Archive for the ‘Welsh humor’ Category

Am I Being too Naive?

Monday, August 9th, 2010

 

Definition of naïve (adjective 🙂 unaffectedly, or sometimes foolishly, simple; childlike; artless, not suspicious; credulous; ingenuous……

I don’t consider myself naïve when it comes to life’s tapestry. I have traveled around the block a few times and picked up a few knocks and a  touch of cynicism along the way. Nevertheless, I am beginning to realize that I maybe a naïve blogger. I created my blog as an outlet to help prevent my brain cells from turning into mush. Basically it’s a hobby where I can write about issues free from editorial restrictions and don’t need to pay too much attention to political correctness; perhaps entertain and amuse some relatives and friends along the way.

I never envisaged that it would attract so many visitors and comments from the internet. Consequently I am naïve to assume that one can write about a harmless range of topics without attracting the attention of spam artists and persons posting comments which invariably link back to some cheesy commercial site.

On further investigation, I was alarmed to discover that approximately 90% of the spam comments emanate from automated spam bots despite their “human appearance.” Wrestling with my deflated ego, I am feverishly coming to terms with the sobering fact that I possibly have a limited audience of three; my son, my brother and my good friend Fernando and even they can be fickle! Did Hugh McIlvaney, Lewis Grizzard and James Thurber encounter similar problems in their literary careers?

Am I being ingenuous to expect good customer service from my local grocery store? I popped in there on Saturday to buy a couple of items only to be given a ring side seat to the store manager and one of his departmental managers engaging in a loud and fierce argument over the display and pricing of merchandize; totally oblivious of non-plussed customers attempting to make their way to the meat counter. In the same store, I recently witnessed a cashier with all the charm of a demented orangutan berating a special needs teenage boy, hired as a bagger, for inadvertently dropping a couple of cans of tomatoes to the floor.

Am I also credulous to assume that road etiquette still exists. Am I being artless to expect that fellow motorists will stop  at a red light, indicate when they change lanes on an interstate/motorway, never cut me up at 70mph, refrain from applying make up and texting while driving a killer machine at speed? I was driving from Georgia to Alabama the other day, and when I crossed the state line the speed limit immediately dropped from 70mph to 55mph. A large electronic sign reminds you that the speed limit is strictly enforced. As a previous victim of the Alabama State Patrol, I duly complied only to be passed by approximately a dozen cars whizzing passed at a rate of knots.

To end on a positive note, it would appear that the most popular post on the blog with humans and bots alike is “Motor Cycle Diaries Too.” A sequel has been suggested by some of the comments and I have good news. If we can attract sufficient sponsors to offset expenses, time and make a little profit along the way, my friend Tom will embark on another motor cycle trip across the great divide. I will be setting up a Pay Pal account shortly for you motor cycle enthusiasts to contribute to this worthwhile cause. Just remember, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday; maybe it was the day before.

Antique or Classic?

Saturday, July 24th, 2010

 My 93 year old mother-in-law reluctantly gave me her car nearly five years ago. She and my late father-in-law are the only previous owners, but her eyesight was failing and she could no longer drive safely (which is the operative word.) The car is a Buick Electra Park Avenue and recently celebrated its 27th birthday. In the eyes of the tag office, that makes it an antique car which no longer requires an emission test. I’m not complaining because it saves me $25 on the test, but logic would suggest that the older the car the more important to have an emission test. Supposedly, the tag office’s computer can’t cope with the fact that a 27year old car continues to traverse the highways, or that anyone would wish to drive a car that resembles a mechanical dinosaur.

 This is a brute of a car which could easily accommodate seven people and also have room for Snow White. The hood is the size of a six person dining room table, but the piece de resistance is the horn which I swear was salvaged from the Titanic. I’ve witnessed grown men cower in its wake. Fellow motorists, who have had the temerity to cut me up and incur the wrath of the horn, take alternative routes or slam on their brakes in shock and awe.

