questions 161 to 170
question from Mrs Mittens
B A Y, B A Y, B A Y C I T Y with an R O double L E R S, Bay City Rollers Are The Best. Are they?
No.
question from Mrs Mittens
In one of your previous answers to my questions I was horrified to hear that you ‘affectionately’ call Jessica Fletcher, Jess. This can only mean one thing, she has weaved her evil spell over you. Explain yourself or be forever destined to watch Murder She Wrote re-runs.
There has been no weaved on me spell!
The great and glorious Ms Fletcher is the bestest amateur sleuth ever to tread her stylish gumshoes over the land that criminals walk. Fear is spread, justice is dealt, balance is restored. That is not some hocus-pocus voodoo, that is unavoidable, irretrievable fact; the kind of fact that keeps honest men awake at night, staring at the light coming in through the gaps betwixt door and frame.
Let it be known on this day that I devote all to the great crime-solver of Cabot Cove. Oh, for all coves to be protected by her web of truth that traps the flies of illegality in their sticky threads. Without her, there would be anarchy: blood on the dance floor and nobody around to mop that self-same up.
The great and glorious Ms Fletcher is the bestest amateur sleuth ever to tread her stylish gumshoes over the land that criminals walk. Fear is spread, justice is dealt, balance is restored. That is not some hocus-pocus voodoo, that is unavoidable, irretrievable fact; the kind of fact that keeps honest men awake at night, staring at the light coming in through the gaps betwixt door and frame.
Let it be known on this day that I devote all to the great crime-solver of Cabot Cove. Oh, for all coves to be protected by her web of truth that traps the flies of illegality in their sticky threads. Without her, there would be anarchy: blood on the dance floor and nobody around to mop that self-same up.
question from stacy
have you, perchance, any idea how to get a small chipmunk out of your apartment?
Got a rodent problem? Need a small, fluffy creature out of your lounge, bathroom or pantry?
You need the new rodent-a-go-go! Our patent-pending technology allows you, the scurrying-animal hater to rid your abode of that which you despise the most!
Free yourself of house mice, dormice, chipmunks, porcupines and chinchillas in a flash! The specially designed rotating blades* installed in your floor slice, dice and cube the furry home-invaders until there’s nothing left.
But what about the aftermath? Surely, there’ll be bloody intestinal detritus to mop up in the morn.
Fear not! Rodent-a-go-go:Plus includes a special disinfectant fluid** that will wash away any evidence of infestation. But that’s not all: we’ll throw in enough of the highly-acidic juice to clean up after over 250 kills.
Be free of hamsters, gophers, beavers and prairie dogs forever. Live the rat-free dream, and live it on your own terms.
Bang! And the mouse is gone.
* May also kill babies.
** May also drown house-pets.
You need the new rodent-a-go-go! Our patent-pending technology allows you, the scurrying-animal hater to rid your abode of that which you despise the most!
Free yourself of house mice, dormice, chipmunks, porcupines and chinchillas in a flash! The specially designed rotating blades* installed in your floor slice, dice and cube the furry home-invaders until there’s nothing left.
But what about the aftermath? Surely, there’ll be bloody intestinal detritus to mop up in the morn.
Fear not! Rodent-a-go-go:Plus includes a special disinfectant fluid** that will wash away any evidence of infestation. But that’s not all: we’ll throw in enough of the highly-acidic juice to clean up after over 250 kills.
Be free of hamsters, gophers, beavers and prairie dogs forever. Live the rat-free dream, and live it on your own terms.
Bang! And the mouse is gone.
* May also kill babies.
** May also drown house-pets.
question from ratan
Is it getting heavy?
It’s not heavy as such; it’s more the general size and unwieldy nature of it. But we continue to struggle, and I give you my word as Lord of the realm that we will prevail.
question from Mrs Mittens
If a spider vacates its web because it has been eaten or died or run off with a sailor, what is the spider etiquette for moving in on a vacant web? Is it frowned upon if a spider is too lazy to weave its own web, or is it seen as a waste of a web if left vacant?
Ah, how time changes. The once-simple lives of the Spiders, thrust into doubt and intrigue by the never-ending stampede of technological progress. In the heady days of yore, Spiders would never even think of moving into a corpse-web. The shame of it all! Lazy spiders were left to hang on their own gland-wire, rotting in the heat of the summer’s afternoon.
