Oh, well. Nearly made it through a whole day without blogging but then I found this little jokelet which I thought I'd share.

A lawyer married a woman who had previously divorced ten husbands. On their wedding night, she told her new husband, "Please be gentle, I'm still a virgin." "What?" said the puzzled groom. "How can that be if you've been married ten times?"

"Well, husband #1 was a sales representative. He kept telling me how great it was going to be.

Husband #2 was in software services. He was never really sure how it was supposed to function, but he said he'd look into it and get back to me.

Husband #3 was from field services. He said everything checked out diagnostically but he just couldn't get the system up.

Husband #4 was in telemarketing. Even though he knew he had the order, he didn't know when he would be able to deliver."

"Husband #5 was an engineer. He understood the basic process but wanted three years to research, implement, and design a new state-of-the-art method.

Husband #6 was from finance and administration. He thought he knew how, but he wasn't sure whether it was his job or not.

Husband #7 was in marketing. Although he had a nice product, he was never sure how to position it."

"Husband #8 was a psychologist. All he ever did was talk about it.

Husband #9 was a gynecologist. All he did was look at it.

Husband #10 was a stamp collector. All he ever did was... God! I miss him!

But now that I've married you, I'm really excited!"
"Good," said the new husband, "but, why?" "You're a lawyer. This time I know I'm gonna get screwed!"

Oh, yeah. Nearly forgot. No.4. Just say no!

Right then, before I forget, here is my all time favourite FFC for Webbo...No.3.

Forgive me if my prose is a trifle jaded today but I was up all night. Not through choice, unfortunately, but with an incredible pain where my skull joins the spine and which intensifies to an excruciating degree whenever I assume a horizontal position. Imagine the worst hangover you've ever had, multiply it by the number you first thought of and you will still have no idea. I'm stuffed to the gills with muscle relaxants and prescription painkillers whose mg count is into 4 figures and the biggest decision I will be faced with today is whether or not to ensure all my affairs are in order and add alcohol to the mix.

Anyway, it did give me an opportunity of catching up with posts on the various SUFC message boards and I was pleasantly surprised to see that the spirit of "Bah! Humbug!" is as alive and well on Viewpoints as it ever was. Images of London Blades taking out neon illuminations with a wide selection of firearms sit rather easily with my own idea of what the christmas spirit should be about. Anarchy and bacchanalia run rampant. "Squeezing Sponges over Policemen's Heads" would be an appropriate soundtrack to this but I digress.

If you think you've got it bad over there in the Old Country, and you undoubtedly have, spare a thought for us poor buggers over here in Central (German influenced) Europe who, at this time of year get hit with a double whammy. Okay, I might be one of the few Englishmen who can get through an entire Yuletide without having their senses assaulted by Slade upon entering any High Street Emporium or hostelry, and I seem to recall some appalling and interminable Woolworths ads as well, but I will have to go through the whole shang-a-lang on two separate occasions. Two times. Twice.

It's this whole Father Winter bit you see. Now, without wanting to bore your bottoms off with too much detail, what we call christmas was originally, like easter, a pagan shebang at which our pre-christian forebears would shuck off their skins and engage in a bacchanalian bonk-fest to celebrate (get that...CELEBRATE!) mid-winter. You know, a from here on in it's a downhill ride to spring kinda thing.

There now follows the only bit of Kan conjecture in this entire narrative. Now, if we accept that the tradition of the May Queen is also a hangover from the pagan rites of celebrating fertility and renewal round about easter time, it doesn't take too great a leap of faith to imagine a Father Winter type character figuring in their winter whoop-de-do.

And then what? Back on solid ground now. Along come the first christian missionaries and did what christian missionaries have always done. Seen what fun the natives were having getting down to the serious business of celebrating the cycles of life and started figuring out how to put a stop to it. Running parallel to this abhorrence of all things involving heat (notice that christ imagery is always light...no warmth) was an intense and scheming desire to implant their own religion, a dry, arid, eastern, desert religion amongst the fertile forests and rampant greenery of Europe.

