Irony.

I've just been to see Kick-Ass.  It's hilarious, feel free to go and see it.  During this film about an ineffectual superhero I came up with a new definition of irony:

• irony n. (pl. -ies) laughing at a film portrayal of a man who overestimates his own strength and is far punier than he imagines, then discovering that you can't unscrew the cap on your bottle of sparkling water.

I had to take it home after the film.  I still can't get the top off.  It's on my desk right now, taunting me; mocking me.  It's my new arch-enemy.

***************Update***************

Briony has just returned home and has opened the bottle for me.  It is no longer my arch-enemy; she is.

Marc's A Reader: Part 2

Day two of reading James Ellroy's Blood's A Rover.  Obviously I still have to eat, a fact which necessitated a visit to the shops.

The book's great so far, by the way.

Marc's A Reader

This arrived earlier.

It's the new James Ellroy novel, Blood's A Rover, the third and final instalment of the trilogy that includes American Tabloid and The Cold Six Thousand.

It's taken Ellroy a long time to write this, I've been waiting for years for it. The release date in the U.K. is in November.  I couldn't wait so I had it shipped from the U.S. as soon as it was released there.

This is just a quick post to explain why you won't be hearing from me or seeing me over the next few days - unless you are Briony or the cat, in which case I will look like this.

Or perhaps this.

Another Day: Another Old Photo.

Here's another one of the pictures that Briony unearthed yesterday. It's me, in Jo and Ben's kitchen in Auckland. Perhaps I should explain it. I'll start by explaining The Fearns Rule of Airports, which is my handy rule that I always remind myself of when travelling.

The Fearns Rule of Airports: You are never funny at the airport. No matter how funny you think you are (or actually are), you are not funny at the airport. Nothing you say or do is funny at the airport and everything you say at the airport is taken entirely as an earnest declaration of the truth. At the check-in desk, when they ask if you've packed your bag yourself, there is no funny response. Stating that your cousin Osama helped you is not funny at the airport, and if you attempt to be funny at the airport, the airport will demonstrate how unfunny you are by searching your bottom for drugs or a bomb.

That's The Fearns Rule of Airports. Remember it well, it may keep you out of trouble. Here's the story behind the picture.

The people of New Zealand are rightly protective of their indigenous flora and fauna. As an island nation with many unique species it could be ecologically disastrous if foreign plants or animals were introduced. When you board a plane to New Zealand, this is made abundantly clear to you. When Briony and I checked in for our flight to Auckland at Kuala Lumpur airport we saw many signs telling us not to take fruit, vegetables, plants and animals with us. We were asked at the check-in desk if we were carrying such items. There were announcements over the P.A. system to further remind us. At one point, I turned to Briony and said "Do you get the impression they don't want us to take fruit and veg to New Zealand?" I said it quietly, of course; we were at the airport, after all. When I was changing from my shorts (it was boiling so I left it until the last possible moment) to my jeans, there was even an announcement in the bathroom. We boarded the plane, where they reminded us again. They also reminded us on descent - after spraying everyone in the plane with some sort of antiseptic spray - and on landing.

We entered the airport, there were notices everywhere to remind us that importing fruit, vegetables, plants and animals is illegal. We waited for what seemed an age for our luggage to appear on the carousel - I timed it, it took almost nine fruit, vegetables, plants and animals announcements for our luggage to arrive. Then we went through customs. Briony went through first. They checked her passport and asked her some questions about fruit, vegetables, plants and animals while sending her hand luggage through an x-ray machine. Once she had answered their questions, she was allowed through the customs barrier and into New Zealand where she was re-united with her hand luggage. Then it was my turn. They sent my hand luggage through the machine, checked my passport, gave me the fruit, vegetables, plants and animals quiz and let me through. I had arrived in New Zealand.

As I passed through the barrier, an enormous man in a uniform blocked my path (imagine a larger version of Joe Rokocoko). "Could you come with me, Sir?" he asked, in a tone that made it quite clear that this was not a request.

"Sure," I replied breezily. I pointed to Briony, who was several metres away, with her back to us, "could you let my wife know that I'm going with you."

"Oh", said Large Joe with a note of surprise in his voice, "you're travelling together?"

Remembering the Fearns rule of airports, here's what I didn't say. "No, my wife and I always travel separately, you can't imagine how surprised we were to bump into each other in an airport on the other side of the world."

Here's what I did say. "Yes."

He consented to have someone inform Briony that I was being taken away and he took me away, to a desk at one side of the main hall. Behind that desk was a stern-faced woman in the uniform of a customs officer and on the desk was my hand luggage, a medium sized messenger bag.

"Is this your bag Sir?" (You know things are going badly when you are addressed as Sir twice in a short space of time).

