and as I write agreed to step back from Public Life for the time being. Furthermore, he has pushed the FBI closer to feeling his collar, all because his self belief rode roughshod over other people’s advice. His actual defence is his arrogance and self belief mixed with a confidence he can wing an interview against a real pro. Prince Andrew is his own perfect storm. An IQ rating the same number as his shoe size but thinks he is the smartest man in the room All the on screen charm of a traffic warden with halitosis and as pompous as a Maitre D in an overpriced restaurant Non-existent sympathy for Epstein’s real victims. Indeed he is trying to make himself the victim! I suspect when Prince Charles eventually takes over, a ten year posting to Tristan de Cunha (a remote British atoll in the South Atlantic) will be next on Andrew’s CV.
Where there’s a will, there’s a... relative
Why...
Did God invent money? To keep you in touch with your children.
It’s a sad truth that money trumps politics, religion or sexual orientation as the biggest buster-upper of families.
Here I stick my hand up and admit in my own family if mention is made of wills and inheritance it’s like nails down a blackboard.
Before we get personal, let me start with the tax logic... or utter lack of it. If you’ve had your nose to the grindstone, worked hard and paid your taxes, why do you get taxed again gifting it to whomever you please. Now I know in the UK there is a daft provision that if you live for seven years after the bequeath then what you bequeath is tax free. But why? What cockamamie logic is that?
When you are on the last lap of the race of life and you need money to look after yourself and lessen the burden to others... sorry, you must give it all away to lessen the inheritance tax bill. Either you live in poverty in your last years or rely on those you gave your money too will look after you. Either has the potential for disaster.
Next. The taxman's beady little eyes are more shortsighted than a mole. They value an Estate at time of death, not at the grant of probate. Mad. Let me give a simple example. Let’s say you sadly popped your clogs before the crash of 2007 when stocks were high but your wife who achieves probate afterwards when stocks were often more than halved; she would find there was very little left after the taxman had his Jaws like bite.
Then there is probate itself. Legal constipation at its finest. Even simple probate takes a year and more complex ones taking up to five times that.
Once you have got through all this... the legal challenge. A minefield and the explosive device upon which many a family have trodden and blown themselves to smithereens.
I want to determine Government Policy... right after I’ve tidied my room and finished my homework
Why...
Should a 16 year-old get the right to vote? Winston Churchill once said the biggest argument against democracy is to hold a five minute conversation with a voter. God knows what he would have said if confronted with an acne-infested child whose only experience of voting is on Big Brother or X factor! There is good reason to keep the vote at 18. It’s called maturity and experience. The same reason in the UK you have to be 18 to:
- Buy cigarettes, rolling tobacco and cigarette papers
- Buy alcoholic drinks in a pub or a bar
- Buy fireworks
- View, rent or buy an 18 rated film
- View, rent or buy pornographic material that does not contravene UK obscenity laws
- Place a bet in a betting shop or casino
- Get a tattoo
- Join the Army and fight in conflict
- Drive a car
- Fly a plane
No, it’s not an illness nor a condition... it’s lack of self-control
Why...
Is everything bad that happens to young people not their fault or beyond their control? However, if anything good happens, especially by blind stupid luck (yes, you lottery winners & Love Island/ Big Brother) it is all down to destiny and a well-deserved reward from society ‘for being me’... especially if I am lazy and lack a nanogramme of skill. We have created a generation that is obsessed with the self and values just existing as a reason to enjoy rewards, regardless of any talent (a bit like the succession in the monarchy....). When growing up, my generation wanted to have a talent to allow us to be an astronaut, athlete, Rock God, movie icon, Wall Street Titan or porn star. Ambition was about having talent. A recent survey showed that the most popular ambition now is to be a reality TV star; i.e. not bother with learning to fly, run, play an instrument, sing, act, count or keep a hard on for a day! Basically, you just permanently shop, make vacuous statements and put your name to a line of cosmetics to get paid buckets of money. If you have butt cheeks between which you could park a Harley Davidson, even better.
Sorry. Your toddler ain’t Einstein
Why...