But today, Mrs Mittens, today is a dark time for up-standing, honourable spider-folk. The once-noble rejection of spquatting has given way to the click of a tiny foot on a mouse’s button. The web has met the Web, and it’s a tangled one indeed.
This does mean that spiders are on the ladder, and climbing like only an eight-legged beast can. We’ve got give years, until, what a surprise, they’ve gone from merely bidding for webs on eBay to running the whole planet. My brain hurts a lot, just thinking about it.
But today, Mrs Mittens, today is a dark time for up-standing, honourable spider-folk. The once-noble rejection of spquatting has given way to the click of a tiny foot on a mouse’s button. The web has met the Web, and it’s a tangled one indeed.
This does mean that spiders are on the ladder, and climbing like only an eight-legged beast can. We’ve got give years, until, what a surprise, they’ve gone from merely bidding for webs on eBay to running the whole planet. My brain hurts a lot, just thinking about it.
question from Mrs Mittens
I really enjoy ‘Law and Order’ so am appalled that yet again Angela Lansbury is trying to ruin my viewing pleasure by appearing in 3 episodes, will her stalking of me never stop? That said, my question is, I’m a bit bored of Lost already, can you tell me what happens in the end so I dont have to waste the next few weeks watching it?
Lost is one of the most talked-about televisual productions in the last year. Firmly in the top ten, but not quite managing to break into the much fancier top five. I would not dare to give away the endings to the more popular programmes, such as: Cash in the Attic, Murder, She Wrote or A Week of Dressing Dangerously, but I’m sure nobody would be too put out if the ending of Lost is revealed.
During the course of the first series, we discover that the mysterious island is in fact The Isle of Man; moved far south by a group of Iranian dissidents, their plan to recapture the devil-may-care antics of their youth and also bring about the end of American hegemony. The creatures in the forest turn out to be a team of mechanics, left behind after a particularly unsuccessful post-TT race party and left to go feral. Jack, Locke and Charlie attempt to bring the two-wheeled artisans into the group.
This ends in failure and terror. Sawyer teams up with Sayid and Sun to produce a rival motorbike team, with Sawyer’s collection of useful, salvaged items; Sayid’s technical prowess and Sun’s uncanny abilities with herb-based healing techniques. I will leave some suspense intact by leaving the rider of the “Team SSS” bike a mystery.
The series ends on a cliff-hanger: The two teams’ bikes seem irrevocably destined to hit each other in a metal-crunching, bone-mashing, life-ending tragedy. Of course, in the next series, the whole sorry saga starts all over again.
During the course of the first series, we discover that the mysterious island is in fact The Isle of Man; moved far south by a group of Iranian dissidents, their plan to recapture the devil-may-care antics of their youth and also bring about the end of American hegemony. The creatures in the forest turn out to be a team of mechanics, left behind after a particularly unsuccessful post-TT race party and left to go feral. Jack, Locke and Charlie attempt to bring the two-wheeled artisans into the group.
This ends in failure and terror. Sawyer teams up with Sayid and Sun to produce a rival motorbike team, with Sawyer’s collection of useful, salvaged items; Sayid’s technical prowess and Sun’s uncanny abilities with herb-based healing techniques. I will leave some suspense intact by leaving the rider of the “Team SSS” bike a mystery.
The series ends on a cliff-hanger: The two teams’ bikes seem irrevocably destined to hit each other in a metal-crunching, bone-mashing, life-ending tragedy. Of course, in the next series, the whole sorry saga starts all over again.
question from Mrs Mittens
A few weeks ago in an episode of Diagnosis Murder, when Dick Van Dyke was summing up at the end - the murderer said ‘Look, this is not a drawing room and you are not Jessica Fletcher’. I am appalled that this woman’s name was mentioned in a tv show of such quality (and her name mentioned in front of Dick Van Dyke) no less. That said, my question is, can you think of a band that is more earnest than Tears for Fears. I keep seeing their horrible earnest little faces in memories I have of their videos and cant remember seeing more earnest expressions elsewhere in the ‘pop’ world.
The Fletch (not to be confused with Fletch) does get around. From Maine to California to Hawaii, she invades the territory of not only the good doctor and son but also the moustachioed, Ferrari-driving, shirt wearing private investigator Magnum (PI). But ask yourself, does this go far enough?
