The Hard Times of Joseph McCrumble

On the stage!

2011-09-02T16:10:00.003+01:00

Hello all

Oh my. Who would have thought it? Am I about to be rehabilitated?

My hands tremble slightly as I write this message. For so long has my dream to bring parasitology to the public been thwarted. For so long have I been consigned to living anonymously, keeping hidden all my ambitions, squandering my talents, looking forlornly out over the public engagement landscape and wondering - will my time ever come?

Well, yes, dear reader, pondering has ceased, as my time has, indeed, come. For I am to leave the barn that I now call home and take to the stage. In just a few short weeks I will be heading, in person, to the North East of England, to reach out, personally, to young minds with mind-blowing ideas that they shall literally carry with them for the rest of their lives.

I have my former marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, to thank. He has secured some funding from the Beacon programme for Public Engagement that will allow me catch the train northwards and pay my expenses for up to 4 appearances. Not only that, but he'll pay for Dolores (wife) and Ravel (assistant) to travel with me. Now all I have to do is think of what to present. I have some, indeed many, ideas.

Sadly I cannot reveal exactly where I will be performing as there is a long-standing bounty on my head (see very early postings in this blog). The performances will be invitation only, unfortunately. However, unlike my acclaimed appearance in Cardiff a while back, I will, this time at least, not be wearing a Darth Vader mask to disguise my appearance. Those who see me on the stage will be confident that it is actually Dr Joseph Mcrumble in front of them. I can't wait!

best wishes

J McC

Freethinking festival

2010-11-01T17:18:00.003Z

Hello all

It appears that the only time I remember to make a blog-post these days is whenever my (former) marketing manager is about to make a public appearance, and he demands that I help him publicise that fact. This time, he contacted me excitedly about his upcoming appearance at the Radio3 Freethinking Festival, to be held at the Sage in Gateshead from 5th-7th September.

www.bbc.co.uk/freethinking

'So what are you doing there Mark?', I asked, feigning interest.

'Hey, you'll never guess Joseph. I'm appearing in their 'speed-dating with a thinker' event on the Sunday at 2:45pm. Tickets are free you know.'

'Are you claiming to be a thinker, Mark?'

'Er, well, not me directly. It's a sort of, er, label I get to use for the duration.'

'You sound unsure. Well, I hope it goes OK. Think of me if you still have enough thinking-power after being speed-dated - Christmas is on its way and I am still more than a bit needy myself. If you could think up a solution to my predicament that would be great, actually.'

'Sure, Joseph. I'll put my, er, thinking cap on and see what the old grey cells come up with, yeah? Oh sorry, gotta go. Trick or treaters at the door. See ya later.'

I didn't hear any doorbell, or any knocking, but with that excuse he was gone. Another less than satisfactory conversation out of the way. I went back to reading about how cuts are going to affect local services. As I am effectively squatting in this barn, I am of officially no-fixed-abode and therefore receive very few services. Not even the local council newsletter that talks about re-developing the site on which my barn sits with the 'region's largest' soft-play installation for the local children. Planning permission has been submitted apparently. My bag is packed.

Autumn Symposium

2010-09-13T17:26:00.004+01:00

Dr Mark Booth has asked me to publicise his forthcoming symposium entitled 'Progress in Paediatric Parasitology' where 15 internationally respected parasitologists will be speaking on this very topic. I did wonder if he was going to ask me to make another personal appearance, after my triumphal video interview in Cardiff earlier this year. He promptly replied that this wouldn't be neccesary. He suggested I visit the symposium incognito if I am worried about being recognised. That's not such a bad idea, providing I can hitch my way that far North in time. If I set off tomorrow I should make Peterborough by the weekend, Wetherby by the 20th and Stockton by the 23rd, when it all begins. Wish me luck!

British Society for Parasitology Autumn Symposium

23rd-24th September

Durham University Queen's Campus

Stockton on Tees

For more information, including a full programme and speaker's abstracts, visit

http://www.bsp.uk.net

Going Public

2010-03-23T16:12:00.006Z

Hello all

Another call from my marketing manager - Dr Mark Booth - the other day. He sounded upbeat."Hey Joseph, you'll never guess!" he said cheerfully.

