175. Did you just use the U word?

I am annoyed and so, I’m not just having a grumble and I’m not even having a moan.  I’m so pissed off that I’m probably having a rant.  

I think that’s the sequence of degrees of frustration when you are letting people know that you feel aggrieved about something.  A moan then a grumble with the ‘rant’ being the superlative form.

Is ‘nonsensicalest’ a word you’ve ever heard or come across? 

No, it isn’t.  A rule about adjectives with three or more syllables (and some with two, like ‘careless’  and ‘cheerful’), is that they always have ‘more’ and ‘most’ as their comparative and superlative.  You would write “more nonsensical” or “most nonsensical” and that means you’ve never heard ‘nonsensicalest’ because it doesn’t exist. 

You have now because I’ve just invented it.  It has become the superlative form of ‘nonsensical’ and I’ve created it because when it comes to Political Correctness and being ‘woke’, I think we are at a point where new words are needed to describe the farcical position in which we now find ourselves.  

Existing words are just not up to the job.

In October 2015, I wrote a piece titled “PC Nonsense”. (Click to See)  If you agreed with me that the situation was bad then (and I know you did even though you’re probably cautious of admitting so now), you cannot begin to imagine how things have developed over the past five years.

We live about two miles from the nearest newsagent and that is too far to be included in a paperboy’s round.  

Am I allowed to use the term ‘paperboy’?  That is an ageist and sexist term and we should probably talk about a ‘paperperson’ now with the collective term being ‘paperpeople’.

Because of our isolation, I pay to subscribe to a well-known, national, broadsheet newspaper, online.

It appears on my computer screen with exactly the same print, stories, photographs and advertisements that the paper version has.  However, my subscription also allows me to read its e-paper version on its website.

The online version is quite different in layout but as well as looking dissimilar, it provides the reader with the opportunity to comment on stories.

When one posts a comment, it is moderated and if it does not contravene the site’s guidelines in any way, it will be posted. 

I have commented on stories fairly often over the past twelve years but twice I’ve fallen foul of the moderators.

The first time was when Denis Norden, the renowned wit and comedy writer, died in 2018.  I submitted two comments.   One of them, attracted 304 'Recommendations' from other readers.  It was the first time I led the Leader Board in recommendations.

Norden had died at the time Jeremy Corbyn was under huge pressure and criticism amid accusations that the Labour Party was intrinsically anti-Semitic and its upper echelons, both locally and nationally, were riddled with anti-Semites.  

Part of the problem was that Corbyn had supported an artist who had created a mural depicting hook-nosed bankers getting rich on the backs of the poor.  Under attack, he tried to explain his views by saying, “British Zionists don’t understand English irony.”

Denis Norden was a Jew and about him I commented, “Just imagine how even more brilliant he’d have been if only he’d understood English irony.”

That comment was allowed but the one that wasn’t was my attempt to relate a rambling tale that Denis Norden had told on the Radio 4 comedy programme ‘My Word’ sometime in the 1980s.  It was barred and never appeared.  

Norden had been asked to explain the origins of the title of the Dickens novel ‘Great Expectations’.

I wrote about how he had told a long, rambling tale to do with a container ship whose crew was entirely Chinese. 

The audience (and I) were in fits of laughter throughout the four or five minutes he described the voyage.  The saga ended with him telling us that the crew had to spend their last night on board, all squashed together for some reason or other, in a small crate and getting very little sleep.  Consequently, he told us that the:

"Crate irks packed Asians".

My comment was pending for about 6 hours and then it just vanished and was never posted.  If a comment is pending, it is visible but only to whoever posted it.  I was annoyed and puzzled and so I rang Customer Services to find out why.  I got nowhere.  

A week later, after sending several emails, someone replied to me explaining that my comment had breached guidelines.  Can you see how?

No, I bet you can’t.  Apparently, the generic term 'Asians' is banned because it is sometimes used abusively.   I am not joking.

