My Grandfather - A Tale of Bravery and Valour

A long, long time ago, my grandfather was in university, taking a history degree.

Now, universities in those days weren't like they are now. For one thing, you could go to one without selling someone elses' organs on the black market (and welcome to my first topical political humour since the election!). Also, they seemed to conform much more the stereotype of hallowed halls of academia, where only the brightest and best went, and the lecturers could be... somewhat eccentric.

One of my Grandfather's history lecturers was the very epitome of a mad academic. It was the early fifties, and so although this man has not been described to me, I am perfectly justified in imagining he wore a tweed suit, bad glasses, and probably an eccentric haircut. The man in question was a particular expert in Tudor history, especially regarding Queen Elizabeth the First. He was also, or so my grandfather informs me, a bastard. Possibly this perception is skewed, as the enduring memory of him my grandfather has is of humiliation at his hands when late for a lecture. (Because of the slightly rambling old person style of story telling that was employed, I lose track of what exactly happened. It definitely involved a chair, and possibly a bucket full of eels, although the last part may have been a fabrication.)

So to my Grandfather there was only one possible course of action.

A prank. It would be done well, and it would be done soon...

Well, fairly soon. Once he'd finished his degree, and so couldn't get in trouble for it.

Now, when I said earlier that this lecturer was fond of Elizabeth the First, I wasn't kidding. In fact, it would probably be fair to say he had a tiiiiny bit of a historical crush on The Virgin Queen, from her royal toes to her flame-coloured hair, from her queenly liver to her heart and stomach of a king. So much so, in fact, that in lectures he had picked up the habit of referring to her as "my dear queen" or "my elizabeth" in lectures.

I've got no evidence that he had a suit made out of her skin, but it's kind of tempting to think so.

So, having assessed the man's weakspots like the ninja I suspect my grandfather of being, my grandfather waited for the best of times.

Which is Valentines day, obviously. He then got his sister, a truly magnificent artist, to draw a huge picture of The Good Queen Bess, and signed it in immaculate writing as being from "Your Elizabeth". Now, his brother in law, the husband of the artist, then went to this university, even though my grandfather had graduated. So, this man, my Great Uncle Stan, made arrangements for the picture to be delivered to the lecture theatre mid lecture.

I don't know how he did it. I think he had some contacts, from his street days.

Or he just, you know, walked into the lecture room, but I prefer the former.

The reaction my grandfather expected was one of truly epic proportions. He expected a reaction to rival Vesuvius, with screaming, anger, explosions, and possibly rivers of blood. In actuality, the lecturer was amused and quite thankful for the present, although my grandfather never saw him again and thus never owned up to it.

And the moral of the story? Well, firstly that no matter how much of an inhuman monster you've painted your fellow man to be, at the end of the day, they're a human just like you, who enjoys a joke as much as anyone else.

And secondly?

My Grandfather is awesome.

Adventure on the High Sea with Marcor Paul

So, the other day, my mother went for a drink with a sailor on shore leave.

I know how that sounds. Perhaps I should present it in a way slightly more accurate to the real world. So, the other day, my mother went for a drink with an old teaching colleague who now works on a cruise ship. Better?

So, anyway, this old colleague had a new man in her life. Apparently, he was quite dashing, it looked to be a fairly serious relationship, and my mother couldn't remember the name, saying it was something like "Mark, or Paul." They met on the cruise ship, but now he's on another boat and they don't see each other much.

Imagine how this sounded to my ears. Marcor Paul, adventurer, travelling the high seas, searching for hidden treasure and pining for his lost love. As he fights through Amazon pyramids, he probably turns down the love of steaming native beauties, remembering his love who sailed away from him.

But my mother wasn't done. Oh no. She recounted some of the other news of her seafaring friend, before moving to talk about their future plans. The woman plans, it seems, to move near Glasgow, partly to be nearer her parents, and partly because that's where Marcor Paul, Dread Pirate lives on shore. He's Scottish too? The badass points just keep rolling in. And, naturally, Marcor will spend much more time on shore when he's training for his captaincy exams...

His captaincy exams.

"The name's Marcor Paul. Captain Marcor Paul."