'I'm sure I won't, so just come straight out with it, Mark", I replied flatly. His enthusiasm before the facts sometimes gets to me.

"OK, well basically it goes like this - the British Society for Parasitology is having their annual conference at the end of March at Cardiff University and I'm giving the Public Understanding of Science Lecture on the evening of the 29th. Cool, huh?"

"Congratulations."

"Thanks - but here's the kicker - I'm going to showcase your excellent work on public understanding of parasitology. You know - the blog, the book - like, everything!"

"I'm flattered"

"Aw come on Joseph. I know things aren't so great right now but this could be your chance to get back on your feet. Especially if....."

He stopped speaking. I assumed I was supposed to prompt him to go further, so dutifully obliged."If what?", I intoned.

"OK - now think before answering - but what do you say to making a personal appearance?"

I almost dropped the phone in surprise. No one had asked me to make a personal experience for quite some time. And I still had the problem of the death threat that has hung over me since I accidentally poisoned a town full of pet rabbits (it's in the book). "I, er, well, er, in principle. But I'd have to come in disguise or something. If this got public, you know...."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something," said Mark breezily. "you're a resourceful chap. Anyway, must fly. I've got a hundred slides on the value of public engagement for the early stage researcher to write."

"Huh, surely..."

"Just pulling your chain Joseph. I'm not that nerdy!"

He shouted farewell as he put down the phone. Rather irrevelently I looked in my diary for availability on the 29th March. All I had written down was that No.3 is due for a vaccination. Nothing else for days on end, before or after.

Right then. If I am to make an appearance, I'd better think about what to wear!

J McC

publishing disaster

2010-02-06T22:37:00.004Z

I received a call from my marketing manager the other day. He sounded apologetic. I asked him what was wrong. He told me that the company who published my book 'The Wonderful World of Joseph McCrumble' appears to be no longer trading, or at least they have been taken over by another company under dubious circumstances. I asked him whether this was the reason why I never received a royalty cheque. He said 'To be honest Joseph, you might have lost out on a few quid, but I'm pretty sure you just didn't sell any books'. I asked him, after reminding him the HE was supposed to be MY marketing manager, what HE should do - as I am in no position (still in the barn, still poor) to take this any futher. 'Not all is lost!', he said breezily as if struck by a good idea. 'Stand Up for Africa have it in stock at their website. We just have to tell people not to but the book through Amazon, Blackwells or any other retailer. That way the royalties go straight to the charity. OK?'

'Sure, Mark', I replied. 'So how are you doing these days - it's been a long time since you were in touch. I thought you maybe forgot about us.'

'No way Joseph. I've just been a bit busy. New job, new house, new prospects. It's all pretty good here. You thinking of moving out of that barn any time soon? We'd love to visit but we can't spare the time to travel down. You know how it is. But, hey, if you're passing this way any time don't be a stranger, yeah?'

'Sure, Mark', I said quietly, resisting the urge to put two vocal fingers up. 'Actually, it's still pretty hard down here. No money, no job. Several people are, in fact, depending on Ravel's job as a part time gardener. I've taken on a few things here and there but it's all been seasonal or temporary. I'm overqualified. Who wants to employ a PhD scientist to pick cherries?'

'Yeah Joseph, I guess it must be a bit tough. But hey - why don't you lie on your CV and say something like you've done nothing but pick cherries your whole life.'

'Lie?', I squawked. 'I can't lie, it would ruin everything I stand for. No lies, never!

'So you're standing for poverty and zero-rated aspiration are you Joseph? It's not like I'm suggesting you make up a qualification...'

'Never!', I interjected. 'Sorry mark, I just can't. Well, anyways, it was great talking to you. If you are ever passing this way, we are the third barn after the green cottage next to the woodland burial site. Bye.'