In early January this year, there was a story under this headline: 

Lenny Henry: Television is too white. After four 

decades on screen, I still feel lonely

I commented: So, Lenny Henry feels lonely in a predominantly white industry.  He may not realise that outside the urban bubble he inhabits, this is a predominantly white country. (86.1%, 2011 census)

What exactly is the problem?

That comment was “Pending” for 7 hours and then vanished.  At 4.30 that afternoon, I tried again and reposted it.  This time, it did appear (different shift of moderators?).  When I went to bed at 11.30 that evening, it had attracted 159 readers’ recommendations.

By 9 o’clock the following morning, it had gone.  It had been pulled.  I rang Customer Services and got nowhere and so, I sent a couple of emails and in one of them, threatened to cancel my subscription unless someone explained to me why it had been removed.

The Letters Editor, replied to me by email, “Thanks for getting in touch. Your original comment has been reviewed. We agree that it did not, in fact, contravene our guidelines.”

I asked exactly why it had been pulled and in a further email I was told, “I can see that your original comment was approved but was then taken down as it was reported by another user."   

That means that at some time in the middle of the night, one person had complained and my comment was summarily taken down.  One person?  I bet it was Lenny Henry!

I made more of a fuss and eventually, someone from the newspaper’s Escalation Team, rang me.  He told me that the original comment, the one pending for hours but never posted, had alerted the computer algorithm that it contained a word associated with offensive language.  It had never actually been read by a person.

Guess the word?  To save you scrolling up, here’s that deeply offensive comment again:

So, Lenny Henry feels lonely in a predominantly white industry.  He may not realise that outside the urban bubble he inhabits, this is a predominantly white country (86.1%, 2011 census).

What exactly is the problem?

Did you spot it?  Of course, you didn’t.  You are not woke enough to spot it and you should be embarrassed and I expect you to be ashamed of yourself.

The vile, offensive word - the word that had offended the computer’s sensibilities was…..     

 

Scroll down

 

 

 

U R B A N

God help us!  I was told, in all seriousness, that people will often include the word ‘urban’ in offensive or defamatory comments and so the computer will red-flag it.

Here’s what could be a fun competition:  

Including the word 'urban’, used correctly and in context, write a sentence that is offensive in any way at all.

I’ve tried and I can’t.  What sort of deranged mind does that computer have?

It’s the nonsensicalest thing I’ve ever come across.

 

163. Don’t You Dare Laugh at That

When was the last time you heard someone tell a joke on television?  I can’t remember when I did but I know it’s been several years since someone started their act by saying something like, “There was this man who….”

Nowadays, we are entertained by “Observational Humour”.  There’s nothing wrong with observational humour other than the fact that it isn’t very funny.  It’s usually clever and sometimes amusing and it will certainly never offend or upset anyone but it isn’t funny.

The moment that someone begins his or her act by saying, “Have you ever noticed that…”, I know that what I am about to hear will be vaguely amusing about something like ‘staircases’ or ‘baked beans’ or ‘waiting rooms’.  

It will certainly be clever and will have a ring of truth about it; it may even produce a smile from me but I know I won’t laugh.  There is a huge difference between something that is funny and something that is merely amusing.

Some months ago, Caroline and I were invited to attend a live show (or should I call it a gig?) by one of the country’s leading female comedians.  I had never found her funny when watching her on television but we went nonetheless.

The show began with what might loosely be described as the ‘warm-up-act’.  I’d never heard of him before and now I’ve forgotten his name altogether but I do remember he was neither funny nor amusing.  

After 35 minutes of him, we were indulged by having an interval lasting nearly half an hour and then, shortly after nine o’clock we were finally in the presence of the star.

Just as when she appears on television, we heard tales of cakes, her weight, her absence of much of a sex life, and how untrustworthy and generally despicable most men are.  Hilarious!

It was so dull and the material so old, that someone a few rows behind us, started yelling out the final line two or three seconds before she did.  It was dreadful.

Two weeks later, that same woman was hosting Have I Got New For You and drawling out the same lines I had heard in the theatre.  This time, however, they were greeted with hysterical laughter from the studio audience.  Canned?

