I recently had the pleasure of enjoying a drink with two of the good guys from work. The drink was originally offered to all in sundry that work on the team but it was rudely rejected by most and those that remained, feared the potentially good night that was planned. That diminished the numbers to just D and me.
Whilst sounding out another colleague about his plans for that evening, he very graciously picked up on my thinly veiled plead and invited D and myself along to his plans. It therefore resulted in the trio of D, T and I guzzling our way through countless pints of Pride and entertaining many varied subjects of conversation.
It should be noted that many of the topics that are discussed at a time of complete intoxication, when the bar seems suitable to support your now slouched frame and the simple becomes the nigh on impossible, are usually important and pristine visions of a possible future for all man kind.
And then at other times the absurdly ridiculous becomes a point of fascination.
This occasion swung more wildly and more heavily towards the second of these two types of dialogue. I am not certain who first introduced the following subject and even if my beer quaffing blurred brain could recall whom it was I don’t feel it would be appropriate to repeat it in their absence.
The concluding line of an amusing anecdote told by one of us ended with the words “and the fingers on one of his hands was shorter than the other!”At which point D offered the following small nugget of random trivia “You know Jeremy Beadle’s only got half a hand. I mean he’s got stumpy fingers on one hand.” Both T and I agreed this was something we had noticed when he was still a popular entity on television many moons ago.
It was at this point that the conversation became slightly confused, due mainly to two factors. T’s partner, L, approached so he began to talk with her and secondly D was already sh1t faced so the conversation so far had been a minor miracle.
I still felt I had something to add to the subject of“freaky small handedness” so I offered the small utterance of “You know D, Chris Tarrant has a Beadlehand as well.” D turned to me in his drunken stupour, “Really?!”“Oh yes“, said I, “have you not noticed how he always used to sort of sit on one of his hands while he did W.W.T.B.A.Millionaire.”
“No, no I hadn’t. Really?!”
“Ask T, he’s a man of the world, he would probably know.”
“Hang on," said D. "Are you having me on?”
“No not at all, ask T”
“No, wait a minute, you are having me on. Is L’s last name Tarrant.”(A mental leap which I assume was obvious to D at the time.)
“What? No, just ask him.”
And so with a mildly humorous inevitability D turned to T and L, interrupted their conversation and asked
“L-is-your-last-name-Tarrant?”
L, “Err no.”
D towards T “T, did you know Chris Tarrant had a Beadle hand?”
I could do nothing more than stand behind D furiously crying with laughter as T shot me a bemused look as he tried to fathom what direction the conversation had taken since his presence in it moments before.
“He. Tarrant. What the? Milky what did you tell him?”
I shared my knowledge of Mr Tarrant’s limbs with T to which he replied “Really, I hadn’t noticed.” (he’s a little more trusting and less dramatic than D). I then pushed the boat out with my big finish of “And Tony Head, the actor who plays the Prime Minister in Little Britain has a Beadle hand as well.”
“The Prime Minister?” echoed D.
“Yep.”
“Really?! I’ll have to watch that again now.”
The whole night consisted of numerous conversations between the three of us which all essentially sounded like this. It was a good evening despite the lack lustre turn-out which D and T more than made up for.
I also seem to remember that the Live band were extremely good, if you’re ever in Twickenham on a Friday night and fancy listening to a decent guitar band playing songs by The Killers, ‘Phonics, U2, Kaiser Chiefs and the like, then set your sites towards the Twickenham Tup.
I enjoyed it and you just might.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
I do read more than the comics, honest!
An enjoyable article from The Times on 31/10/05 by Anjana Ahuja
RAZZA, a Norwegian brown rat, did not waste a moment of freedom. Released by scientists testing rat-catching techniques on an uninhabited New Zealand island, he went on the run for ten weeks, dodging poisoned peanut butter, tainted chocolate and tracker dogs. This is despite wearing a radio transmitter, whose battery eventually expired.
Compelled by the seasonal urge to find a mate, Razza then paddled 400 metres across to another uninhabited island, thereby accomplishing the longest recorded swim by a rat. Researchers, unaware of Razza’s epic voyage, were tipped off that birds on a neighbouring island were behaving strangely; DNA tests on rat droppings proved that Razza was in town. The creature still evaded capture for eight weeks. “We were tearing our hair out at times trying to find this animal, ” admitted Mick Clout, the Auckland University ecologist who put Razza on the loose.
Razza, Nature reports, was finally done for when he fell for a bait of poisoned penguin meat. The researchers have released another, it is hoped less intrepid, male rat in a rerun of the experiment.