And what better way to do this than to suborn the pagan festivals into christian ones? Now, I'm sure the Romans obviously just stumbled across an empire stretching all the way up to Hadrian's wall without a bureaucracy capable of the intellectual leap required to realise that the middle of winter might not be the best time to hold their census, and seeing as all archaeological evidence points to it being in the summer months, hey...what the hell? Christ's birthday...job's a good 'un.

And, the worst cut of all. One of the old pagan deities was a nature god who lives on in the English language as Robin Goodfellow, the Old Man of the Woods and even in pub names such as the Green Man. Thing was, he traditionally was a kind of Pan type figure, part human and part horny old goat and what did the bastards do to him? Only turn him into the horned, tailed and cloven hooved popular image of the devil is all.

And just in case you are still harbouring doubts as to the verity of all this, just consider easter. If you can show me the christian connection to any of the following, I might just listen to your arguments. Painted eggs, rabbits, phallic maypoles and the central European practice of the men and boys of a community sprinkling perfumed water on the women and girls whilst reciting such obviously pious rhymes as...

Red eggs, blue eggs
I've also got two eggs
Up with your skirt
Down with your pants
I'd like to sprinkle your rabbit

and receiving brightly coloured eggs and a shot of palinka in return.

And to judge just how successful they were in all this, just try popping down to your local library and try researching your pre-christian heritage and see how far you get. Druids? Don't make me laugh. Bit o' pansy dancing and new age mumbo jumbo around stone circles at summer solstice does not an unbroken pagan tradition make.

Anyway, to return to the Father Winter character. Well, he was transformed into St Niclaus amongst the germanic tribes and was probably imported into England by that fount of our present genetically challenged royal family, Prince Albert, as St Nicholas, Santa Claus or Father Christmas.

And herein lies the double whammy. In Germany and here in Hungary, Mikulas has his own day, the 6th of December and it is on the evening of the fifth that Father Christmas shins down the chimney to give the children their first lesson in the triumph of hope over experience.

The birth of christ however is celebrated on the evening of the 24th when children are suckered out of the house, one parent mysteriously disappears and the kids return to a decorated tree under which are presents the delivery of which was, and get this, the responsibility of the baby Jesus.

So, take whatever it is you are experiencing at the present time and imagine having to go through it all again three weeks later. You've never 'ad it so good!

Anyway, even if we accept that the christians acted in good faith, then exactly what is left of their festival today? A spiritual reflection on the meaning of the birth of a man in whom the one true god supposedly paid us the ultimate compliment of finding out exactly what it is to be human and suffer the same shit as the rest of us and who taught us to love our neighbour...?

The amount of spirituality we are prepared to dish out is calculated to a nicety bordering on the scientific...20 quids' worth for Uncle Tommy, 16 for Auntie Glad and what can we get ferra fiver for second cousin Edward twice removed? Cant, hypocrisy and more than a whiff of mendacity in the air, wouldn't you agree?

It's all heading towards where the americans have already gone. The family holiday route. Family...family values...Victoria...Margaret bloody Thatcher...god save us from family values! Fratricide, matricide, wife-beating and incest have, to my knowledge, never taken place outside a family environment and most cases of children being battered tend to happen within one as well. There is nothing quite like a family for inspiring and nurturing feelings of jealousy, spitefulness, vindictiveness and just plain nastiness. And it all takes place behind closed doors, away from prying eyes and when it does eventually explode we get the "Oooh! And he seemed such a nice man!" and "She brought it all on herself, you know...the little baggage." Family values? I've shat 'em.

"Bah! Humbug!" to christmas. Mind you, if there's any o' that mulled wine or hot toddy goin' spare, I'll join you in raising a glass or few to the memory of the Green Man. I'm sure Bacchus would grant his full approval.

And, as a postscript, I've just dredged this little anecdote out of my archives and feel it would be rather appropriate to include it here in full.

"There is a story that St Augustine persuaded an English king to turn Christian when sitting with him in a great hall having a Christmas feast - it wouldn't have been called a Christmas feast, it would have been called a Yuletide wassail, I expect - it was a big winter do, that's the point. As was common in those days before Magnet and Southern sliding patio doors, the party was going with a swing. A great fire crackled in the log, a great log crackled in the fire, and a log fire crackled in the grate. All was glee and revel. The only ventilation provided took the form of two holes high up on either end of the roof.