I know the next bit is sexist but I don’t care.  Why do almost all female comedians from the school of Observational Comedy go on and on either about their bodies or their sex lives?  

There are one or two exceptions to this trait but most of them seem to be under the impression that after they have said, “Have you ever noticed that…”, all they need to do is mention “periods” or “shagging” and the audience will laugh their stupid heads off.  Maybe it’s just me who doesn’t laugh.  After all, I am officially an old man now.

These cogitations have been brought on because on YouTube recently, I stumbled upon some clips of comedians from the 1960s and the 70s and I laughed.

I don’t think comedy is funny unless the listener is able to visualise the situation and imagine being involved in it.  Watch clips of 1970s comedians telling jokes and you can do that; listen to a modern comedian and with very few exceptions, you can’t.

I laughed at a joke told by Bernard Manning.  It started in classic style:  “An Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman…..”.   They were waiting in a prison cell to be guillotined.  

I was there with them.  I could see them sitting on straw bales dressed in rags and looking dejected and terrified.  I could see the damp stone cell walls and the tiny window high up behind them throwing a narrow shaft of light into the dingy squalor.  I could almost smell the dank filth.  When the door opened and the guards came in to lead them to their deaths, I felt the terror they were feeling.  

Because I am aware of the stereotypes employed in jokes from 50 years ago, I was curious as to how the Irishman’s stupidity was going to play a part in this story.  Was he going to be so stupid that somehow he saved everyone or just himself?

The Englishman was the first to be brought forward.  He said “God save the King” and bravely put his neck on the block.  The blade fell but came to a stop, stuck just half way down.  The Englishman was reprieved and allowed to go.  The Scotsman was next and the same thing happened.  He was released too.

After what had happened to the other two, the Irishman was feeling quite confident and cheerful as he was led to the death machine.  He stopped in front of it and stared hard at the glistening, razor-sharp blade.

“Hold on there a moment,” he said to the guard, in his thick Irish brogue.  “I think I see where it's stickin'.”

Okay, it’s a bit racist but so what?  It was 1971 and things were so different then - comedians were funny because they told proper jokes.

For 35 years, I played club cricket.  My journey home was sometimes delayed by an hour or more because one of our club members had an inexhaustible supply of jokes and he told them very well indeed.  Most of them were very funny and once started, he could and would, go on for hours.  

I don’t think he would be able to keep an audience of tipsy men enthralled and captive today by pondering about cereal boxes, cyclists or online shopping.

On The Mash Report, a satirical news programme on BBC2, all the host ever did was loudly abuse people who had voted Brexit while being encouraged by a wildly cheering audience of young Remainers.  Today, he hosts The News Quiz on Radio 4.  Both programmes are intended to be funny.  On the News Quiz, he reads a mildly amusing script written by other people.

The only time he has made me laugh was when he appeared on the television programme Pointless and introduced himself as a comedian.  He is never even slightly amusing.

It’s hardly surprising that comedians today aren’t funny.  What follows is the list of topics that a comedian booked to appear at the School of African and Oriental Studies (SOAS), was not allowed to mention and he had to sign a contract agreeing that he wouldn’t:

Racism, sexism, classism, ageism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, islamophobia, anti-religion or anti-atheism.

That doesn’t leave much, does it?

The comedian was told by the student body that the reason he had to sign that contract was so that the event was preserved as a 'safe space' and a place for 'joy, love, and acceptance'.  

God help us!

Yesterday, within twenty minutes, I heard two jokes:

From 1976: A priest a vicar and a rabbit go into a bar.  “What are you doing here?” the priest asked the rabbit.  “I dunno,” said the rabbit.  “I think I’m a misprint.”

From 2020 Ed Byrne, Live at the Apollo: “You should never ask a comedian, ‘Who makes you laugh?’ in the same way you don’t ask a hairdresser ‘who cuts your hair’ or an Audi driver, ‘who do you think drives like a cock?”

