The things old people say

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Lunch today was with my grandmother in the communal dining room at the Home for Aged Retired Empire Matriarchs. During the starter course I was surprised to think I heard a particular phrase drift over from the gaggle of little old ladies on the next table.

“Did that old lady just say something about exposed canine genitalia?” I asked my mother.

“Maybe,” she replied. We listened carefully. A few moments later, there it was again. It rhymes with bogs rowlocks.

“Yes, she did,” she confirmed.

Forensic analysis of what we could hear suggests the lady was talking about QI and Stephen Fry’s explanation of where the term comes from. I think I could have guessed. I mean, if you’ve ever seen a dog that hasn’t been Done then the reason stands out like … well, something very standing out.

But, even so. The standard of little old lady that you get today is just shocking.

Shortly after we heard a conversation starting “Of course, when my husband was at HQ UKLF …” and we felt we were back on familiar ground.

When her husband was at HQ UKLF, I wonder if he was positively vetted?

Gruesome twosome

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Loath as I am – and it’s very, very loath – to defend Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross, my inner liberal forces me to consider all sides of the argument. To wit:

  • the offending broadcast went out on a late night show when 2.5 people were listening. Those 2.5, being presumably regular Brand listeners, knew exactly the kind of thing they were likely to be hearing and so their protests can be taken about as seriously as those who watched the sex on Teen Big Brother frame-by-frame before firing off letters of outrage to Channel 4.
  • the aggrieved granddaughter belongs to a group called Satanic Sluts, which rather ups the stakes in trying to prove despoiled innocence.
  • the show was pre-recorded, so while Ross and Brand were doing exactly what everyone expected of them – going for the lowest common humour denominator rather than use their genuine talent to do something clever and original – somewhere there is a producer or editor whose good judgement failed quite catastrophically.
On the other hand, two overpaid twonks are off the air. Result.
And now the politicians are jumping on the bandwagon. Oh dear. Don’t they have better things to do, like restore trust in the banking system that underpins the fabric of our existence? Of course, if the offending twosome are to be truly and utterly screwed it just needs Gordon and/or David to express complete faith in them and promise their full support. That’s always the kiss of death to any political career.
I’m also delighted that the granddaughter is called Georgina Baillie as it gives me the chance to play this. Seventies cheesefest or francophobe paean to adolescent incestuous longings? You decide.

The martyrdom of St Benjamin

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I’ve decided I have a martyr complex, and I know exactly where it came from. Ten years of stiff upper lip public school education.

Another legacy of public school is hating to travel away from my loved ones. For some reason Woking station after dark always comes to mind, probably because that was where – only a couple of times, but obviously it marked me – I would return to school at the end of a half term break with my grandmother, while my parents were abroad.

Thus, on those occasions as an adult when I still have to travel away from my loved ones the martyr complex kicks in with a whoop of glee. Really heavy duty misery ahead, whoopee! Like, yesterday I had to travel down to Brighton for various meetings this morning. I decided I would head off from work early (4ish), suffer the periphery of the rush hour on the M25 and be bored and lonely all evening.

Result: I was miserable right from saying goodbye to Best Beloved in the morning and for the rest of the day, until finally it dawned on me (thanks to a sane colleague) that I didn’t have to do it quite like that. I could go home, have dinner, leave 7ish with rush hour out of the way, get to Brighton, turn right in, not have time to be lonely and do my stuff this morning as planned. The madness is over! The martyr complex is identified and told to go stuff itself!

And so that is what I did. Plus most of the drive was on empty motorways after dark, which I actually quite enjoy. It makes me fell very Vangelis-y.

Bonusbarn comments that I don’t have a martyr complex, I just need to develop common sense in certain areas of my life. I cunningly riposte that it’s much the same thing, really. Still, I have gained a little in self-knowledge and that’s always the first step in self-rectification.