Of a sudden, or 'suddenly' as we say in England, a bird flew in through one of the holes in the wall, fluttered about for a bit and flew out through the other. The King, we shall call him Boddlerick, because I have no intention of hauling my great corse up the stairs to look it up, who was accounted something of a philosopher, turned to Augustine, his strangely berobed and behaloed guest, and said unto him these words, in this wise: 'Behold, strangely berobed and behaloed guest! Is not our life like that of this poor bird. From the dark and howling void we came, cast suddenly into a world of colour and warmth and light, of music and mirth and merriment, briefly to flutter our baffled wings in alarm, only to be pitched back into the eternal cold and dark again?'

A good analogy, you'd have thought. Worthy of Jonathan Miller himself. But Augustine was having none of it. 'No, no, sire, majesty, liege,' he countered, 'you have it entirely the wrong way round. Our lives are dark passages in the stream of light that is God's love. To those who know God, through the window is paradise.'

Instead of telling Augustine not to be such a silly old ninny and to get another skinful of rude mead and another eyeful of rude dancer, this fat-headed king liked what he heard and fell bell, book and candle for the whole funky Christian groove thing. This country and its Christmasses have been damned ever since. Because, from that wretched day on, the world and its colour and music and light are things which we have had to write crawling thank-you letters to God for until we die. As little children sprawled before the lap of Father Christmas Almighty we cannot even enjoy the gifts of the world without guilt, shame, terror and gibbering gratitude.

So bog off St Gussie and roll on Boddlerick, say I. It's cold and dark and loveless outside, and this is as good as it ever gets. So let's feed the poor now, because their reward is NOT in heaven, let's drop ash on the carpet, slob around in our dressing gowns, mull wine all day long, watch television lying on our tummies, forget our thank-you letters to granny and God and have a ripping good time.

But let's not do it on Christmas day. Let's do it every damned day, for ever and ever Amen."

Thank-you, Stephen. I couldn't have said it better myself.

Those of you familiar with the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers will be able to imagine the planning that went into this anarchic, military manoeuvre.

And for those of you entirely unfamiliar with the work in question, I found these scripts but it was the standard of the drawing that always did it for me.

And as an incentive for Webbo to drop in from time to time, here is No. 1 of an occasional series concerning feline filosophy.

Closely followed by No. 2...I just couldn't resist it.

This talk of occasional series has put me in mind of another I would like to run as the fancy takes me...a list of pet hates. Now I don't mean anything that would have me screwing the silencer on the old .45 or reaching for the nearest blunt instrument to hand...nothing really winds me up to that extent...but rather those little niggly things that may cause your hackles to rise and generally introduce a feeling of irritability into an otherwise perfectly acceptable day. Anyway, in no particular order, I present the following.

Telemarketers.

I was woken up this morning at what was, for me, a rather ungodly hour by my mobile phone ringing. After struggling for a while to co-ordinate brain and fingers, I finally managed to press the right button and position said phone against ear. A rather bored sounding Hungarian woman introduced herself and bade me good morning. Now, I am never at my sharpest before at least three coffees and a cigarette or two so it took a while before my brain clicked into understanding rapid Hungarian mode. At this point, I realised that she was telling me something about my mobile phone number having been drawn at random and that if I would be so perspicacious as to take advantage of this wonderful..."Yeah, right. Thankyou for waking me up. Now, fuck off!" Suppose I should be grateful really. After all, it isn't every day you get to swear at complete strangers with total impunity, is it? Mind you, if my phone rings every hour on the hour tonight, I might just revise my opinion.

Ring tones.

Now, it may be the old conservative in me but Muzak of any kind does for me what fingernails scraped down a blackboard do for numerous other souls of my acqaint and to hear it coming from a phone is rather like hearing a butch Alsatian dog coming out with an effete miaow. The two do not belong together. A phone is a phone and should sound like a phone.
"But how will I know that it's my phone that's ringing, then?"
"Because it is on or about your person, you tit! Or if your auditory equipment leads you to believe that the sound is coming from the place you last deposited said phone, then you are at liberty to assume it just might be yours that is ringing. Do I make myself clear?"