Do I need to say more?

I’ll finish with a joke:  Two flowerpots were in a laundrette.  One of them noticed a crack in the other and……

Sorry, I've been told by my proofreader that that’s a container-phobic, ableist joke and she’s not allowing it on this site.  

That’s a pity because it's a cracker and you’d have loved it.

16. Voting Tips and a Solar Eclipse

I don’t ever get angry.  I have never been angry about anything in my life.  I am occasionally saddened or depressed about something. Sometimes I am irritated and once in a while I feel let down - but angry?  No.  

Grumpy?  That’s another matter.  Oh yes, I get grumpy but that’s a different emotion altogether and one that I may come back to at another time.  I think that there’s something rather noble about being grumpy.  

I suppose that’s why, despite the fact that my political views instinctively veer towards the left, I never would describe myself as a socialist.  I’ve not studied politics but it wouldn’t surprise me to read that the definition of a socialist is someone who becomes “quickly and easily aroused to anger”.

I expect that if I were ever presented first hand with evidence of exploitation, maltreatment or abuse of children, I would be stirred to experience anger, but thank God, I never have.  I can never get very excited about the sort of thing that gets socialists into a frenzy.  

During the last fifteen years that I was a teacher, I was the union representative for those colleagues who were members of the NAS/UWT.  I obtained the position of ‘Union Rep’ by default because no one else would do it.  I can’t remember exactly now but it is probable that I was the only person to turn up to the meeting.  

I was a useless delegate for the ‘workers’. The basic problem I had was that in virtually all the cases that I was involved, my gut feeling was that ‘management’ was right and that my member was wrong or at best, at fault.

The official line taken by all the teacher unions was and probably still is, that there is no such thing as a bad teacher. It’s just that some are more effective and produce better results than others, but all teachers are good.

What absolute bollocks!  You only have to spend half an hour in the company of a group of teachers in a pub, with no children within a mile of them, to realise instinctively and very accurately, who can and who can’t.  You don’t have to see them in a classroom to know who has something to offer a school and the kids and those who should get out immediately and go and work in a bank.

I once had to accompany, as the “friend”, a teacher who was to be interviewed by the Headteacher as the first step in a disciplinary procedure aimed at improving her performance, or ultimately, removing her from the school and after that, from the profession.  She was relying on me to support her at the meeting so that the problem she had would go away.

The problem that I had was that I and all the other staff who knew about it, agreed with the Head.  She had to go.  She took frequent, long absences and when she did appear, the kids learnt nothing at all. In fact, they probably made more progress when I, who had never studied the subject at even the most basic level, stood in front of them for an hour than they ever did in a thirteen-week term with her.  

We, the other teachers, were absolutely fed up with covering her classes, thereby losing our non-contact time and the parents were complaining about the succession of non-specialist teachers who were teaching their children.  

Against my better judgement, I followed the union line and that time, she kept her job.  Two years later she resigned, left teaching and got a job in a bank.

As I grow older, my political views are moving ever more clockwise.  Recently, when I have had a rant at the television about for example, British Airways cabin crew going on strike or how pathetic social workers are, Caroline has taken to calling me Adolf.

Yesterday, she looked up from her laptop and asked me some questions:

“Do you think immigrants in Britain should be given a grant to enable them to return to the country they came from?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if they have realised that they have made a dreadful mistake, are miserable and would be happier if they returned, then I think they should be helped.  Perhaps they should be means tested though.”

“Even if the cause of their misery was racism?” Caroline asked.

“Especially if it’s because of racism.”  

“OK,” she said, “Do you think that there should be restrictions on imports of cheap manufactured goods from India and China in order to protect the jobs of British workers?” was the next question.

“Yes, and I’ll tell you why.  It’s because in India the cheap goods are often produced by small children in appalling conditions, who should still be at school.”

“And China?”

“Same thing really, except there it’s because the wages are kept artificially low there.  Also, although we can export financial services to China, most of our manufactured products are barred.  That means that our banks and financial institutions do well in China but British workers get no benefit and cannot compete with such cheap goods.” 