RAZZA, a Norwegian brown rat, did not waste a moment of freedom. Released by scientists testing rat-catching techniques on an uninhabited New Zealand island, he went on the run for ten weeks, dodging poisoned peanut butter, tainted chocolate and tracker dogs. This is despite wearing a radio transmitter, whose battery eventually expired.
Compelled by the seasonal urge to find a mate, Razza then paddled 400 metres across to another uninhabited island, thereby accomplishing the longest recorded swim by a rat. Researchers, unaware of Razza’s epic voyage, were tipped off that birds on a neighbouring island were behaving strangely; DNA tests on rat droppings proved that Razza was in town. The creature still evaded capture for eight weeks. “We were tearing our hair out at times trying to find this animal, ” admitted Mick Clout, the Auckland University ecologist who put Razza on the loose.
Razza, Nature reports, was finally done for when he fell for a bait of poisoned penguin meat. The researchers have released another, it is hoped less intrepid, male rat in a rerun of the experiment.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Par for the Course
After being horrifically tortured for roughly seven and a half weeks I was convinced that it would be a grand idea to build on my pitiful skills base at work.
I have always enjoyed the officer safety lessons which are essentially regular police self defence classes (goodness knows I need them). And since finishing my most recent instalment I pondered the idea of becoming an instructor myself, just like Big V, one of my colleagues on team.
I sent a preliminary request via an sms message to one of the training unit constables whom I have always had good banter with. This banter, I should point out is particularly one sided as I call him "Rookie" in spite of his many years in the job and I will often complete my training feedback sheet with a short love note to him. I'm certain he wouldn't mind the latter if it weren't for the fact that head office like to regularly dip sample these feedback reports to find out how training is received on each borough. Only to discover that the words "Rookie your the best I've ever had, truly an inspiration to us all" scrawled across the bottom of the page, all contained within an arrow shot heart.
The long and short of my request?
It emerged that my enquiry was a week too slow and the course had already been given to someone else.
I digress.
Where was I, arr yes. Having had my fingers slammed in car doors and after listening to Barbara Streisand - The Best Of, I was ready to sign on the dotted line for whatever course paperwork was thrust upon me.
Fortunately for me I was drafted onto a response driving course.
For main stream uniformed police officers there are three levels of experience for drivers -
Basic - I'm new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast.
Response - I'm not as new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but look at my pretty blue light.
Advanced - I've been in the job longer than you've been alive, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but I'm in a BMW and don't care.
Gone to the dogs
The driving school I was fortunate enough to attend was based in a dog training school. There ensued countless hours of “aaaww, look at the cutesy wutesy l’ickle puppy.” This wasn’t well received by the dog handlers who were attempting to train them into highly skilled bottom biting tools (despite their small fluffy pet appearance).
Whilst there, I experienced what turned out to be a physically and mentally exhausting but otherwise thoroughly enjoyable course.
Almost all of the driving is taught in covert cars so that the drives you do are more demanding on your driving safely because other motorists have greater difficulty in sighting you as you approach a roundabout on the wrong side of the road at 70mph.
Highlights?
There were two distinct moments that stand out on the course.
The experience of driving down the motorway topping 130mph when we spied a local police car floating along in the inside lane. Rather than doing the expected and slowing down, our instructor said “it’s alright lads, keep your foot buried” Then as we shot past, the instructor gave the police car a nod and a wave and on we continued.
The other is quite possibly the closest I’ve come to death in a car.
During our return journey from Portsmouth one day, we were driving as taught, at high but controlled speeds. It was one of the guys first drive in an automatic (something we all had to do whilst on the course). He shall remain nameless to protect his crime fighting identity but needless to say he wasn't the type of personality I really got on with.
We were headed along national speed limit roads reading the twists and turns via use of everyday signs we had been shown. Some learnt to read these better than others. The last comment I remember from our instructor was "use your peripheral vision guys" as all four of us glanced to our left across a field. Due to the open ground we were afforded the benefit of being able to see all the way across to where the road was. Therefore providing us with valuable knowledge about where we were going, oncoming traffic, road conditions etc.
It was at this point I distinctly remember looking ahead again and thinking that we were going a bit fast for the approaching bend. It then dawned on all in the car that we were indeed going to quick to make the corner. Despite the drivers best efforts we rounded the corner with excess speed. Our car was unable to cope with the speed and severity of the bend so as we rounded the corner we crossed the central line, went head on with an oncoming car before continuing to jitter across the tarmac before launching off the road down a 6’ drop into a unkempt field.