Of course it doesn’t.
Here, accept these other evil-doer-seeker-outers that I would like to see combine their powers with Jess (as she is affectionately known to me):
Quincy
Picture the scene: Gruff, curmudgeonly pathologist Quincy ME visits Cabot Cove only to discover that the dim-witted sheriff is dealing ecstasy to the octogenarians in an attempt to boost sales in his nephew’s glow stick and dummy factory. Before long, the old folk are dying wrinkly, dry-skinned, loved-up deaths and Quince is on the case. Inquiries inquire into the spate of mature expirations, until Ms Fletcher bounds onto the scene with theories of wills, greed, jealousy and revenge.
Who is correct? Can Quincy and Jessica get to the root of the dastardly deeds in the Cove?
Find out next week!
Bergerac
Lansbury. Nettles. On-screen dynamite.
Surely a combination made in celluloid heaven, few can deny the raw sexual magnetism between two of TV’s most powerful performers of their generation. Suave, but damaged detective Jim and the soft focussed beauty of Jess on screen at last. In this tale of passion and murder, aged writer Fletcher, J takes a trip to the sleepy isle of Jersey to avenge the murder of her adopted son, Juan. The local constabulary assign booze-loving hard-nut Bergerac to oversee her case, who is naturally hesitant to help this outsider. He has duties, after all.
Will Juan see justice? Will Jessica and Jim fall hopelessly in love and adopt a whole new child?
Tune in to see the greatest story never told!
Tears for Fears manage to give the impression of earnestness, but how genuine this is remains lost to the ages. Modern earnest types fail to achieve this perfect veneer and end up giving the impression of smugness. U2, Coldplay and Paul McCartney all fall into this self-satisfaction trap and oh my, the bile.
Of course it doesn’t.
Here, accept these other evil-doer-seeker-outers that I would like to see combine their powers with Jess (as she is affectionately known to me):
Quincy
Picture the scene: Gruff, curmudgeonly pathologist Quincy ME visits Cabot Cove only to discover that the dim-witted sheriff is dealing ecstasy to the octogenarians in an attempt to boost sales in his nephew’s glow stick and dummy factory. Before long, the old folk are dying wrinkly, dry-skinned, loved-up deaths and Quince is on the case. Inquiries inquire into the spate of mature expirations, until Ms Fletcher bounds onto the scene with theories of wills, greed, jealousy and revenge.
Who is correct? Can Quincy and Jessica get to the root of the dastardly deeds in the Cove?
Find out next week!
Bergerac
Lansbury. Nettles. On-screen dynamite.
Surely a combination made in celluloid heaven, few can deny the raw sexual magnetism between two of TV’s most powerful performers of their generation. Suave, but damaged detective Jim and the soft focussed beauty of Jess on screen at last. In this tale of passion and murder, aged writer Fletcher, J takes a trip to the sleepy isle of Jersey to avenge the murder of her adopted son, Juan. The local constabulary assign booze-loving hard-nut Bergerac to oversee her case, who is naturally hesitant to help this outsider. He has duties, after all.
Will Juan see justice? Will Jessica and Jim fall hopelessly in love and adopt a whole new child?
Tune in to see the greatest story never told!
Tears for Fears manage to give the impression of earnestness, but how genuine this is remains lost to the ages. Modern earnest types fail to achieve this perfect veneer and end up giving the impression of smugness. U2, Coldplay and Paul McCartney all fall into this self-satisfaction trap and oh my, the bile.
question from ratan
If you were transformed into a penguin for 24 hours, would you consider it a blessing or a curse?
Both.
Being a penguin, even for a day, is a blessing. Turning back into a dirty human would be the greatest curse for any temporary sphenisciformes spheniscidae.
Would I to be a Little Blue Penguin? The joy!
Being a penguin, even for a day, is a blessing. Turning back into a dirty human would be the greatest curse for any temporary sphenisciformes spheniscidae.
Would I to be a Little Blue Penguin? The joy!
question from dominic
are you still alive,is there life after yorkshirepost?
It’s particularly painfully poignant that this question was asked now.