Musical doorbells.

Pretty much as above really. Muzak again and the fact that doorbells seemed to more than adequately perform their function when they went ding-dong or buzzed. It doesn't help that I once lived in an apartment block the intercom doorbell of which would have me mentally reaching for the sledgehammer every time it produced a version of "Fur Elise" with its tinny electronic circuitry. Mind you, if I could find one that played "Fohat Digs Holes in Space" or "Itchy and Scratchy" at stomach pumping volume, I just might be persuaded to change my mind.

Chivas Regal.

A perfectly acceptable blended Scotch and one which does, in fact, use Laphroaig as its base note. But what really tees me off about this is that it has managed to somehow attach to itself an image of superiority by a mind-bendingly simple bit of reverse logic. Some guy had the wonderful idea that if they made it noticeably more expensive than other equally acceptable blends, Joe Public would automatically assume that it was of a much higher standard. I can't really hate them for the idea, I guess. What really beggars belief is that it has worked!

Txt spk.

"But it saves time!" is the cry. Yeah, right. For somebody with nothing better to do with their time than to send text messages, I can see how an extra 30 seconds or so might make a really important and vital contribution to their day. Besides, I harbour the vague suspicion that it affords them an opportunity to conceal the facts that their grasp of English spelling is tenuous at best and that, if brains were chocolate, they wouldn't have enough to fill a Smartie. The only text message that I would look upon with anything other than a sneer would be one promising "Gr8 sx l8er" and even then...

Drivers of Suzuki Swifts.

Chimps the lot of 'em. You could sell these here in Hungary without indicators or rear view mirrors and their owners would never even notice. Enough said.

Chihuahuas.

Or any other small dog that is usually carried by women of a certain age, bedecked in canine accessories and possessant of a most irritating yap. Upon confronting one of these abominations, I am seized with a curiosity to discover the distance in feet that I could kick it.

Avatars.

Now don't get me wrong. Forums and message boards are a fine and wonderful thing but as for avatars...The cause of a momentary snigger at best and a monumental distraction at worst. Rather like leaving a TV on in the corner of the room when you want to get down to some serious shaggin'. No matter the expertise of your partner, your eyes will always be drawn to it...until the short strokes of course, when they're probably clenched shut, wrinkled like sun-dried Italian tomatoes and part of a face the expression of which might possibly suggest to a casual observer that its owner is in the middle of a rather strenuous dump. Anyway, that's by the by. Avatars? No.

That bloody awful, diamond pattern Sheffield United shirt.

Still rankles even after all these years. The Blades play in red and white stripes. End of story.

Hungarian shop assistants.

These deserve and will no doubt one day have, a post all of their own. Until such time as I have stored enough bile and sufficient spleen to vent on this subject, I will confine myself to the following observation. Some two or three years ago, I had returned to England during the summer months and was in Tesco's, at the checkout to be precise. After being stuck behind a woman who seemed to be taken by surprise by the fact that she might possibly be expected to pay and was rummaging in her bag for her purse, it was suddenly my turn to check out my goods. The rather attractive young lady at the till fixed me with an open, bright smile, wished me a good afternoon and asked, "Do you need any help?" Well, so taken aback was I by this question that I found myself going through a quick mental checklist. Have I got my trousers on back to front? Did I remember to take the straightjacket off? How did I look in the mirror this morning? Are my ears haemorrhaging? You know, those kind of things. I blurted out something along the lines of "Er....um....I'm sorry...er...do I look...well, mentally subnormal or something?"
"Oh no, sir...help with your packing." It was then I realised that I had been living in Hungary for far too long.

Anyway, looking for something on which to work out my frustrations, I came upon this. It isn't every day you get to find out that you're a serial killer. Takes a while to load but I found it strangely invigorating. Then again, maybe I need therapy.

And thanks to this, which also might take a wee while to load, I have a whole new strategy for dealing with chihuahuas.

For all the thrills and spills of "Kill Bill" without the luscious cinematography, movie in-jokes and ham acting, click here.

Now this IS bad news. If it ever takes off here in Hungary, I'm going to have no credibility left at all.