 There are a few disadvantages in driving a monolith around the streets of Atlanta. For one thing, the Peachtree Street lanes through Buckhead are approximately the same width as my car much to the consternation of fellow motorists. It is not very environmentally friendly or energy conscious since I’m lucky to achieve 12 miles to the gallon, and it barely fits into my garage. It also has no air conditioning, which came to my attention in the drive back from Alabama where my mother-in-law lives. We attempted the journey during the dog days of summer 2005 when temperatures sore into the nineties and humidity is around 100%. Basically it’s very hot and sticky! We had just made it across the border into Georgia when we drove smack into a thunderstorm.

 The windows and my eye glasses immediately steamed up and the car was quickly transformed into a portable sauna. I managed to leave the interstate at the next exit by hanging my head out of the car window while keeping one hand on the wheel and gasping for air. The only solution was to open all the windows, turn the heat onto the wind shield and tentatively return to the interstate. Soaking wet and exhausted, I must have lost about 10 pounds by the time I finally arrived home.

 There were many occasions when I have wanted to sell the car or drop it off at the nearest knackers’ yard ; none more so than when I drove to a job interview. It was during the middle of August, (the dog days of summer again) and the interview was arranged for 3.00pm at a location just south of the airport. I knew it would be uncomfortable in the car without air conditioning, so I allocated 2 hours for a trip which would normally take approximately 25 minutes and, boxing clever, packed a change of shirt. Georgia Navigator indicated that my best shot was to take I85 south through downtown, and the journey went well until approaching The Varsity where unaccountably a yellow Volkswagen and a semi-truck had become acquainted sufficiently to block three lanes. Wet and bedraggled, I managed to arrive at my destination with about 15 minutes to spare and an opportunity to change my shirt.

 Unfortunately my shirt was glued to me like a second skin, and I abandoned my plan of a quick change. Entering the building in a mired state, the receptionist led me into the conference room where the interview was to be conducted. I quickly discovered that the thermostat in the room was set at 66 degrees and I began to shiver uncontrollably. A few minutes later my interviewer arrived and took one look at me and asked in an anguished voice: “Are you sickening for something? It would appear that you have a classic (get it? Classic? Oh well please yourself) case of summer flu. Needless to say I wasn’t offered the job, but I learned two invaluable lessons. What are those Cecil? I should never apply for jobs between May and September if my only mode of transport is a 1983 Buick Electra, Park Avenue. Secondly, I should never have promised my mother-in-law to have and to hold her precious car for better or worse for the rest of its natural life.

Footnote: the Classic Car Club of America define Classic as a “fine” or “distinctive” automobile, either American or foreign built, produced between 1925 and 1948. Generally, a Classic was high-priced when new and was built in limited quantities. Other factors, including engine displacement, custom coachwork and luxury accessories, such as power brakes, power clutch, and “one-shot” or automatic lubrication systems, help determine whether a car is considered to be a Classic.

More common usage fundamentally equates Classic car with the definition of antique car as used by the Antique Automobile Club of America, who define an Antique car as one over 25 years old. Thus, popular usage is that any car over 25 years old can be called a ‘classic car’.

25 years is generally considered a good cut-off age for such terms because it’s extremely rare for a vehicle that old to still be owned or used without special consideration for its classic status – by 25 years old, a car will have exceeded its design life by some considerable margin, 10-15 years being the norm barring accidental loss. It will probably need significant maintenance to keep running, and many parts will be hard to obtain through the usual channels. Thus, a non-enthusiast will sensibly conclude that it is not feasible to continue using a car that old for regular driving.

If It Weren’t for the Sheep and Welsh there wouldn’t be any Irish

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

I hope you are all having a happy St Patrick’s Day. While I do not begrudge Americans celebrating St Patrick’s Day so vigorously and in vast numbers, I must take umbrage with them for completely ignoring St David’s Day which falls on March 1st. St David is the patron saint of Wales which is celebrated by Welsh people all over the world. According to one fellow writer, the celebration usually means singing, eating and reciting poetry. What, no drinking? Apparently, St. David’s Day meetings are not the boisterous celebrations that accompany St Patrick’s Day and there lies the problem. Welsh ex-pats need to show the world how they can party!