There is no way this man is not a pirate. There is no way that Marcor Paul does not fight off redcoats, loot, pillage, and woo beautiful native princesses (such as my mother's friend?) His name is Marcor Paul. What other career options can he have? When Mr and Mrs Paul had a bouncing baby boy, and named him Marcor, did they for one minute imagine that with that name he could live a boring life? You can't be Marcor Paul, plumber, or Marcor Paul, solicitor - it has to be Marcor Paul, secret agent, or Marcor Paul, The Chosen One.

Hell, at least I know what I'm going to name my son.

And, before you ask, his middle name will be Batman.

Useless Superheroes

"Doctor Disaster is threatening Vaguely Futuristic City!"

"Sounds like a job for... The League of Mediocre Superheroes!"

At this point, a vaguely inspiring brass fanfare plays.

That's right, the superheroes major comics companies conveniently forgot will save the city from the evil schemes of Doctor Disaster (which, by the way, isn't necessarily a supervillain name. Maybe he's just a really bad doctor. You know, you go for a check up and wake up to find yourself an amputee.)

MARVEL at the powers of Domino Man. By day, a perfectly ordinary pizza delivery man.... by night, he fights crime - by falling on top of it!

Behold, the graphical rendering power of MS Paint

BE AMAZED by Spoon Man - he talks to... well, to spoons. They don't have much to say.

"So, what are cutlery drawers like?"

By day, Midas Moneybags is a perfectly ordinary rich idiot with no day job. By night, everything he touches turns to Gold, and he fights crime as The Human Moneybox.

On second thoughts, maybe he shouldn't fold his arms.

And one hero will make THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE. Beeman has the tragic power to sting someone... and then die.

Not a man I'd like to cross.

Even Batman is scared of Beeman.

So with such guardians, will Vaguely Futuristic City fall to Doctor Disaster?

Yeah, probably. Still, I guess we've learnt one thing. My Microsoft Paint skills are negligable at best...

Hamming it Up

I'd just like to mention that I made bacon sandwiches today, and cooking bacon is actually harder than it looks. Firstly, you've no idea how hard it is to get a pig at short notice. (Some people would just buy the bacon, but this smacks of amateurism to me. If I've never cooked something before, I like to do it properly.) The next problem I had was getting the meat off the pig...

Once the pig and I had wrestled for a while, complete with dramatic crash through plate glass window, something became clear to me. Neither of us were going to win. I pictured myself and this unholy swine engaged in everlasting combat: two mighty titans, forever in conflict until the trumpet sounded for the day of judgement. Two behemoths, locked in a war that knew neither end nor victor: an image to be passed through myth and folk memory, to be passed down in the oral traditions of far distant cultures.

This would not do: I wanted to be a man who lived for the moment, not the ages. I wanted a glorious legacy of deeds I had done, not the fight I would be forever embroiled in. I wanted a life, to live, die, laugh and love: a time for greivances and sorrow, and a time for happiness and victory.

Also, it was nearly lunchtime, I ought to get this bacon done, and my bladder was kind of full.

It was clear we needed a compromise. After all, conflict creates no real endings, and is ultimately futile: or, as the poet said:
"War. (huuuh. Yeah.)
What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing."

And so the pig and I entered diplomatic relations. I'll admit, as propositions go, "I want to eat some of your flesh and have nothing to offer you, oh combat pig" isn't a great one. In fact, his response was less than enthusiastic. Great. I'd not only found the world's first pig that could talk, but the world's first pig that was trained in debating.

The issue was that he insisted that he ought to have some human flesh as recompense, and, well, I rather like my flesh, thank you. The man who fortunately rang at this point to clean the windows probably rather liked his, too, but it's amazing how quickly you can tie up and gag an errant window cleaner with porcine might on your side. I granted the pig use of my kitchen and culinary facilities, and he soon left after I took a good sized chunk of flesh from his side. Apparently window cleaner tastes good. Anyway, he promised to keep in touch, and wandered away over the horizon. Lovely bloke.

His flesh was cooking nicely in the frying pan, and looked fairly ready. In fact, I was about to serve it up when something important struck me: bacon isn't just any flesh off the pig. Bacon is smoked.

I don't know if you've ever tried rolling meat up in cigarette papers, but it's harder than it looks. It's also tricky to light and trickier to keep burning. And it smells... as if you've set a pig on fire. Also, I have the majority of a window cleaner to dispose of...

I'm not going to say this bacon sandwich has been an unqualified success, but we live and learn. Anyway, that's the bacon out the way.

Now to get my hunting gear on. I have a loaf of bread to catch.