And into the "this could be bad news but we'll withhold judgement till a later date" category, comes this little promotional offering from the Beeb.

And I suppose I should be happy to have got this far and still remain 37% pure!

And as this aims to be an inclusive endeavour here's one for you women.

For absolutely no reason whatsoever, I thought I'd have a musical introduction today. Just click the play button.


Having always been told by my elders and betters to follow their fine example, I have until now been rather successful in resisting these and other attempts to form, mould or otherwise trammel my character. If anyone tried to push me in one direction, I would head off immediately to the other point of the compass. This has proved to be pretty sound policy and even if I have ended up knee deep in the bisque on a few isolated occasions, I feel my life would have been much the poorer for not encountering them.

Upon reaching the age of 45, however, I feel it might be time to reassess my position. Purely in the nature of a social experiment you understand, and with myself as guinea pig, it would seem only fair, for once in my life, to follow the example of those who should know better.

To this end, I have decided to bomb McDonald's.

It seems that such a course of action should begin with a media campaign. Maybe Terminal Velocity can lend me his heavy metal glider for the day and I could do a leaflet drop over Nagykanizsa. The campaign should highlight the extent to which the company can ruthlessly dictate the diet our children should adhere to, its conscienceless propaganda targetted at such malleable young minds and the company's insistence on feeding an entire generation burgers of mass malnutrition.

Now I fully expect apologists for the corporation to argue that any changes to their policy should come from within or even be customer driven, but how a company which can come up with the menu item "McNuggets" is to be trusted to view their customers as being possessant of anything other than a smaller than average amount of cerebral matter is quite beyond my ability to explain.

I also predict that I shall be urged to consult the end users of the product, the customers themselves. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Why on Earth should they be bothered with such complicated nutritional matters when there is someone like me who has studied the problem from every conceivable angle, become convinced of the only possible solution and is prepared to carry it through no matter the cost? The very idea!

No. I shall simply reduce the Nagykanizsa branch of McDonald's to a pile of smouldering rubble and point to the resulting improvement in our children's diet as ample justification.

Anyway, for those who missed it first time round on Lampiao's blog, here it is again. A classic of the genre.

And for the precision vaulters among you, there's always this.

Well, the postcards have been coming in thick and fast all day, I even had one addressed to Amstelligidnad which I think was from the Readers' Digest mailing dept.

An E C from Maryland writes that communication between two individuals even from the same speech community is but a remote possibility as..."We are, still, at our base liars and spin artists because the communication comes from a brain wrapped in a psyche that seeks, first, self preservation. The moment we open our mouths, we are, therefore, doomed.

There is only one answer:

alcohol, sex, and laughter

generally speaking, in that order."

The moral of this story is...never offer to buy just one drink for Jessica.

A Brigadier J F-S (retd) offered the observation that the sooner "Johnny Foreigner learns to speak the Queen's English, blah...blah...blah..."

Several communications referred to my hovercraft being full of eels and I received numerous invitations to "come back to my place, bouncy-bouncy."

And I also had no idea that people who write in green ink could be so erudite despite their being rather overfond of words beginning with the voiceless bi-labial plosive...pompous, pretentious and piffle being three that regularly caught the eye.

And a B M from England tells me that seeing as how it was my choice to "piss off abroad after taking advantage of the numerous benefits our once proud country has to offer" I deserve everything I get. He's right of course, but not quite in the way he thinks he is.

It was my choice after all, but I don't think I've tried to make a virtue out of it. Strange how we do that sometimes, isn't it? To ascribe qualities and values to the choices we make to allow us to feel in some way superior to the rest of the common herd. One question that immediately springs to mind is, how many of the choices did I make myself and how many were in some way inevitable and another is to what extent do I allow myself to feel smug about them?

Even as a child I remember visiting other people's houses and being appalled that in their bathrooms there should be a different brand of toothpaste or disinfectant than the obviously superior varieties we used at home. The most generous feeling I could ever summon on these occasions was one of pity...forgive them, for they know not the error of their ways.

And then at school and our choice of second foreign language. There we all were, sitting in our German class feeling all progressive and radical compared to those hidebound reactionaries stuck in Latin.