I understand no parent is going to say to their friends that “My child is as thick as a whale omelette”………… But when pointing to their offspring gurgling “car” while pointing at the family pet, why do parents always say “Isn’t he lovely? But did you know little Tommy is very advanced for his age…….” Just because your nipper can insert a spoon of apple puree into his mouth instead of an ear, does not necessarily mark him out as a future brain surgeon. There is a long way to go from sitting in your own pooh to sitting in your own Porsche.
Cover up! ...My wife, the sunscreen Nazi
Why...
Does my wife insist I face the summer’s rays, either fully covered up or looking like an animated meringue… a white blob completely covered in cream? As I watch Sky News today from Malta, I see the UK is nudging 40c (104 Fahrenheit). My fellow countrymen are slowly melting whilst watching their new Prime Minister inflict verbal assault and battery on the Leader of the Opposition in his first Prime Minister’s Question Time. I note none of the MP’s gathered are smothered in sun cream despite it being hotter than Beelzibub’s underpants. Clearly their wives have never met mine.
If you don’t want to do it, screw up badly ... once
Why...
Do people moan about doing things they hate? Don’t like washing up? Drop a few tea-cups or leave a couple of cornflakes welded to a plate. Hate spring cleaning? Dribble drops of eggshell enamel onto the dog’s head. My father, when asked to change his first nappy (and they were toweling ones back in the day) gagged at the smell then promptly flushed waste and nappy down the loo. He blocked the drains for an entire apartment block and was forbidden from ever changing my diapers again. Result! At school I found playing cricket matches a waste of four sunny afternoon hours. Dragooned into playing against another school because I was a half decent bowler, I swapped the ball for a tomato. Splat! Cricket whites covered in red spots. I was called to the housemaster, told I was a disgrace to the school and as punishment I would never be allowed to play cricket again. It took the acting skills of De Niro to look thoroughly upset, rather than punch the air for joy.
Big brother is watching... while serving you bacon and eggs
Why...
Do I get paranoid about waiters who hover and watch over me?
We have just returned from an exercise in fear that my wife called a holiday in Nepal. Somewhere around 50 years old I turned from someone happy to do a handstand on the top of the 50 metre/160 ft high Roman Aqueduct The Pont du Gard to becoming afraid of heights. When I was in my twenties, before a litany of accidents, I was scared of nothing. Fall off a horse a few times and suddenly it gets harder to get back in that saddle. Therefore the knocks and bangs from reckless adventuring in my life has annoyingly driven fear through experience into my psyche. The self preservation instinct has turned me from Leo the Lion into The Cowardly Lion.
Nevertheless I was always told to face down your fears... so not to be outdone by my fearless (and younger) wife, I gritted my teeth through a helicopter ride across Annapurna range and a plane ride to Mount Everest! Added to this was a jump off Mount Annapurna in a hang glider and a trip on the world’s fastest (120KPH 80 MPH) and longest (2km 1.2mile) zip line. Toss into that an encounter with several rhinos and a tiger... all without having to change my underpants.
My wife on the other hand thought all this a hoot and in every photo is seen grinning like Jack Nicholson in One flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest while I had the fixed manic smile when Jack played the Joker in Batman. I have tried to explain to her to make the most of it as soon, she too will be grabbed by old age jitters.
Eat drink and be merry ... for tomorrow you can diet!
Why...
Is every avenue of pleasure depicted as a path to Armageddon? This time of the year I must admit I cram too much food and drink into my stomach, but does this really mean the grim reaper will be sharpening his scythe? Christmas overindulgence needs to be balanced with a feeling of wellbeing, a grudging love of fellow man and slipping a few extra £,$,€ into the collection box. But happiness is not a terminal disease. Nevertheless, TV presenters wearing Elf ears or Santa hats, give out dire warnings of all the drawbacks to the holiday season. Frankly if I live a couple of years longer without ever having eaten a chocolate eclair or enjoyed (in my bachelor days) a memorable Christmas Eve in Manila in the warm embrace of a pair of Air Stewardesses and some wakky baccy, I think I would have missed out. As Hunter S. Thompson said, “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”