There we sat dazed and amazed by our experience for a few moments before exiting the car to survey the final resting place of what once was our transport home.
It wasn't well, and now had what looked like a Hawaiian skirt where the lower section of the bumper used to be.
In all the whole incident isn't one I wish to repeat in any hurry.
Back to Borough
Upon returning to my locality of work I was met with the usual jibes of “the courses really must be getting easier if you passed” and “they’ll let just about anyone drive these days.”
My revenge?
The fact that every one of them will, at some point, have to sit in the passenger seat when I drive to an emergency call.
I have always enjoyed the officer safety lessons which are essentially regular police self defence classes (goodness knows I need them). And since finishing my most recent instalment I pondered the idea of becoming an instructor myself, just like Big V, one of my colleagues on team.
I sent a preliminary request via an sms message to one of the training unit constables whom I have always had good banter with. This banter, I should point out is particularly one sided as I call him "Rookie" in spite of his many years in the job and I will often complete my training feedback sheet with a short love note to him. I'm certain he wouldn't mind the latter if it weren't for the fact that head office like to regularly dip sample these feedback reports to find out how training is received on each borough. Only to discover that the words "Rookie your the best I've ever had, truly an inspiration to us all" scrawled across the bottom of the page, all contained within an arrow shot heart.
The long and short of my request?
It emerged that my enquiry was a week too slow and the course had already been given to someone else.
I digress.
Where was I, arr yes. Having had my fingers slammed in car doors and after listening to Barbara Streisand - The Best Of, I was ready to sign on the dotted line for whatever course paperwork was thrust upon me.
Fortunately for me I was drafted onto a response driving course.
For main stream uniformed police officers there are three levels of experience for drivers -
Basic - I'm new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast.
Response - I'm not as new, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but look at my pretty blue light.
Advanced - I've been in the job longer than you've been alive, my driving isn't up to much and it's far too fast but I'm in a BMW and don't care.
Gone to the dogs
The driving school I was fortunate enough to attend was based in a dog training school. There ensued countless hours of “aaaww, look at the cutesy wutesy l’ickle puppy.” This wasn’t well received by the dog handlers who were attempting to train them into highly skilled bottom biting tools (despite their small fluffy pet appearance).
Whilst there, I experienced what turned out to be a physically and mentally exhausting but otherwise thoroughly enjoyable course.
Almost all of the driving is taught in covert cars so that the drives you do are more demanding on your driving safely because other motorists have greater difficulty in sighting you as you approach a roundabout on the wrong side of the road at 70mph.
Highlights?
There were two distinct moments that stand out on the course.
The experience of driving down the motorway topping 130mph when we spied a local police car floating along in the inside lane. Rather than doing the expected and slowing down, our instructor said “it’s alright lads, keep your foot buried” Then as we shot past, the instructor gave the police car a nod and a wave and on we continued.
The other is quite possibly the closest I’ve come to death in a car.
During our return journey from Portsmouth one day, we were driving as taught, at high but controlled speeds. It was one of the guys first drive in an automatic (something we all had to do whilst on the course). He shall remain nameless to protect his crime fighting identity but needless to say he wasn't the type of personality I really got on with.
We were headed along national speed limit roads reading the twists and turns via use of everyday signs we had been shown. Some learnt to read these better than others. The last comment I remember from our instructor was "use your peripheral vision guys" as all four of us glanced to our left across a field. Due to the open ground we were afforded the benefit of being able to see all the way across to where the road was. Therefore providing us with valuable knowledge about where we were going, oncoming traffic, road conditions etc.
It was at this point I distinctly remember looking ahead again and thinking that we were going a bit fast for the approaching bend. It then dawned on all in the car that we were indeed going to quick to make the corner. Despite the drivers best efforts we rounded the corner with excess speed. Our car was unable to cope with the speed and severity of the bend so as we rounded the corner we crossed the central line, went head on with an oncoming car before continuing to jitter across the tarmac before launching off the road down a 6’ drop into a unkempt field.
There we sat dazed and amazed by our experience for a few moments before exiting the car to survey the final resting place of what once was our transport home.
It wasn't well, and now had what looked like a Hawaiian skirt where the lower section of the bumper used to be.
In all the whole incident isn't one I wish to repeat in any hurry.
Back to Borough
Upon returning to my locality of work I was met with the usual jibes of “the courses really must be getting easier if you passed” and “they’ll let just about anyone drive these days.”
My revenge?
The fact that every one of them will, at some point, have to sit in the passenger seat when I drive to an emergency call.
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