And so it went, Mods or Rockers, Levi's or Wranglers, Stones or the Beatles, Puma or Adidas, at each stage defining ourselves with a precise discrimination as to where we fit and in all of our eyes, we were each of us at the apex, looking down with an ill-disguised disdain at all those unfortunate enough to have made the wrong choices.

And then I grew up and left such childish things behind...or did I?

Well, I'm not so sure. All that I think has changed is my ability to rationalise my choices, to reason my way to superiority. I don't think that my driving a VW Passat Variant (Diesel) makes me in any way a more admirable individual than those peasants in Vauxhalls but it does manifest itself in so many other ways. Let's take political affiliation as an example. Do I think that my being a socialist (even of the champagne variety) and believing in equality of opportunity makes me a better person than those of a bluer hue? Damn right I do. But is my justification for this any different than it was all those years ago when I was confronted with Izal instead of Domestos? I wonder.

Anyway, some choices are just so automatically superior to the alternative as to leave no room whatsoever for argument. I shall sleep soundly tonight in the sure and certain knowledge that I am in all ways a cloth of an altogether finer cut than at least 50% of the entire population of Sheffield. Up the Blades!

Tally ho!

Hello, good afternoon and welcome!

And what a fine, jolly day it's been so far. I actually woke up with a smile on my face this morning, the kind of smile which says "yes, I know it's Monday morning but even though the majority of the populace is heading for the workplace with a face as long as the time added on when your team is under constant pressure and clinging on to a narrow lead, this particular individual is under no contractual obligation whatsoever and will have the whole house to himself all day and yah boo, sucks to you kind of thing."

Or, in a word....smug.

Trouble is that on this kind of day it is always rather difficult to tear myself away from the routine of coffee, cigarettes and speed surfing and actually get on with something worthwhile which in my case (financial pressures being what they are) is usually a synonym for profitable.

It was with a huge effort of will, therefore, that I opened Word and called up one of the many translations that, my being of a reasonable proficiency in my native tongue, people see fit to remunerate me for the proof-reading thereof.

Now, one might imagine that this would involve the simple correction of spelling mistakes and the replacing of the occasional word or few. However, one is speedily disabused of such a notion when faced with such meaningless drivel as the following.

"...was founded on 1st May, 1951. From before the time of foundation, other public libraries of educational aims were known. However we can speak about public libraries only from 1951."

Yes, quite. And this from a professional translator with a State Certificate in English (Advanced Level) and a further qualification as a State Accredited Translator.

Now don't get me wrong, I have every respect for anyone who bravely attempts such a task but the whole enterprise is doomed to failure from the start. Languages do not differ from each other solely in the respect that we use two different sounding words for the same thing...in fact this is rarely the case. Take the word table for example. I could only translate this word into Hungarian as "asztal" if it meant a flat, approximately mid-thigh height, horizontal surface supported by four legs. A table of contents or to table a motion would require entirely different words or phrases.

On top of this, language represents the whole history and culture of a nation. To take the above example; to understand the problem faced by the translator, I have to realise that before 1951 the term for a library was kozkonyvtar and that post 1951 it was nyilvankonyvtar and that koz and nyilvan are both translatable as public. The difference for a Hungarian means something and yet in any other language it probably won't make any sense at all.

So...how to proceed? Bravely as it happens! Disregarding the sensibilities of the translator is a must. Paragraph by paragraph, I read the translation, sometimes referring to the original Hungarian, and then, forgetting the words the translator used but retaining the meaning, I have to ask myself how an English speaker would have conveyed the same message. The result often bears little relation to the original translation, often has extra sentences included and has, in the past, resulted in relations between myself and several translators of my acquaint becoming strained to say the very least. My solution to the above problem was a bit of a cop-out but perfectly servicable as I hope you will agree.

"...founded on 1st May 1951. Although other libraries with educational aims existed before this time, we can only really speak of public libraries in their present form from 1951."

It does, however, demonstrate my point in that although it scans pretty well now, it still does not contain all the information which was conveyed in the original Hungarian.

The more I become involved in this kind of work, the more I am convinced that it is truly impossible ever to communicate totally with anyone whose native language is different from one's own. Even within different speech communities who share the same language like the US and the UK, there are nuances and cultural references that are not shared and therefore, mitigate against a complete understanding of each other.