I was warming to this now and was feeling proud of myself for giving correct answers.  Caroline obviously agreed with me as she was putting up no counter arguments. 

“How do you feel about Quangos?” (quasi-autonomous non-governmental organisations) was the next thing she asked.

“Scrap ‘em.  Bureaucratic, wasteful, excessive and probably often corrupt,” I said, thinking that I was really on a roll.  

“Most of them are useless and they duplicate the work of others.  Billions of pounds are being wasted by the regional development agencies because they very rarely produce anything of lasting benefit to the region they serve. Waste of money!”

“Thank you, Adolf,” she said giving me a look that, if it came from anyone else, I would describe as contemptuous but from her, it conveyed sorrow, regret and disappointment.  “You may be interested to know that you are in complete agreement with the British National Party election manifesto.  I’m glad we're in Cayman and you won’t be voting.”

That’s not fair.  I have been tricked.  The worry is that so will several thousand of others before May 6th, the date of the general election in the UK.

Readers from outside the UK and that is 56% of you, should know that the BNP is a far right organisation with a reputation for extreme racism. 

The BNP have recently been ordered by the courts to allow black Britons to become members.  This gesture is obviously meaningless but it does serve to act as a reminder to me of the first time I ever saw a black person and the first time that I ever spoke to one.  I bet that there are very few white readers who can say that.  

The first time I spoke to a black man was in 1961.  when I was 14.  I, with my friend Eddie Spearritt, who five years later was playing football for Ipswich Town in the first division. We had come down to London to stay with my grandmother and every day, we went to The Oval to watch the Test Match between England and Australia.  We were in a railway carriage in a train travelling from Charing Cross to Mottingham in Kent. 

During the journey, a West Indian struck up a conversation with us, deriding the England batsmen for being boring.  Having just watched England score 630 runs in their two innings at a run rate only fractionally above two an over, I had to agree with him. We were on our way back to Nana’s after close of play on the fifth and final day.  It was therefore about 6:30 pm on August 22nd, 1961. 

I was five years old on February 25th, 1952 at around eleven in the morning, when I saw a black man for the first time.  That part of London, sixty years ago, was entirely white.  It isn’t now.

I know the date because I and all of Blackfen Infant School in Sidcup, southeast London, were taken out into the playground, armed with dark photograph negatives, to look at a partial eclipse of the sun.  I remember it all very clearly.  I remember Mrs M (there were two Mrs Smiths and my teacher was ‘Mrs M’) looking at her watch and saying, “NOW” at the moment of maximum effect.  I remember looking around to see how dark it all was and being disappointed that it looked no different than it had done ten minutes earlier.   

In 1999, Caroline and I travelled to a field in the middle of nowhere in France, about 30 miles north of Le Havre, where we had docked the night before after sailing from Portsmouth.  

“The Middle of Nowhere.” What a stupid phrase!   It was a field in France about 20 miles north of Le Havre.  So it was actually, “The Middle of Somewhere” and the ‘Somewhere’ was a field in France, about 20 miles north of Le Havre and a field in France, about 20 miles north of Le Havre is certainly not “The Middle of Nowhere” because, as I have explained earlier, it is most definitely “The Middle of Somewhere”.   Follow that?

We had intended to reach a point about twenty miles south of Dieppe where totality would be longest but so did everyone else in the region. When the traffic became too heavy, we turned right and travelled east.  At around 10:30 we reached the village of Criquetot l’Esneval.  

We had breakfast in the only bar in the village and then went off to find a vantage point.  We found a field that was fallow and completely isolated.  About twenty minutes before totality, Caroline decided that she needed a pee.  

“Go behind that bush,” I suggested.  

“No, I might need more than a pee.”  (Caroline has protested that this is too much detail but it’s staying in because it is true and it could have wrecked the experience of a lifetime.  Talk about poor planning!)