"Yes"

"Are you aware that it is illegal to bring fruit, vegetables, plants and animals into New Zealand?"

"(Fighting sarcasm) Yes."

"I believe that you may be attempting to bring such items into the country, do you mind if I search your bag?"

"No."

She opened my bag and methodically removed all of the contents, placing them on the desk. There was the usual sort of stuff - some cigarettes, a camera, a book, a rolled up pair of shorts, some tissues, an MP3 player, sunglasses, travel documents, Malaysian and English currency. She looked at all of the items and searched the bag again, it was definitely empty. She looked back at the items on the desk and examined them all individually, even unrolling the shorts. There was no contraband to be found. She checked the empty bag again, just to be sure, and turned to me. "When we x-rayed your bag, there was a long, curved item in there that looked like a banana. It must have been your shorts."

At this point, probably due to relief, I forgot the Fearns rule of airports. Stifling a smirk I asked "Did you believe that I was smuggling a banana?"

"Yes," she said, looking crestfallen.

I'm not sure that she was expecting the outburst of laughter that ensued. I couldn't contain it. Even Large Joe laughed. They allowed me to re-pack my bag and I was free to go. I soon found Briony, waiting anxiously for me. "What happened? What did they want?" she asked, with a hint of hysteria.

"They thought that I was smuggling a banana," I replied, matter-of-factly.

She glanced down at my gentleman's trouser area, and in a doubtful voice said, "Really?"

Don't Scare The Horses.

This is the Horsey Horseless. Powered by the then-new internal combustion engine, it's a striking design from the early days of motoring. You're probably wondering why it's called the Horsey Horseless, after all, it appears to have a horse attached to the front of it.

You may be surprised to learn that it is not a horse. It's a wooden representation of a horse and was placed there to render the vehicle less terrifying to real horses. The inventor (Uriah Smith of Battle Creek, Michigan) seems to have worked out something really fundamental here. Obviously a horse would be calmed by seeing the front half of one of its own species affixed to the front of a motor vehicle; Which of us - encountering the severed top half of a human on the bonnet of a Volkswagen Passat - wouldn't be soothed?

The horses head does not merely calm horses. It is hollow, and serves a dual purpose as the vehicle's petrol tank. An excellent use of available space and a great safety feature, drastically reducing the risk of explosions when reversing.

I can't imagine why it never caught on.

A Public Information Announcement.

I'm no scientist. Nevertheless, I can reveal that leaving the foil seal half on beneath the lid of a plastic milk bottle will not make the milk last twice as long before it goes off. It will, however, cause the milk to spill over the worktop and cascade down the front of the cupboard, where it will land on the feet of an unsuspecting milk-user who just fancied a nice bowl of Grape Nuts to accompany his morning cup of coffee and instead ended up cold-footed, dancing in a lactic lake.

That was a Public Information Announcement.

A Random Discovery

My friend Brad found this interesting suggestion on a packet of Sun-Maid raisins:

"Why not try tossing over your favourite breakfast cereal?"

Red Trousers

A few years ago, my friend Andrew and I went to Verona for a few days. Sitting outside a cafe on the Piazza Bra one day, the discussion turned to the dress sense of the Italians. We agreed that Italians are wonderful, if flashy, dressers. I noted that occasionally you see Italian men wearing red trousers, and several birras later, a new game was born.

The rules of Red Trousers are simple. When you spot a man wearing red trousers, you call out "red trousers" and point. This only applies to men in red trousers. Women and children wear all manner of bizarrely hued garments and are no challenge, it is the scarcity of sightings of men in red trousers that makes the game fun. A duplicate sighting of a man in red trousers counts as a minus sighting. The winner of the game is the person who has the most sightings by the time you arrive at a bar. The loser buys the first round.

I've introduced my wife and many friends to this game and we've played it on several Italian holidays. Conversations on holiday tend to sound a bit like this:

"...and then I thought I'd wear the lilac necklace with the purple..."

"Red trousers!!!"

Startled, "What?"

"Red trousers! Over there."

"Oh, you and your stupid game. Grow up"....Some time later, "Red trousers! Ha! Beat that, husband".

I have even received pictures of red trousers from people holidaying in Italy. My friend Mal actually followed a man in red trousers around Rome surreptitiously photographing him for an afternoon.

This is purely a game to be played on holiday and in a country where English isn't the main language. On the occasion that I see a man in red trousers in England, I can't help myself, it's a reflex action. Pure instinct leads me to point and call "red trousers". Fortunately sightings of Englishmen in red trousers are very rare, and usually they're elderly men that I can outrun.

It's absolutely my favourite game. We have an Alan Partridge game we play when we're travelling in a car, every time you see a Lexus you shout - in an Alan Partridge voice - "Aha!". It's fun, but it's no Red Trousers.

This isn't weird, is it?