So, it would appear that the punishment meted out at Babel was a pretty severe one after all. No wonder Nations can have bi- and multi- lateral treaties and agreements the interpretation of which is later found to differ considerably between the signatories. Is there no hope? Can we ever find a shared expression of our common humanity? Answers on a postcard please to....

Anyway, talking of cultural differences, this might tickle your fancy. I know it did mine.

Or for those of you yearning for a simpler more innocent age you could always try this.

To those of you observant enough to have noticed the steady deterioration of yesterday's post and astute enough to ascribe it to the deleterious effects of Stella consumption, it will come as no surprise to learn that any contact I have with the world at the moment appears to be taking place through several layers of cotton wool. I am reminded of that line in "Fight Club" where Norton's character complains that everything is a copy of a copy of a copy and find myself in complete agreement with his sentiments.

As far as my brain is capable of anything even remotely resembling thought, its main preoccupation at the moment (apart from attempting to ensure that its owner doesn't make any sudden, jerky movements) is trying to figure out something about its own nature. I mean, it sees itself as an essentially reactionary organ, as capable of short bursts of creativity as it may be and as cursed with a propensity for occasionally attempting suicide by Stella as it undoubtedly is, it remains nevertheless entirely dependent on external stimuli to goad, provoke or cajole it into some kind of reaction.

The problem under present advisement and one which is causing its synapses to stutter into something approaching, but still an apallingly great distance from, normal activity is this. One would suppose that when faced with an identical set of stimuli on two separate occasions, its response to this would be the same in both instances and it is the apparent fallacy of this supposition that is currently causing its cogs and gears to do whatever it is cogs and gears do when trying to provide a solution to this type of conundrum.

Let me explain. Under normal conditions or with a following breeze this would be, for me, the work of but a moment. However, as the ground appears to be a trifle heavy this day and that any wind that is blowing is against me, I would advise those wishing to continue to kick off their shoes (Jessica excepted), pull up a comfy chair and pop one of those long lasting, sugary type confections across the enamel as this may take some time.

Last season, and I am not referring to the summer - rather to that which all followers of the beautiful game always refer to with a set of double digits, in this case the 02/03 season, circumstances were thus. The Blades were riding high in the Division One League table and most assuredly guaranteed a place in the play-offs. The study of this table, listening to the match commentaries and communing with fellow Blades in the chat room combined to create the stimuli upon which my brain could feed, cogitate and reflect. The result of these activities was an uncomfortable feeling of optimism. Those of you wondering why optimism should be so described are obviously not followers of the Red and White Wizards but I will trust in the abilities of your own thinking organs to provide you with some idea of the emotion I was feeling.

And nor was I alone. It seemed everybody was awash with the suds of optimism, the froth of hope and the lather of conviction that this would be our year. That this was all to be flushed away in a deluge of despair at Cardiff was then unknown to us all. We were every man jack (and woman jill) of us frantically trying to keep a lid on our expectations and yet at the same time, little whoops of joy would escape from our throats at the most inopportune moments whenever the reality of our league position would occur to us.

Now consider this. The Blades are currently in second position in the league and as seemingly assured of at least a place in the play-offs as they were last season, in other words, exactly the same conditions prevail. So why are my reactions so very different? Why do I think that every passing match takes us nearer to the moment when the wheels come off and everything goes pear shaped?

I guess that, unlike a second marriage which has been described as a triumph of hope over experience, a second successful season sees exactly the opposite result. My brain consults its memory banks, or at least those which alcohol hasn't erased, recalls the hurts of yesteryear and the self defence circuitry kicks in. But if this is indeed so, then why did it so conspicuously fail to so do last season? The Blades have, with a total unconcern bordering on the pathological, kicked me in the teeth so many times that one would have thought such circuitry to be in permanent use, so...why last season's blip?

Oh well. I suppose I should offer an apology to those who have travelled with me thus far only in the expectation of reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Or just maybe I have provided a reminder that life is seldom satisfactory and that it is always better to travel hopefully than to arrive.

Pip, pip!

