365 Ways With Words

Changing Your Number To Paper

So you change your phone number – great. Only it isn’t, because now you’ve now unleashed a whole cascade of changes. And that cascade could lead to all sorts of problems.

Let’s start with the reason for changing the number itself. Your tariff was bad. OK, so why not change it? After all, you just have to pick up a new number from a different company and hey-presto! – a new number. Only, if you have a bank credit/debit transfer payment with the old company, then you’ll have to cancel the payments or be billed for something you did not use. That’s a banking matter, of course – but you still have to go back to the old phone company and cancel payments. And if you have a few months to go on your old tariff, then you’ll have to finish paying them off too. Does anyone actually remember their phone number these days? Good luck remembering the prior company’s account details – phone number and pin, etc, after a few days with the new one. A visit to the old company will also quickly reveal their business practices when it comes to departing customers.

Phew! So that bit’s over. Except the next cascade is with registration of online services. Want a quick SMS to confirm change of phone number to later change passwords on Google, Facebook, for cinema bookings, travel, and more importantly with ebanking? Well, now you can’t because you’ve just changed that very phone number. They can't send you a message because they don't know your new number! Because many of these online services are linked (a dubious connection if ever there was one), then your old ‘one ring to rule them all’ phone number is now a useless set of digits. One-by-one, all of these accounts have to be brought up to speed with your new phone number because only you can do this: confirm password–enter new number–reconfirm password–confirm change of details with requested SMS–reconnect with newly requested SMS-activated change of details–receive email confirming change of details… it’s such a bloody drag!

And then there’s the fun stuff, like telling everybody listed on your phone that you’ve changed your number. How do you do this? Send everyone an email? Throw it out on Facebook so that every Tom, Dick and Harry can see and possibly use it to access your information elsewhere? What about SMS-ing everyone in turn, or even in a group text? Or how about not telling them; a sifting mechanism to weed out those ‘friends’ you aren’t comfortable that somehow obtained your number in the past?

I have a radical solution to all this – it’s called pen and paper. This ancient technology allowed for creative expressions of connectivity between ordinary folk. It was permanent, unless it was permanently deleted, i.e. burnt, and definitely helped with literacy in terms of spelling, punctuation and grammar. Paper letters were also something to be collected. Important correspondences were tied up with red ribbons and kept in a tin box or knicker draw: when those secrets were discovered years later – oh, what stories they told, what memories they evoked! Will texts and emails be similarly archived? Maybe that’s a job for future technicians, but I can’t imagine they’ll be very interesting reading:

Were r u?

 Work

Wat tim u bak 4 din?

Dunno

Din in dog

Corresponding by pen and paper allowed for the grace of time, the thought behind composure, the filtering of urgency and the delight of sending and thrill of receiving. You still had to pay a tariff (perhaps a stamp), but paltry in comparison to mobile phone charges.

So, if you are thinking of changing your number and then to reconnect with folks, with business and with all content in your life, then perhaps you should stop and think: maybe a letter will be better!

New Words

English being what it is, there are endless possibilities for the addition of new words. Apart from the acquisition of new words through the kind assistance of invaders of the British Isles, some of our finest words were coined by the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare and a whole host of imaginative writers since gleefully unshackled by convention. If it is not merely to reside in dusty tomes on museum shelves, then English should be a malleable living thing that reflects the needs of the day.

New words, therefore, appear all the time and their continued usage is attested to by their usefulness. Here below are a selection of contemporary terms that are soon to be added to the Oxford English Dictionary (like these):

 

                                        Stringth – Beginner’s definition when building muscles

                                        Perplay – Any convoluted beginning of a game

                                        Dripple – Liquid that escapes between cup and mouth

                                        Trousellation – Creases in legwear

                                        Prolongual – A tendency to extend an activity, e.g long goodbyes

                                        Qurongue – The unfortunate propensity to join the wrong queue

                                        K’smank – A feeling of wretchedness that accompanies bad kisses

                                        Groloinal – Enlargement through stimulation – in a similar vein to genitals

                                        Horsh-Idlib – Unsubstantiated claims made about horse racing

                                        Xindy – A rush of air that exposes underwear

                                        Timmerrush – The thrill that accompanies social uncertainty, a perversion

Česnekový

                                        Heroic garlic, raw rasp on the tongue,

                                        The acrid acid metal burn beneath the palate

                                        Turn the polévka into nuclear fire

                                        Topinka into life-giving health food

                                        Bulb of power, shining protector of the blood

 

                                        Woven vampire destroyer

                                        In ice-ground-breaking breath

                                        Waves of klobasa mercilessly pound

                                        On unprotected facial extremities

                                        Until the unwilling initiate is inducted:

                                        Succumbing, believing, proselytizing

 

