Old Parrot’s Almanack 2012
As is customary at this time of year, here are some of Old Parrot’s eerily accurate predictions for what the next twelve months have in store for us:
The Economy: The severity of the austerity programme hits home as people realise that not only can they not afford to live, but it can’t afford to die either.
Chancellor George Osbourne introduces an Ashes and Dust Tax, payable before the would-be deceased is permitted to shuffle off his or her mortal coil.
A Sad Solution
One of the things I like about blogging is it’s a great place to complain about the mundane. Life’s little irritants I call them.
Back in October, it was our new radio alarm clock. Despite its relatively high price tag, it wasn’t much good at its job.
That’s it on the left. It looks quite stylish with its mirrored finish through which the digital clock digits shine, but that is about as good as it gets.
Natural Order
Even though it is still technically a holiday in our house, my daughter’s nose is already back to the grindstone as she works on several projects for her TEFL studies and teaching me things I didn’t know I knew.
She was putting together a grammar test to compare the awareness of grammatical rules in native and non-native English speakers (NS and NNS). Her theory is that NS will use the rules without realising they’re doing so while NNS will be much more aware of the rules.
X is for Xhosa
| Can I complete the whole of Round 9 of ABC Wednesday based on our four week stay in South Africa in February? Click on the photos to enlarge. |
There was a black stand-up comedian in Cape Town who told a joke that went something like this:
‘A lot of my white friends ask me if I speak Zulu when I’m at home. You know why they ask that?
‘Because they can’t f*****g well say Xhosa!’
The joke only works if you understand that Xhosa is the major language spoken by black Capetonians and is itself an extremely difficult word to pronounce .
Normal Service Resumed
It is good to be back after my sojourn in Cleckhuddersfax. Apologies to anyone confused by the parochial surrealism of my Maurice Wilson posts and thanks to those who joined in via the comments.
The exciting news while I’ve been away is that Shooting Parrots was awarded the gold medal in the Laughing Horse Blog Awards for 2011.
The award was particularly appreciated as the committee is chaired by Yorkshire Pudding, illustrating that the Lancashire/Yorkshire rivalry bark is worse than its bite.
It’s all a dream and illusion now
| If you find my stories of my new life in a strange land confusing, you might want to read the tale of Maurice Wilson from the beginning. |
I don’t know if it was the Brussels sprouts or the Christmas pudding that did for me, but after the exertions of the football match, the meal and the soporific effect of Yorkshire Television, I dozed off into a deep sleep in the armchair.
I woke in the early hours feeling the chill. The only sounds were the hiss of the gas fire and the high-pitched hum from the Rediffusion tv, its screen blank, apart from the white dot in the centre indicating that it had closed down for the night.
When Glad Tidings Were Brung
| If you find my stories of my new life in a strange land confusing, you might want to read the tale of Maurice Wilson from the beginning. |
Detective Snow called this morning like the Archangel Gabriel bringing tidings of great joy. The Yorkists had declared a Christmas truce in the War of Maurice Wilson’s Underwear.
In the spirit of the season, they invited me to play in an armistice football match in the no man’s land that is the mud and cinder pitch at the end of Bethesda Street, but it turned out to be a Yorkist ruse to kick seven bells out of me.
Twas the Night Before Christmas
| If you find my stories of my new life in a strange land confusing, you might want to read the tale of Maurice Wilson from the beginning. |
Christmas Eve in Cleckhuddersfax and I believe we are finally beginning to settle into our new surroundings.
We had a visit from the Carol Listeners last night. This is the Yorkshire version of carolling in which groups of people knock on your door and you have to sing them a song and then pay them for listening. Or else they take your first born child or television, whichever is handiest.
Deck the Halls
| If you find my stories of my new life in a strange land confusing, you might want to read the tale of Maurice Wilson from the beginning. |
With all the excitement of joining the police protection programme, one thing we haven’t had time to do is decorate the flat to make it feel more like Christmas, so we decided to risk being spotted by murderous Yorkists with a trip into town to see what we could find.
Pc Derek insisted that I should wear a disguise for my own safety, one that would help me blend in with the crowd and wouldn’t draw attention. That’s it on the left. A sort of Yo-ho-ho Z Z Top look.
Truth is like the sun*
In case you didn’t know it (and I’m sure that you do) it’s the winter solstice today which means we’re as far away from the sun as it is possible to get. Or at least it feels that way in Cleckhuddersfax.
We’ve been here for the best part of a week now and I don’t think the sun has shown its face once. In fact, the only way of knowing whether it is night or day is to check if the street lights are on or not.
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