Dreaming Spires and all that

I've just returned from an idyllic weekend away in Oxford. Being an idle sort, I never troubled the Oxford admissions people with my presence when considering an academic career. However, I did have enough about me to marry an Oxonian. The wife's alma mater were having an old members' garden party, so off we went.

There's no greater place on Earth in high Summer than the front quod of an Oxford college, with a complimentary glass of Pimms in one hand and a croquet mallet in the other. After an hour of croquet, approximately three pints of Pimms and a relaxing chat with old friends, we topped the day off with a curry. Marvelous. There is big crepe sub-culture in Oxford I noticed. Hampstead has a big crepe fanbase too. People queue for miles for them outside Hampstead's pubs. I've never understood why. They absolutely lose their collective minds for the things. It's like middle-class catnip.

In other news, there's a wafer-thin "thought" piece on the BBC web site today about fat celebs being a bad influence on children and others. I don't know about that. It seems to be the logical apotheosis of the culture of blaming others for one's own shortcoming. As my Mother used the ask rhetorically: "If he jumped in the fire, would you?".

Having said all that though, I was brought up short by those nude shots of Beth Ditto in some magazine or other recently. She's an attractive, young women, Beth, and she dresses in a striking and considered way. Good for her. She is, though, a big old lump. There's no getting away from the fact. I know we could argue long into the night about female body image fascism and her striking a blow for the sisterhood and all that, but she's a big, fat old whack without her drawers on. I'm all for young women being freed from the tyranny of size zero role models, but hasn't the pendulum swung slight too far in the opposite direction when a morbidly obese role model is substituted for them?

Ad Fart I Sing

Eight out of ten owners said their twats preferred it.

Moo-ve It

There's a piece on the BBC web site today about what do to should a cow attack when you're out walking in the great outdoors. Their sage conclusion is that you should run away (I'm summarising).

It's a serious business apparently - bovine assault. The beeb reckon eighteen people have been killed by cows over the last eight years. Actually it's not that a great a threat statistically now I think on it. I imagine feathers or static have seen off more people than that in the same period. My wife and I go walking in the country a lot - most weekends in fact. We've been doing this for some years. She's always derided me for packing a pick axe along with the Thermos. I've attached it to a couple of yards of chain for extra purchase in battle. I've never had to use it on a cow, thank God, but it's a comfort knowing it's there. Her majesty's constabulary took some convincing though.

East End Style Geezerism

Money is a big deal in the horse world (Quelle surprise). If the people where I work are not actually piddling greenbacks up the wall backing nags, they're talking about it at some length. There was a protracted discussion in the office today about London slang terms for amounts of cash.

Most British readers will be familiar with the expressions "pony" (£50) and "monkey" (£500). Anyone brought up in the UK will have heard them a million times. But have you heard of a "macaque" (£11)? Or better still an "otter", which apparently is an old east end term for £8.50. It wasn't made clear why one might need a one-word, handy shorthand for this arcane amount. If I find out, I'll let you know.

And...they're off

Now that I'm working at the coalface of the horse-racing world, I've become acutely aware of how poorly the wretched beasts are named. It's always "Qango Crackers in the 4.10" or "Jamestown Quimty on the stand side". If I owned a racehorse, I'd give it a solid name like Eddie or Justin. I'm sure the punters would appreciate that. Even if Eddie was little more than an outrageously ambitious donkey, people would know he'd given of his best in each race.

He'd be the Bryan Robson of national hunt racing, constantly picking up injuries in his valiant bids to catch an actual horse. Yes, he's clumsy. No, he's not the brightest. But you can't question his commitment. Come on, Eddie, the people's champion.

Unfortunately, Justin developed a headache and had to be destroyed. Still it helps encourage the others. Oh, don't look at me like that. You can't make a omelette without euthanizing livestock. Everyone knows that.

Thierry Ennui

Blimey, I am getting lazy. It's been five days since the last update. I'm not likely to win any literary prizes with output like that.

I'm still beavering away at the new role, you'll be pleased to here. I tried a different tack yesterday: I decided to apply myself to the task at hand - much like a properly socialised adult might in fact. It worked to a certain extent. I did feel better about myself - so much so that I went home and got pissed.

I'm so bored to could evaporate, I tell you. How do ordinary people cope? Answers on a carte postale please.

Back to the Grind

I've been rather slack of late. Sorry about that, but I do have heavyweight mitigating circs. I've been on holiday, and I have a new job.

The holiday was lovely, thank you for asking - a week in genuinely sunny Cornwall followed by a few days camping it up in north Norfolk. The job, however, is proving to be more of a challenge.

I suffer from a condition known as impostor syndrome. I've had periodic bouts of this my whole life, but it's particularly acute when changing jobs. I've been at the new post for four days now, and I think it safe to say that I don't know what the phuck I'm doing. Worse still - I've been given an underling to tutor. What I'm supposed to say to him is anyone's guess. Still onwards and upwards. What's the worst that could happen? Public humiliation swiftly followed by the right royal sack. It's not like I'm in Guantanamo Bay or anything. I rock myself to sleep each night repeating those words like a sacred mantra. I honestly thought adult life would be a walk in the park compared with childhood. It appears I misjudged the situation hugely. Still, we'll always have Paris.