                                        Take, eat, this is my saviour

                                        From the bland, from the inadequate

                                        For as in the prayers of the doubtless

                                        A little goes a long way,

                                        But a lot is never enough

 

                                        Česnekový – garlic

                                        Polévka – soup

                                        Topinka – fried bread/toast

                                        Klobasa – sausage

Soufflé

                                        A soufflé rises; its crown brown

                                        Over-inflated French cock

                                        Too right in its soft ramekin ceramic-bound

                                        To emerge without delay blessed with egged virtue

                                        Sailing soaring in hot air for the pleasure of high hats and ovation

 

                                        Another rises; on a similar ley vein

                                        Pumped-up Parisian erection

                                        Soundless trumpet ringing clear

                                        Heart of kitchen blown in part for fable,

                                        In part domestic pretty Lawson per-square-inch demonstration

 

                                        And if they don’t work, it doesn’t matter

                                        Beat, fold, pour—what’s inedible after all?

                                        At needy course there is consolation enough

                                        In servicewear cleaned blank—

                                        And always give a smile

 

                                        Grow, then, in your confidence and hand

                                        Soufflés are admission to the pleasures of liquid flesh

                                        Doff the chef’s titfa, wipe palms upon the apron

                                        You are, they are, it is—always a job well done

                                        Satisfaction in the giver and receiver

Proof That Satire, Sarcasm and Innuendo Do Not Pay (Much)

I once produced a newspaper (of sorts), called The Northwegian. There were only two editions, Autumn-ish '96 and Spring-ish '97, much prized by collectors now. The newspaper was intended to be satirical, a humorous look at life in the small town of Northwich, Cheshire, where I lived at the time. It was a unmitigated failure, but, of course, not because of the content...

This glorious entry into the realms of news and print came about having obtained copies of the Stroud Defector, a similar rag produced in the Gloucestershire town of the same name. Each edition, purchased from one coffee shop that at one time existed on Nelson Street, was read and re-read with great relish, partly because of the hilarious political nuances, the local references, the ironic jokes, and the grandiose perspectives of mini-publishing (where every bloomin' word is chewed over), and partly because I was bursting to do the same 126 miles to the north. The number of Stroud Defectors sold can only be guessed at, but perhaps it can be safely assumed that each print/photocopy run extended to no more than tens, possibly to one hundred or so. The aim, therefore, was not to outsell the Nationals, nor bring the established political status quo to its knees, but merely to have a bit of a say, and to enjoy it.

Printing words for the benefit of others is a long-held dream of many. But apart from any pecuniary rewards, the motivation is nearly always conceit. Writers believe they are good, even when the squirming discomfort of others should clearly tell them otherwise; having people cough up good money to read your thoughts, even out of sympathy, only puffs up the deluded vanity of the pompous literary egoist. For the 'uninitiated' in the arts of print, however, there is an equally-deluded belief that somehow, somewhere, someone will 'notice' the hidden genius within a scribbly, frustrated writer and will beat a path to the door with chequebook in hand. And then there's the truth – writing may not be its own reward, but it sure beats a 9-5!

With the lofty ideal of making people laugh, I set about constructing an 8-page rag that would extend a few extended jabs at the local establishment (read local council) and a knee in the groin of the very parochial and self-righteous local opinion that holds sway on many popular matters. To do so, and put a smile on the face of the reader, required a small modicum of wit and the odd subtle political swipe, understatement, and a wealth of innuendo, ready references to bottomy parts, bizarre contradictions and complete fabrication of the truth (just like the national press!). When a magnifying glass is put on such minutiae as reported in the minutes of the Women's Institute, in worrying police reports of ladder theft, of new Charity Shop press releases and the 'serious' revelations of the political shenanigans within the chambers of the borough council, each would quickly take on a farcical quality.

This is not restricted to political institutions, or specifically to the UK, for the same thing was found in Hong Kong where the glossy English-language Spike magazine was sold at outlets across the city. Spike sold because of the Private Eye-type front cover that usually showed a press picture of an cheerful Hong Kong politician or business magnate, embarrassing political or other situation that was in the public eye at the time. The content within was of a good quality, but despite running for several years eventually folded. It seems that whilst people love humour, they don't love it enough to keep it afloat indefinitely. I enjoyed them, and have kept the ones bought.

Such was the case with The Northwegian. In good faith, and having worked night and day to get a format that could be re-used for each edition, I ran off my first print run of 200 and approached the busiest newsagents to leave suitable piles of my baby for public consumption, stating that I would return within one week to deposit more (in the likely event of a sell-out). The Northwich Guardian, the local Newspaper, called for an interview and wrote a nice little piece about it all – the future looked promising. I made a point of not handing out free editions – I mean, 50p is 50p, right? In the end, the newspaper probably sold no more than about one third of the run.

