The Thief of Time.

I am a wood elf. I travel the world scavenging for things that might be useful or that I can sell. I have to kill various animals, people and undead creatures in my line of work and I'm especially skilful at killing dragons. It's not my day job though.

I have recently had a birthday and received many interesting and useful presents. One of which was a new game for my Xbox and I don't know whether to curse or cheer about it. The problem is that I get carried away playing it at the expense of more worthy pursuits, like painting the kitchen ceiling.

There are two camps of people, those who play computer games and those who don't understand the attraction. I have always had a vivid imagination with a particular slant towards fantasy and adventure and if these games had been around when I was young, I would have been one of those reclusive teenagers who seldom leave the bedroom.

I've played several games over the years and every time I finish one I promise to get myself a life. I have been known to switch it on early evening and still be beavering away killing zombies when the sun comes up. It's all so pointless.

Most women are in the 'don't get it' camp including my dearly beloved. She was seriously tickled when she discovered I was a wood elf, the ribbing has been merciless. Even I have to admit it's ridiculous. I don't find it relaxing because it's so intense and frustrating and I feel guilty about the wasted time. Then there's the lethal combination of game and alcohol. I wake up with a hangover and can't even remember what happened in my alternative world.

I shall try and resist the pull of the thing but it's hard, I think I'm addicted. Perhaps there's a self-help group I can join. I've tried to ration myself to an hour a day but there's always just another little bit you need to finish, then another, then another. Devious bastards those game designers.

And The Point Is...

You're only as old as you feel, they say. Age is just a number, they say. I know people in their seventies who haven't grown up and I know people in their twenties who seem to have been born straight into middle age with all the cares of the world on their shoulders'. Personally, I think I'm about 26. 

Last week, I went out with some good friends of mine. By pure fluke we started off in the pub where I used to hang out with my punk rocker buddies back in the 70s and were I had my first pint. The pub had hardly changed in the thirty years since I last darkened its doorstep and the memories came flooding back. After a while I went to the bar for another round and was just about to launch into my reminisces with the pretty, young barmaid when I managed to stop myself. It's the classic old man's mistake. On no planet in the known universe is a young girl interested in the ramblings of an old drunk talking about a time before she was born. I still think I'm 26 but clearly, if you can remember a time when you could get three pints for a quid this can't be the case.

I've had a go at growing old gracefully and acting my age but, when push comes to shove, I would rather be in the pub than the garden (unless it's a pub garden). I have tried to take finances and wearing beige more seriously but I find it all a bit dull. I'm in robust health so have no hospital stories to swap or ailments to complain about. I still use the term granddad in a derogatory fashion when roundly cursing other car drivers whilst conveniently forgetting I am a granddad myself.

The only thing that reminds me of my age is the mirror. Just like Dorian Gray I remain young while the face looking back at me gets older. Therefore, the point is, I might think I am 26 years old but the rest of the world knows I'm a delusional old git.

The Church of Rock 'N' Roll

One of the definitions of a religion is; a particular system of belief or worship. There's a group of people who fall under this definition but who are not a recognised religion. There are certainly more of them than there are people claiming to be Jedi. No-one has done a head count but there are probably more adherents to this sect worldwide than regular Church of England worshipers. This sect is known to the wider world as Elvis fans. 

They have many similarities with other organised religions. There is a central figure who they believe to be the one and only true deity. He inspires a devotion that bears no truck with any suggestion that Elvis is not the king of rock and roll.  They gather together to worship in dusty, backwater pubs by listening to Elvis' music on the juke box. They are easily identifiable by the dodgy hairdos that resemble quiffs and strangely dated outfits and, like most religions, is more popular with the older generation than the younger.

All religions have a place of pilgrimage and Graceland stands as a gathering spot for people the world over.  Like most religions they have worldwide gatherings to meet up and celebrate his life where they choose the best impersonator. The big event in Europe is at the Birmingham Metropole in January 2014 if you're interested.

Of course, no one has claimed that Elvis created the universe but the Buddhists  and Jedi don't have anything to say about it either. Elvis isn't going to answer any prayers but perhaps his music has helped people in that indefinable way that having a strong faith does. The Question is what the followers would call themselves, Presleyites. Elvishists? Answers on a postcard please.

Achtung Baby.

Britain used to have an Empire and it was the largest Empire the world has ever seen. The French, Dutch and Portuguese have also had a crack at world domination and made a fairly good job of it. The Greeks and Italians under the guise of Romans are legendary for spreading their respective cultures and the benefits of their wisdom. The Austro-Hungarian Empire was the second largest country in Europe after Russia at its peak, but what about the Germans?