I put the phone down, momentarily proud of my stance. But then I saw Ravel walking towards the barn, his head low, his hands and clothes soiled. Dolores opened the door and let him in. He smiled at me and pulled out his week's wages, handing them all over to me before taking his seat at the dinner table. I counted the takings. It was less than the previous week's by at least 20%. There wasn't enough to feed us all, let alone pay for the new sweater I promised Dolores for our wedding anniversary. The words of my marketing manager rang in my ears as I drank my parsnip soup. Maybe it was time I put my pride to one side. After all, it's not like anyone would actually notice, would they?

teenage angst

2009-03-05T09:28:00.004Z

Oh dear. I was trying to read a newspaper that someone had left in the village hut yesterday, and was concentrating on doing the sudoku puzzle in my head (I'm rationing my pen usage to increase their longevity), when I caught sight and sound of Twin X shuffling around in circles at the far end of the barn. His voice was melancholy enough, but it was the words he was using that alarmed me. 'One step closer to death', he moaned with each shuffle.

'What are you on about?', I asked in alarm that my son had become suddenly so mobid.

'I'm just stating the obvious, you can't deny it's true. Go on, try...', he challenged.

Hard as I might, I could offer no reposte. 'Are you thinking upon your own mortality?' I asked instead, trying to understand where the idea of acting this way had emerged.

'No, dur. I was pretending to be you. For one, you are much closer to death than me, so if anyone should be worried it's you, yeah? And for two, haven't you noticed you've been shuffling around talking to yourself lately? You thinking about your own mortality? Mum says you're heading for a midlife crisis already.'

The boy was right of course - at least about the shuffling. But that is entirely explained by my need to move in a rhythmic manner when contemplating a scientific idea. More of that later. In the meantime, I'm beginning to suspect my twin boys might be brighter than myself. This is not the first time I've been caught out, and things are only likely to get worse as they discover the true meaning of precocious. Puberty is upon the pair of them, and I predict tough times ahead. If they don't suffer any angst, I will, for sure.

J Mcc

Wan Ton Soup

2009-02-21T20:45:00.004Z

Hello all

Very fortunately, a library not ten miles from our accommodation is providing free internet use to people on low income. All I had to do was look pitiful and say I was of no fixed abode (technically true as the barn has no postcode and is not a designated dwelling due it being 'uninhabitable' according to the local council). Having no access to transport means I have to walk a couple of hours each way (my legs are getting stronger each day), but it means I can continue to bring my story to the attention of the public. Why? Because I believe that someone out there might recognise my distress as genuine, recognise the latent talent that lives and breathes below my jaded skin, and perhaps even act as patron for the re-establishment of the Cumbernauld Instiute of Parasitology. Failing that, maybe they'll just let me tutor their kids in A level biology. It would be a start.

On this trip to the library I am allowed only 10 minutes as there is a group of benefit claimants awaiting a lesson on using job websites to find gainful employment. I have chosen not to claim benefits on the grounds that I vowed early in life never to become dependent on the State. Dolores thinks my principled stand is about as useful and fiscally sound as an Icelandic banker's draft. I remind her that she too cannot bring herself to make contact with the DSS, and so we live as nature intended - self sustaining, slightly malnourished and generally uncomfortable.

The minutiae of our new life are of no interest to others, unless they are to serve as a simple record of this frugal period in our lives. I will therefore attempt to draw on events, thoughts and processes that at least stand a small chance of raising some tiny dribble of interest in the mind(s) of my reader(s). To begin, I must go back some months and finally tell the end of Ravel's tale in China. For those of you at all interested in how this started, please read all posts from 2008 -2009 (there aren't many).

Ravel was detained at the station without speaking to anyone for the rest of the night. In the morning, an interpreter was brought to the station to read the charges against him in English. Ravel listened to a long list of completely false allegations around the themes of avoiding tax, extortion, breaking copyright, false imprisonment and, perhaps most dangerously 'incitement to subvert the political power of the state and overthrow the socialist system by spreading rumors, slander or other means'. Ravel had no idea what any of the charges meant, and tried to insist that they had arrested the wrong man. He asked to see one of his lawyer friends, but no-one at the police station knew any of the names, and he was therefore required to wait in his cell for an undetermined period of time. Ravel asked if he could make a phone call, and partly to his surprise that was allowed. Guess who he phoned? That's right, me...

'Hello?' I said on answering my pay-as-you-go mobile (we have had no landline since we moved here, and I cannot afford a contract).

'Boss, I am happy you are there. I am in big trouble', came the faint voice of Ravel.