Undaunted, I set-to with the next edition, and used the same approach. By this time, novelty, if it ever applied to this project, was on the wane. Despite great reviews from friends and blokes down the pub, I simply couldn't shift enough copies. Without the float of advertising revenue, it was a dead-in-the-water looser and, because another one was going to further drain the meagre resources at my disposal, a third edition was ditched.

With it went any aspirations for writing for years. Who needed accolades when there were other, but much more boring, ways to make money.

The Tao of Socks

“It is in seeking ourselves

That we find togetherness”

The audience Oooh’d! and Ahhh’d! at each pronouncement. They knew their meditations had brought them so far, but felt that the words of their teacher and prophet were beyond their comprehension.

“And in the acquisition of precedence

There is loss...”

There was a cough from the back.

“Yes?” the master, eager to appear equanimous in the face of all questioning, tilted to listen.

“Is there a meaning behind the contradictions?”

“Ah, yes indeed. Just as there is left and right, so there are two sides to all things. And they are all the same.”

“Yes, but can we find true happiness if we are not all the same? I mean, should we not all be polyester mixes or pure cottons? Surely we cannot mix like this forever.”

“I see.” The grandmaster, one of the most threadbare amongst them, kept for sentimental reasons rather than any practicality, prepared his response. “The truth is that we are all polyester mix, and we are all pure cotton.”

There was a stunned silence from the assembled draw. What manner of strange wisdom was this? It transpired the conventions of sockdom. All knew that like went with like. Polyester mixes were all well and good, but the ‘cotts’ knew that to be paired with a ‘poly’ was to court disaster, and vice versa: it was said the two had been tried in ancient times, but it was known polys always thinned quicker than cotts, but were lighter in the summer. In this way they were forever divided.

“There is an old story of two pairs who were very happy and friendly together. They made it through many-a spin-cycle without one of them being… ‘lost’.” At this last word there was a murmur of horror – the last thing any of them wanted was for one of a pair to be separated. For it meant certain death: at best a removal to the ‘odd sock’ draw, at worst an instant disposal execution in the bin. Being ‘lost’ was a thing too shocking to mention.

“Then, the most dreadful thing occurred; one of the cottons disappeared. There was a dreadful scene later on after a prolonged search drew a blank. The remaining cotton wailed and sang the mournful lament, ‘May my threads unravel. May my elastic snap.’ But it was to no avail. The sock was now alone. The others tried to comfort, but that only made the poor lonesome soul sing the louder. Finally, one of the friendly poly pair unravelled itself and cuddled the poor cott. And it was in that way they were found.”

Another murmur went through the crowd: for one sock to unravel was bad enough, for it to join with another sort was a strange kind of inter-species union that was very much taboo.

The voice at the back of the drawer commented, “We have all heard this tale, but it is merely a legend – a myth that teaches us to keep to our kind and be happy in our union.”

“Yes, you are right. That is how it is commonly interpreted. But there is deeper wisdom in this tale. For the truth is this: where one sock is alone, it is to be pitied, but it is also to be kept as a full member of the community. No sock is better than another.”

There was a loud angry snapping of elastic hems. Everyone knew that the white off-coloured sports cotts were at the bottom, the patterned coloured polys and cotts were next, the black cotts sat a little further up the social ladder and the supremo silk socks lorded it over them all. And yet, here the master was telling them that their society was wrong. Was a sock revolution in order? Would anarchy reign, with socks doing their own thing, uniting willy-nilly and causing distress at the time or adornment?

The master quieted them down. “I hear your concerns. But I can speak as one who knows these things; for the story may be legendary, but it was not a myth. You see; I was the left left by my right!”

There was pandemonium – socks were jostling with each other left, right and centre of the drawer. In the confusion a pair fell out and landed amongst the underpants below. If what this aged sage was true, it amounted to a confession that socks could actually go it alone.

“Master, master, say it isn’t so!” came many voices.

“But it was so. They were very happy together – a cott and a poly. I saw it. And they were worn without prejudice! I was left – but was happy for them, for their happiness also made me wiser. They were taken on a relaxing out-of-season weekend break where, it was said, they rolled under the bed. Some say they remain there still – in a land of equal rights for all sock types, in a place where mixes and 100%s, patterned and one-colours can all mix freely and without contradictions. Some also say this marvellous realm has a holy name: Bognor Regis!”

“Bognor Regis!” They all repeated the name as a new holy mantra.

And in that way the new teaching was acquired. From then on, each sock looked out for another, regardless of yarn, stitch or hue. And they would listen contentedly as the aged philosopher pronounced the message of sock love, happiness and harmony. For as one they now desired a unity of sockdom through combination not only of lefts and rights, but also the desire for Bognor Regis.