Let us introduce ourselves: We are the custodians of the gubbins experience, brought in by the mourning family of Philip to oversee the answering of future inquiries; while we cannot possibly hope to achieve the lofty heights of wisdom as displayed by the then alive, but now dead, Philip, it is our solemn duty to carry on his legacy from now until such a time as all the peoples of the world are brought together in the unison of ultimate correctness.
Our work is shrouded in darkness; our plans covered by some kind of thick burlap; our fears are written down and kept in a sturdy box; our hopes are tattooed on the back of a really resentful whippet. In this light, we like to see ourselves as the new Knights Templar, or possibly the Mujahidin.
Let us introduce ourselves: We are the custodians of the gubbins experience, brought in by the mourning family of Philip to oversee the answering of future inquiries; while we cannot possibly hope to achieve the lofty heights of wisdom as displayed by the then alive, but now dead, Philip, it is our solemn duty to carry on his legacy from now until such a time as all the peoples of the world are brought together in the unison of ultimate correctness.
Our work is shrouded in darkness; our plans covered by some kind of thick burlap; our fears are written down and kept in a sturdy box; our hopes are tattooed on the back of a really resentful whippet. In this light, we like to see ourselves as the new Knights Templar, or possibly the Mujahidin.
question from Kami
Why do the British have so many puddings? And why are trunks boots, chips crisps, french fries chips, and apartments flats? And why did we take the ‘u’ out of words like color?
In these times of war and fear of attacks from within, every citizen needs something to make them feel safe. Our American friends have guns, big cars and hats; The French have garlic, boules and hats; Swedes have vodka, porn and hats. The noble British, we have cricket, hats, and the humble pudding.
Given the erratic state of the world, each of the Queen’s subject has been given an emergency pudding in case of crisis. These were sent out in sealed, opaque boxes, each signed personally by Princes Charles and Philip, and nobody knows what kind of pudding they have generously received. Could it be Yorkshire? Plum? Rice? Bread and butter?
This sense of awe and intrigue is what keeps the national spirit afloat in these dark, mournful times.
Time is tight, and I wish to return to shaking and sniffing the queen’s box, so I will politely ignore the middle part of your query. Ask again some time, and your dreams may well come true. For the last question is fundamentally linked to the first.
London, 1941. The Blitz. Our plucky cockneys, knee deep in rubble and missing the smiles and laughter of the children, needed something to feel positive about. One way of achieving this was to collect metal from railings and say it was going towards the war effort. This particular tactic backfired when the populace were still covered in their own houses and grannies, but now lacked fences. Londoners love fences, especially metal ones, even to this day. President Roosevelt, far from donating troops or puddings, decreed that all Us from words like colour, flavour and savour would be stripped from American lexicons and shipped, en masse, to Bristol.
But it went further. Not only were Us dispatched to our green isle, but we also received shipments of Hughs, loos, stews, Jews and shoes. Well, this is the official story. In reality, a single Jewish gentleman named Hugh, sat on a loo in only his shoes eating a lovely stew, turned up in Portishead demanding some glue on a ewe and a pew.
Given the erratic state of the world, each of the Queen’s subject has been given an emergency pudding in case of crisis. These were sent out in sealed, opaque boxes, each signed personally by Princes Charles and Philip, and nobody knows what kind of pudding they have generously received. Could it be Yorkshire? Plum? Rice? Bread and butter?
This sense of awe and intrigue is what keeps the national spirit afloat in these dark, mournful times.
Time is tight, and I wish to return to shaking and sniffing the queen’s box, so I will politely ignore the middle part of your query. Ask again some time, and your dreams may well come true. For the last question is fundamentally linked to the first.
London, 1941. The Blitz. Our plucky cockneys, knee deep in rubble and missing the smiles and laughter of the children, needed something to feel positive about. One way of achieving this was to collect metal from railings and say it was going towards the war effort. This particular tactic backfired when the populace were still covered in their own houses and grannies, but now lacked fences. Londoners love fences, especially metal ones, even to this day. President Roosevelt, far from donating troops or puddings, decreed that all Us from words like colour, flavour and savour would be stripped from American lexicons and shipped, en masse, to Bristol.
But it went further. Not only were Us dispatched to our green isle, but we also received shipments of Hughs, loos, stews, Jews and shoes. Well, this is the official story. In reality, a single Jewish gentleman named Hugh, sat on a loo in only his shoes eating a lovely stew, turned up in Portishead demanding some glue on a ewe and a pew.