'Where are you ?', was my immediate response. Establishing geographic location, in my experience, conveys a mountain of information rarely captured so economically by other means.

'Jail!', came his plaintive cry. I could tell he might be a little distressed even over the poor connection. However, I still did not know in which jail he was located - something I needed to understand before acting further.

'Where is the jail?'

'I don't know boss. They bring me here in darkness. I sit in my cell and they tell me nothing!'

'OK, stay calm, Ravel. Let's start at the beginning. In which country are you currently located?'

'China Boss. Can you help me get out of here?'

At this point, I was forced to sigh. My knowledge of Chinese jails and the justice system was (and still is) somewhat lacking. I could no more help Ravel get out of jail than help my own mother-in-law find the heart to payback the victim of her latest misdemenour (she apparently stole and ate a box of black-magic chocolates bequeathed to a former friend whose husband had died on valentines day - having initially denied the charge she then admitted under questioning that she had stolen the chocolates out of jealousy because such a beautiful gesture had never come her way). Instead I suggested he contacted one of his lawyer friends. Ravel told me he didn't have their number, and asked could I make the relevant enquiries. Being somewhat short on resources myself, I could only shrug my shoulders. 'I'm afraid you are on your own at the moment, my friend', I said, before wishing him well and hanging up (my battery was about to expire and was rationed to one re-charge a week).

Dear reader(s), I understand you may think this harsh of me, but under the circumstances I truly could do no more. I knew from our brief conversation that Ravel was at least safe(ish) from harm. I also knew that his lawyer friends were extremely resourceful and would be on the case imminently. And I was right of course. The next day, I received another phone call, this time from a rather happier sounding Ravel. He was now out of jail and sitting by a hotel pool. It turned out he had been arrested after an anoymous tip-off by someone in his enemy's organisation, suggesting that Ravel had been sending subversive messages about the Chines state through a blog under the pseudonym of Joseph McCrumble. Yes, that's right. My own name had been implicated in this farce. Well, the authorities checked the blog and found nothing subversive at all. A preposterous idea in the first place, if you ask me. I asked Ravel if he was still intent on persuing his aim of avenging the loss of his replica world cup trophy business. Fortunately for all of us, he decided he had been beaten by a force greater than his own will to succeed. 'I'm coming home boss', he told me, 'I give up.'

Ravel returned a few days later, somewhat thinner than when I had last seen him, head bowed and bleary eyed. He had managed to recover the copy of the replica trophy that had descended from the roof of the warehouse during the poker-game stunt, but otherwise was devoid of baggage. He was sullen for many days later, refusing to eat the Chinese takeaways we were living on at the time (this may seem crass, but we had struck a deal with a local chinese restaurant whereby I would walk around the village with a sandwich board three evenings a week in return for half-price meals. Sadly the restaurant has now become a victim of the recession and is closed.). But time heals all wounds, and within a few weeks he was back to his old self, playing an essential role in the maintenance of the barn. His lawyer friends promised to fight on, but we have heard nothing in weeks and can only assume that the enterprise has now had a line drawn underneath it. Sometimes, life jsut doesn't give you what you want, and you have to move on, I told Ravel one evening about a month ago. Since then, the subject has not been raised.

There ends the story of Ravel's adventures in China. Nothing else exciting has happened, so this blog will now revert to commenting on the occasional event of interest as I try to beat the credit crunch and keep my family's soul together. Here's hoping we aren't all doomed!

J McC

Sweet and sour pork

2009-02-14T10:37:00.000Z

Hello all

Thanks to finding a ten pound note in the middle of the road the other day, I have been able to purhase some petrol for the generator. Not only were we able to watch an hour of television last night, but I have also been given permission to spend fifteen minutes on the computer. Such fortune does not come our way very often, so I thanked Dolores fulsomely and set to work. I could spend the next 14.5 minutes (my 15 minutes started when I fired up the internet browser) telling you how lowly we have sunk, but that would only make me depressed. Instead, I'm going to finally reveal the ending to Ravel's attempts to recover his intellectual property rights in China. I understand this may be the slowest serialisation of a short story you have ever encountered, and I do apologise for the circumstances in which I find myself. Anyways, here goes....