I drove like Damon Hill into the village and waited anxiously for about five minutes, alternately looking at my watch and the sun.  She emerged at last and we got back to the field with about five minutes to spare.

We were standing in front of a barn.  Its walls were whitewashed and in front of the barn was an apple tree in full leaf.  About three minutes before totality, I noticed that the shadows of the leaves on the wall were shaped in crescents in exactly the same shape and proportions as the crescent of the visible sun.

Maybe 30 seconds before totality, all the hundreds of birds feeding on the ground in the field around us, suddenly took off, squawking as they did and flew in a huge, noisy swarm towards a copse some 400 yards away. Dogs were barking in the yard of a nearby farm.

A second before totality, we heard a huge cheer come from the village of Le Criquet, nearly half a mile away.  Then, we saw the "diamond ring" effect, created against the outline of the Moon.  This final sparkling instant signalled the arrival of the moon's shadow. The last ray of sunlight vanished.  We saw Bailey’s beads and totality began.

It hit us. At 12:07 p.m. in a cloudless sky, we saw total eclipse. It was breathtakingly spectacular.  I put down the viewing glasses that I had and looked with my naked eye.  Absolutely beautiful!  All I can say is that it looked just as fantastic as it did in the photos printed in the newspapers the next morning.  What the papers couldn’t convey though, was the complete peace and tranquillity.  It was ethereal.  Totally quiet.  No bird noise and no barking dogs.

Just as I had 47 years earlier, I looked around to see how dark it was.  Near to the horizon, not very, but the sky directly above was as dark as night and stars could be seen.  Totality lasted about one and a half minutes.  I don’t think we spoke during it.  

Right in the middle of totality, something incredible happened.  The mood was rather spoilt by the sound of an engine running at high revs.  Along the lane that ran past the field, a Land Rover was being driven at high speed - away from the direction of the sun!  

The driver must have been fully concentrating on the road to move as fast as that that on a twisty lane and so he won’t have seen anything of the eclipse.  I wish I knew who it was.  I’d like to comfort him and tell him that there will be another on at that same spot in about four hundred years.  I’d also like to suggest to him that he keeps his diary free the next time.

In 1952, during the partial eclipse, I remember being the first to see the black men and I said, urgently, 

“Look!  The Africans.”

On the Monday and Tuesday of that week we had been told about the visitors that the school was to have.  We were told that they were from a country called Nigeria and that country was in Africa.  Mrs M asked us what we knew about Africa.  I told her that there was a desert called the Kalahari and she told me that I was right but actually it was called the Sahara.  Hmm.  I didn’t argue. I was only five.

We were not to stare at them.  It is rude to stare, we were told.  They are just like us; they like the same things as us; find the same things funny or sad as us and they want to know about our schools.  “You are not to call them ‘black’,” said Mrs M.  “That’s rude.  They’re coloured.”  

“What are they?” she asked.

“Coloured,” we chanted.

“Good,” she said.  “Remember that.”

The last thing Mrs M said, as we went outside to observe the eclipse was, “Don’t look at the sun with your naked eye and if we see The Africans, remember that they’re coloured and not black and above all, DON’T STARE!”

Standing next to Mrs M, on the edge of a group of about 150 infants, I put down my negative, feeling that the eclipse had not quite lived up to its billing.  I saw a group of five people coming from the main building and heading in our direction. In the middle of the group was the head teacher.  She was dwarfed by the four men accompanying her.  But it was not their size that grabbed my and everyone else’s attention.

“Look Miss, The Africans,” I shouted.

“OK,” said Mrs M, turning to look in the direction that I was pointing, “don’t stare, remember don’t.…...”

Her voice tailed off and she became silent and open mouthed in wonder, STARING, as we all were, at four magnificent Nigerians resplendent in loose, flowing national dress.  Their clothes and circular caps were made up of red, yellow, orange, green, brown and black.   The men walked towards us in wondrous, mind-blowing, kaleidoscopic, national costume.

“Don’t stare,” said Mrs M, despairingly and of course, none of us did.