 I realize America will never embrace St. David’s Day with the same enthusiasm as they do St Patrick’s Day purely on the basis of numbers. In the 2000 Census, 1.75 million reported Welsh ancestry (0.6% of the U.S. population) compared to 42 million Irish Americans. There are more than seven times as many Irish-Americans as there are Irish residing in “The Emerald Isle.”

St Patrick’s Day has almost evolved into a national holiday with nationwide sales in stores and St Patrick’s Day greeting cards adorning the shelves. But who in his right mind would bother to send a St Patrick’s Day card? Don’t tell me; 42 million Irish Americans!  Major cities around the country will hold lavish parades marching to the swirl of the bagpipes, the river in Chicago will be dyed green while bars in New York, Boston and Savannah will be serving green beer. Even the traffic lights remain green on St Patrick’s Day.

Most Irish-Americans assume that St Patrick was an Irishman, but it is not so. Though Patrick’s birthplace is debatable, most scholars seem to agree that he was born in the area of southeastern Scotland known as Strathclyde, a former Celtic kingdom and Welsh-speaking at the time. (However, a few scholars continue to regard St. David’s in Pembrokeshire, Wales as the saint’s birthplace; the tiny city was formerly directly in the path of missionary and trade routes to Ireland).

 Don’t get me wrong; I love the Irish. I have visited the country several times and always received a warm welcome. I’ve played golf there a couple of times and if you can put with the inconsistencies of the weather, there’s nothing better than links golf in Ireland. Even the golf starters can add a new dimension to your game. I was teeing off at the first hole one rainy morning and managed to slice my drive into the starter’s hut located at right angles to the tee box. The ball ricocheted  several times on the tin clad hut before the starter gingerly emerged with hands on his head and asked in a tentative voice: “Is it safe to come out now?”

 I once played a course which ran alongside a cemetery. I was coming to the end of the round and for once we had enjoyed a warm sunny day. The sun was now setting; casting a purple hue across the cemetery.  I was standing on the tee box patently aware of the assorted headstones to the right of me. I kept telling myself: “Whatever you do, don’t slice the ball into the cemetery.” Needless to say the ball exploded off the club and  headed towards the hallowed ground like an exocet. But fate had a hand to play. My ball decided to play ping pong with several headstones before rejoining the fairway approximately 100 yards from the tee box; much to the myrth and admiration of my playing partners.

I love the quirkiness of the Irish which is infectious. My wife and I were staying in Cork a few years ago and enjoyed a night out in one of neighboring Kinsales’s several gourmet restaurants. We were taking a night stroll attempting to shake off some our food excesses when we heard live music coming from a pub.  It was fairly late but we decided to check it out with a view to partaking in a night cap before returning to our hotel. The place was jammed to the rafters and we weren’t sure if we would be able to get a drink before they called time. We needn’t have worried. Closing time duly arrived but we were locked in for the night. We were found seats and happily succumbed to the craic (a Gaelic word which loosely translated means fun, entertainment and enjoyable conversation) generously provided by the locals. We emerged five hours later to witness the sunrise above our hotel; tired but enriched by the experience of an Irish lock-in.

The lure of Ireland’s hospitality led us to Dublin where we had another enjoyable weekend. Before catching our flight back to London we decided to have a Sunday lunchtime drink in a bar dubiously called the “The Hairy Lemon” and I ordered two pints of Guinness. The barman declined to serve me Guinness because Murphy’s (another Irish stout) was conducting a promotional campaign and their beer was free which caused my wife and I to quickly down four pints each of the alternative black stuff before leaving for the airport.

Guinness is available worldwide in draft , bottles, and cans housing the mysterious widgets, but there is something special about the black stuff in Ireland which can’t be replicated anywhere else. It has a rich, smooth, creamy flavor with no aftertaste. On our last visit to  Ireland we toured the west coast, and almost every pub we visited had a middle-aged leprachaun sitting at the bar sipping a pint of Guinness.

The moral of my story is  Irish-Americans owe a debt of gratitude to the Welsh. Not only did we provide them with their Patron Saint, we were also responsible for providing them with their ancestors. I will be flying my Welsh flag  on March 17th in honor of the Welsh St Patrick, my fellow Celts and the sheep that made it all possible. Yachi Da (good health.)