Ravel was down to his last few yen. There was perhaps just enough for one more hand of 5 card stud. He hadn't won a hand all evening - 3 hours of increasingly stressful effort for nothing. It was all about to slip away in a near-empty warehouse somewhere in Beijing. His dreams of bringing the man who stole his world-cup replica trophy idea to justice were now torn. It was the last role of the dice, so to speak, and not spark of sympathy was evident on the inscrutable faces of the dozen men in suits who now stood breathing down the back of his neck, shouting and gesticulating each time he turned over a card. Ravel held the cards as close as he could to his chest, peeking only at the corners, but he time he looked at a card, he felt like the men behind him were peeking aswell.

This last round of 5 card stud preceded like all the others. No matter how much Ravel bluffed, his opponent would always call and raise. No matter how good his cards were, his opponent's were always better (when Ravel saw them, which was rare). This time, he was forced to fold almost immediately as there was no more money in the pot. His opponent gathered up the cash on the table and added it to his sprawling pile. Rather clumsily, thought Ravel, considering his opponent must have been in this situation before. It was almost as though presumed Mr Foo couldn't see very well, the way he simply stretched his arms out wide and gathered everything within reach. A few times during the night money had fallen off the edge of the table to be left on the floor. Ravel has not once been tempted to pick it up.

As the last hand came to its near-inevitable conclusion, Ravel simply pushed back his chair and made to stand up. His egress was halted, however, by several pairs of hands pushing him firmly back down into his seat. Unable to wriggle free, Ravel had no option but to pay attention to the presumed Mr Foo, who was now leaning forward as if to get a closer look at Ravel's face. In doing so, he made his own face visible, and Ravel saw for the first time that the presumed Mr Foo had cateracts in both eyes. Essentially, as you will no doubt have deduced by now, the man was blind.

Ravel swore in a Bulgarian dialect, using words he promised at his late uncle's deathbed never to utter to a living soul. The intended effect (which Ravel describes as ' ball shrinking') was somewhat lost, however as none of the targets seemed to understand. Their response was to laugh and cackle, slap Ravel on the back and point to the ceiling of the warehouse. Looking upwards, Ravel was more than a little surprised to see one of his world cup tropy replica's being lowered, spotlit, on a rope. Even more suprising was the sound of laughter from the assembled crowd on top of Nessun Dorma as sung by the three Tenors to a beaming Diana Princess of Wales all those years ago.

Now, I have been confused a few times in my life (see blogs passim), and as result I hope I have learnt how to handle the occasional deus ex machina, but even this would have had me in spasms. Within the space of a minute, a darkly serious situation had transmogriphied into farce. Ravel tells me that he was not only lost for words but quite unable to move despite the fact that he was no longer being held down. He was totally captivated by the descent of his replica trophy, that eventually landed on the table in front of him with a soft thud. It then toppled over, to reveal a piece of paper stuck to the bottom that Ravel had not so far noticed. On the paper was a symbol - reproduced below as a warning to others...

I say 'warning' because if you ever come across this sign, I advise you to run back to where you started your journey. Not because it signifies some type of mortal curse, nor because it is an assassination target, but because it belongs to a maverick television company (name witheld for legal reasons - we will call them Wang-Toon) who specialise in lampooning con-men and revealing them to the nation through setting up elaborate scenarios such as the one just played out in that warehouse. As per their usual form, after the symbol is 'disovered', by the con-artist, their presenter steps forward and takes a polaroid picture which he then reveals to the audience with a flourish and a cry of the Chinese equivalent of 'Gotcha!'.

Ravel was slack jawed as the presenter went through his routine to a camera that had emerged from the shadows. All around him people were laughing and chatting as if they had all enjoyed the same joke. But for Ravel it was no joke. He didn't know this was a TV stunt as he couldn't understand the director shouting 'Cut!', he didn't know what to do next as he couldn't understand the instructions being given to him by a lady with a clip-board and wearing a Wang-Toon badge. He didn't see the police man come from behind, but did feel the handcuffs. He also quite clearly heard the policeman say 'You arrested for fraud. Come with me.'. At which point, Ravel was helped up and out of the warehouse, into a police car and off to a nearby station, where another TV camera recorded his entry inside....