The Germans have proved a dismal failure at world domination despite at least two serious attempts. Even during the great land grabs of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries they were non-starters apart from a few footholds in Africa. In all other respects they are a great nation. They have a fistful of Nobel prizes, some of the greatest composers ever born and have been one of the world's industrial giants. They are a proud and warlike nation, however, they are rubbish at conquest. 

One of the enduring legacies of our formally vast Empire is that a large portion of the world speak English including the Americans who make most of the film and music which is exported to the rest of the globe. This is great as it means that I can converse with waiters and bar-staff with no problems at all when I'm holiday. Not so the Germans; no-one speaks German except the Germans and a smattering of their neighbours. This means that to converse on the world stage they are forced to speak English. Considering they are the financial and industrial powerhouse of Europe and carry the most political clout in the EU, this constant reminder of their inadequacies must be extremely galling for them.

In the order of world's rankings for languages spoken, German comes a laggardly 10th with Spanish third and English second if you include non-native speakers (fourth if you don't). More people speak Japanese than German. Clearly then, the point of the EU is to conquer Europe by economic stealth and pass a law to make everyone speak German so they don't feel left out when on holiday. No wonder they appear austere and sour most of the time, it's a lack of good holidays.

Uninvited Guests

Well, here we are, back from holiday and what a fine holiday it was. We went to Los Cristianos in Tenerife and stayed in self-catering apartments a mere stone's throw from the seafront. The holiday was highly satisfactory in every respect except one, our unexpected flatmates.

I don't have anything personal against cockroaches, I am sure they are fine fellows in their own way but I would rather not share a room with the freeloaders. We found three initially so I searched the flat from top to bottom to get rid of any more. As the little beggars can fly I thought they may have come in via the windows so I closed them all to ensure no further problems.

We returned to the apartment that evening and found one in the kitchen and another in the bathroom which I hastily dispatched to cockroach heaven. Using my Sherlock Holmes-like powers of deduction I decided they must already be in the hotel and not sneaking in from outside.

We spoke to the receptionist in the morning who made the appropriate shocked noises. She appeared to write something down and promised to pass it on to the management. She did the same thing the next day when we reported we had found two more. We also mentioned it to the cleaner who also made the correct shocked expressions. She went and got a can of spray and waved it in the general direction of the corners of the room and then fled faster than a teenage shoplifter. Later that night we found a baby one on the bathroom floor and another hanging in the shower curtain.

I don't know much about cockroaches except that they like the damp and darkness, they can hide in the walls and breed anywhere.
I had worked out that they were coming from the bathroom so I blocked up every possible access point and liberally sprayed the room and doorways with a tin of cockroach killer. We kept the door shut and left the bathroom light on day and night to discourage the little critters which seemed to work.

I decided to ring the holiday rep anyway in case of similar reports. I spoke to a couple of people over the next two days from our tour company who both promised to get our rep to contact us but she remained suspiciously absent.

We spoke to the receptionist again just to see if there was any interest from the management. She picked up the phone and gabbled in Spanish for a few minutes then asked us to pop along to the manager's office. We walked in and were met by a girl in her very early 20's. 'Ola' I said are you the manager.
'Si' she replied.
'It's about the cockroaches' I said expecting her to know what I was talking about as she had just spent a few minutes speaking to the receptionist.
She appeared to be deeply confused and replied 'no speak English'. We spent about five minutes going round in verbal circles before cutting our loses and retreating. Call me a cynic but I think she was playing dumb.

I don't know the protocol for cockroaches as we have never had a problem with them before in all our years of going away. I would have thought it was something the hotel management would take seriously but apparently not. We have never had to try and contact a holiday rep before either; perhaps they are all shy and elusive creatures. It's certainly not a complaint as it didn't ruin the holiday and if we had made more of a fuss, they would probably have changed our room or even our hotel; I would have expected a little more support though. Anyway, we have come home now and we shall add our review to the hotel website while the uninvited guests multiply at an alarming rate behind the walls.

Join the Party

Back in the late 70s and early 80s, the drinking culture was not like it is now. We didn't have the range of strong lagers, real ales, shots and alcopops that are available today. Instead we had to make do with watery bitter and weak lager, unless you wanted to progress to the hard stuff. I used to drink a bitter called Double Diamond and, if you wanted lager, it was generally Skol. The mildly serious alcoholics drank cider but the more dedicated drank Carlsberg Special Brew which looks and tastes like a liquefied, nicotine-based tar.  However, if you were on your way to a party or a night of underage drinking down by the canal, the thing to have was a Watneys Party Seven.