 

In the beginning was the blog and the blog was...what, exactly? A perfectly adequate little nounlet, albeit contrived but an infant noun nevertheless, struggling rather awkwardly to its feet and heading off, at quite a rate of knots, for the nearest watering hole.

Suitably sustenanced, it returned at an even greater lick with an accompanying adjective, attached itself to an accommodating noun and the blogging community was born.

Now, the English language being what it is, that is totally in thrall to the American propensity for forcing perfectly innocent nouns to assume verb status, possibly at gunpoint and certainly with a charming insousiance (that's European for naivety, by the way), it did not take long for the perfectly innocent inquiry "What have you been up to?" to receive the answer "I've been blogging."

It just might be appropriate at this point to introduce you to the irregular verb theory of life which, when applied to blogging, runs something like this;

I blog
You ramble
He/she talks through their fundamental orifice

Now, never having been in at the beginning of anything except my own three score and ten, I will admit to a certain tardiness in availing myself of the opportunity to blog. This I can attribute to several pertinent factors.

1. Total ignorance. I regard myself about as far removed from an anorak* as it is possible to get without falling off the edge of the known world and, as such, it behooves me not to keep up with any developments in cyberspace to have taken place within the last year or so (this has an accuracy of approximately plus or minus three years).

2. Reluctance. To put it bluntly (and for a Blade**, this comes easier than you might think), why should anyone be even remotely interested in whatever I might have to say on any given subject?

3. Self doubt. A troubling concept for those of you on the other side of the Atlantic I know, but I constantly entertain the thought that should anyone display a smidgen of a soupcon of an iota of a particle of interest in whatever it is I have to say, how can I ensure that this interest is even remotely satisfied?

4. Lethargy. Sometimes I just can't be arsed**** to.....

5. Sheer bloody-mindedness. If everyone and his second cousin twice removed has a blog, then Imbugadifiwill.*****

So it comes to this. Kan has a blog and opens it (somewhat gleefully, I will admit) to allcomers and will hope to provide any incomers with a reasonably entertaining diversion from their everyday internet activities.

With reference to the subtitle above, I should mention that I am a great believer in the inter-connectedness of all things but that, despite this, I am still striving to connect the three subjects mentioned into a coherent whole. Be assured that, should I succeed, you will be the first to know.

Which leads me nicely into explanation mode. Life, linguistics and Laphroaig...well, as far as I can tell, life is something that happens to all of us, at least those of us with the sense to vote Labour****** in any general or local election. Linguistics, well...as a fully qualified linguistician*******, I am always concerned with any aspect of language and as far as the Laphroaig goes, I am always interested in the development of any single malt Scotch whisky that hails from the isle of Islay. This will include Bowmore, Ardbeg, Laphroaig and even Ardnave at a pinch.

Should stocks be hard to come by and, seeing as I live in Hungary, they just may be, then I will struggle to apply the same theory to stocks of Stella and Amstel lager.

The links which may or may not be forthcoming on this page will fall into two categories.

For those of you who have detected a slightly patronising attitude to the Americans amongst us, I would plead ulterior motive. It is but a ploy to antagonise Jess, a link to whose blog you will eventually find on these pages and whose wit and humour has kept me going through many a long night in the SUFC chatroom.

Other links may fall into the category of interesting diversions among which may be Lamps blog which has burgered up several of my evenings by posting links to numerous on-line games, several of which have proved seriously addictive.

Anyway, bye for now...if you have been, you've only yourself to blame.

Si.

*A hooded, zip-up, sometimes quilted, waist/hip length, semi-waterproof garment traditionally favoured by train-spotters, twitchers and sundry geeks, nerds and stattos. If clothes say a lot about a person, this one says, "My mummy still takes me shopping."

** A supporter of the finest football*** team ever to have donned kit and linament in any of the numerous divisions of English football***, that is the mighty red and white wizards, Sheffield United Football*** Club.

*** That's foot as in foot for all you Americans out there.

****Anglicism, I'm afraid. Arse = ass...can't be arsed = can't be bothered.

*****ref: Mike Harding: Bugadifino Gland.

******that's Democrat to you stateside lot.

*******Someone who has difficulty speaking one language but who knows an awful lot about a whole clutch of them.