************ TO BE CONTINUED!************

(sorry, I have run out of generator time, and must attend to my chores. I hope to blog again soon and finish the story.)

Prawn Crackers

2009-01-27T21:14:00.001Z

Hello all. It’s been a while since I was in a position to write anything owing to our continued need to ration the amount of petrol we put in the generator. We huddle together in the evenings to fend against the bats that have taken roost in the barn. On more than one occasion I have awoken as the flying menaces swoop down to snatch at one of our other resident populations – moths. They are attracted by our single lightbulb hanging from a hat stand that Ravel scavenged from a car boot sale a week ago. Yes, dear reader, the credit crunch has hit the McCrumble household very hard indeed. All income streams have dried up and we are now living more frugally than I ever imagined to be possible. This blog entry is only appearing because I didn’t wish anyone to think we had actually given up completely. I’m also not doing it to ask for charity. The McCrumble spirit will prevail!

So, anyway, I must finish Ravel’s tale of his time in China. At the end of the last post he was about to face the music, so to speak, at the card table. Men in suits and sunglasses approached the table as he offered to call on the tenth hand of the evening. The presumed Mr Foo wanted to keep raising but Ravel’s confidence had abandoned him after losing the previous nine rounds of 5 card stud. The pot of money given to him by the lawyers was rapidly diminishing, and by Ravel’s reckoning wouldn’t last another 2 or 3 hands. Ravel desperately wanted to switch the game over to Texas Hold’em, but his knowledge of Mandarin was somewhat limited even by tourist standards (he could just about pronounce ‘Beer’ after being in the country several weeks. Trying to signal his wishes using the charade of pretending to be wearing a ten gallon hat whilst cuddling himself didn’t work either.)

His hesitancy was beginning to annoy the assembled crowd of men in suits. They appeared to be urging him onwards more aggressively with each hand, moving closer to the table as failure piled up and his stash of yen all but disappeared. The tenth hand fell as all previous hands had fallen and now the suits were just two feet behind him. There seemed to be twice as many now, all wearing the same suit, sporting the same sunglasses, the same shoulder-length hairstyle. Even with his army training, Ravel knew he would have trouble fighting his way out of his predicament. There seemed to be no option but to play until the money was gone and then try to leave quietly.

Such might have been Ravel’s idea, but he couldn’t tell anyone, and I doubt they would have listened. For this was no ordinary game of poker, and no ordinary crowd of gangsters. Sometimes, the truth of a matter is beyond the comprehension of those involved, hidden behind dark suits, sunglasses, aggressive movements. A distraction perhaps, something to ensure that one of the players takes his eyes off his cards. Such deviousness was happening right there in that warehouse. But not, dear reader, for the reason you might be thinking. I’m just about to shut the generator down so I can’t write what happened next just yet. I promise, though, to beg borrow or steal some petrol so that I can finally reveal the astonishing ending to Ravel’s adventure in China.

******** TO BE CONTINUED!! **********

Chinese Laundry

2008-12-22T11:26:00.005Z

Hello all

The last message suggested that Ravel's revenge adventure was about to be unwound and turned into rice noodles by a text-message of gloom. The message simply said that the lawyer (let's call him Mr Woo) who had managed to penetrate the organisation producing fake copies of Ravel's World Cup trophys had to prove his prowess by playing a rival of the boss (let's call the boss Mr Wong and his rival Mr Foo) at poker in a high-stakes game that evening.

'Why is this a disaster?', asked Ravel.

'Mr Woo cannot play poker to save his bacon. He will lose bigtime and not get the job with Mr Wong. Then Mr Wong will will get new lawyer and we are doomed.'

Ravel contemplated this latest twist as he ate some rice crackers in the hotel bar. The lawyers had decided they would go shopping to help clear their minds, and Ravel was quite glad to have some time alone. He tells me that he almost gave up the idea of getting one over on Mr Wong at that point, but that his pride and sense of injustice kept him propped up just enough to eventually come up with a solution to the problem. He would, he decided, take the place of the incompetent lawyer at the table on the pretext that the lawyer had fallen sick after eating poorly cooked duck's feet at a backstreet stall.