For those that haven't sampled the delights of the Watneys Party Seven, or its smaller sibling the Party Four, I shall explain the concept. Take a large paint tin, fill it to the brim with seven pints of watery bitter,  seal it so you can't easily access the contents, then sell it as a ready-made party in a tin. It was great. The only way you could get booze in those days was either to steal it off your parents, or visit an off-license and convince the watchful gatekeeper you were old enough to buy the goods. Therefore, a man with a seven pints of beer became instantly popular.

The Party Seven could never win any awards for design or convenience and there were several problems with it.  Firstly, it was extremely heavy to carry around. Secondly, you could only access it with a tin opener of the type that punched a hole in the top of the can. Of course, we didn't carry such things around with us, and I remember trying to punch holes with any sharp piece of metal or stone we could find lying around. We were lucky we didn't injure ourselves. Anyone with a knowledge of physics will know that you need two holes so the air can flow into one while the beer flows out the other. This made the hole punching exercise doubly difficult. The third problem was a result of the first two problems. Because you agitated the beer while transporting it, then shook it up further trying to open it; you often ended up wearing a pint of sticky, brown liquid.

The next hazard involved trying to decant a very heavy tin into a receptacle you could drink out of. This time it was the carpet that took the soaking. If you managed to open it correctly and didn't spray the first pint all over yourself, you were faced with problem five. Because the tin was so full, as you tipped it up, the beer would flow out of the top hole as well and dribble onto your shoes. Oh what fun we had.

For all its faults, the Party Seven was an icon of its age. Those wags at Watneys may well have been having a joke with us by marketing their fizzy bomb in a tin but we will never see its like again; fortunately. For all you budding drunkards out there who are too young to remember the distinctive red can, in the words of Harold Macmillan, 'you never had it so good.'

The Bigger They Are.

Randy Newman once wrote a song called 'Short People' apparently mocking those of diminutive stature. Although it was actually a satirical song about prejudice most people missed the point and thought it was actually about, well, short people. As a vertically challenged person myself, I am here to tell you big is not necessarily beautiful.

My Stepfather is a lovely chap but suffers from excessive tallness. I believe he is about 6ft 7ins tall and stocky with it.  In the days before the internet he had to get his clothes and shoes from specialist shops. Not for him a quick trip down the High Street for a new suit off the peg, people of his size just weren't catered for and generally still aren't. I can remember my brother and I being fascinated by his size 13 shoes which looked big enough to climb into and sail across the English Channel. A couple of my friends are well over six foot and recount stories of nearly knocking themselves out on Low beams and doorways. They probably live in a permanent state of semi concussion. I used to go and see a few bands with one of my height afflicted buddies. I would be pushing my way to front to be able to see and he would be hanging round at the back, why? Because he was so self-conscious of his height he didn't want to block peoples view. I don't have any such foibles.

And it's not only people, even stuffed toys can be too big. When our grandson was ill some relatives bought him a huge, cuddly, toy dog. Their intentions were for the best and they were just trying to show their affection but it stands about 5ft tall and is bigger than a 10 year old child. It's too big for him to play with and takes up the entire corner of a room. My lovely wife has already scared herself once by coming across it in the dark thinking it's an intruder. His mother is worried about putting it in his bedroom in case he wakes in the night and it frightens him. When we drove up the motorway to deliver the cuddly dog to our grandson, I had it strapped into the back of the car like an elderly relative. I'm sure we created much amusement for the other traffic.

We took our one of our sons on holiday to Corfu. There was a little shop near the beach which sold all the flip flops, beach paraphernalia, inflatable li-los and the like. Hanging up in the rafters was an inflatable killer whale; it was huge. Of course our son wanted one. Against my better judgement we indulged him and bought it and for some reason, I know not why, he named it Jeffery. The vendor cheerfully blew it up for us and we headed to the beach. I must admit we spent a merry time trying to ride it in the sea and towing him around on it. The problem was that every time we let go of it the wind would catch it and take it swiftly out to sea and I would have to swim like Mark Spitz to get it back again. The same problem happened when it was on the beach, a tiny gust of wind and I would be racing up the beach to retrieve it. My wife is still laughing about it.

We used to have a silver birch tree in our front garden that was planted when the estate was built. Over the years it grew to be an impressive specimen and became a beautiful tree. Unfortunately, it became so large it blocked out the light and filled the neighbours guttering with leaves every autumn. It was just too big and had to go although I did feel bad about it.

Pity the poor roadies who have had their backs broken over the years by moving those Marshall stacks; they look impressive on stage but some poor sod has got to lug them about. It's hard to look cool when you are dragging a speaker cabinet up a flight of stairs.

So the moral of story is big is not necessarily better and, if you are deciding which musical instrument to take up, remember; It's better to be the sexy, glamorous saxophonist leaving the gig with his instrument case in one hand and a girl in the other than the timpani player, dripping in sweat, loading his kit into back of the van while the rest of his mates party.