The lawyers were not sure Mr Wong would fall for the sting, but could not offer an alternative solution. So they told Mr Woo to feign illness and offer Ravel as a substitute. To their initial surprise there was no objection, but it then turned out Mr Woo had persuaded Mr Wong that he operated as part of a team and that Ravel was a former Bulgarian champion who could provide Mr Wong with enough money to fight any legal challenge to his activities.

'I think this is what they call 'no-pressure-then'?', said one of the lawyers as they took Ravel to the designated meeting place. Ravel smiled grimly. He was no Bulgarian champion, and was indeed feeling the pressure. His last winnings had been whilst in the Bulgarian army, and his opponent had been a drunken youth boasting that he'd never been beaten. To make matters worse, he had a headache and was feeling a bit sick from too eating of many rice crackers (incidentally, this is the first time in the years I have known of Ravel showing any signs of nervousness. It softened some of my own inedequacy fears for a while).

The meeting place - where Ravel had been instructed to enter alone - was an empty warehouse on a small industrial estate. Inside was a table with 3 chairs. One chair had a man, wearing a dealer's visor, sitting facing Ravel as he entered. Another, bald headed man was facing the table but Ravel could not see his face. Around the table stood four other men in dark suits and sunglasses. One of them stepped forward and told Ravel to sit at the table. On taking his place, he noticed that the bald man (presumed to be Mr Foo) was sweating quite profusely despite the dim lighting and ambient temperature. Immediately Ravel suspected something was not quite legitimate (his soldier's instincts were kicking in despite the rice-cracker induced nausea), but he also knew he could not blow his own cover. It was a tense start.

The tension was not helped when the dealer began explaining the situation in Chinese. Ravel had picked up a few words whilst in the country, but the localised rules of poker were not in his phrasebook. The only word he recognised was 'money' - after it was said the bald man put a wad of notes on the table and Ravel followed suit (the lawyers had clubbed together confident in their man to deliver a hefty winnings). As the hefty bundle hit the table, he bit his lip in frustration at not discussing the gameplan more rigourously with the lawyers - without knowing what they had told Mr Wong he could not risk appearing anything less than fluent.

The presumed Mr Foo pushed a few notes into the centre of the table. Ravel copied him, trying not to reveal his nervousness. The dealer began to shuffle the deck and deal the cards - one face down and one face up. Ravel correctly recalled this was the opening round of 5 card stud. To many poker players this would have registered as just one of several games with the same probability of success. But to Ravel it spelled potential disaster. For some reason he'd never been able to fathom, 5 card stud was the one variation that the drunken youth back in his army days had used to trounce him time and time again. In fact, as Ravel recalled, it was only a last ditch gamble where he put up his stash of bisongrass vodka on a round of Texas hold'em winner-takes-all that won the day. With no bottles of vodka about his person, Ravel could only pray inwardly that Mr Foo could not read his mind and pummel his self-doubt into submission. It was going to be a difficult night....

*********** TO BE CONTINUED!!!! *************

Chinese noodles

2008-11-30T15:49:00.001Z

Hello all

When I last wrote, Ravel was in deep trouble in big China. His compatriot lawyer friends were essentially helpless as they watched one of their team being escorted in the wrong direction. It looked for sure as if they would have to abort their mission just to stay safe. None of the lawyers had any idea of what to do except to start walking slowly back towards the main road. Their fierce skills in the arena of marital disputes was of little use to anyone at that point. Only Ravel had any training in jungle survival, and even he was taxed as to how they might continue without a car. It was growing dark, and they were getting hungry again, having eaten all their packed lunches much earlier during the day. I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever spent any time in the Chinese countryside with hungry lawyers. I haven't either, so I have to take Ravel at face value when he said they started acting like (I quote verbatim here, so do not assume this is my sentiment) - 'women chasing last chocolate bar'.

After about half an hour of squabbling and having just walked a couple of miles towards the main road they heard a car coming towards them. Ravel recognised the sound of the engine - it was the same car that had escorted their compatriot away. Everyone tried to find cover exept Ravel, who by now was determined to face down anyone - and steal their vehicle if necessary - in order to prevent the lawyers scratching each other's eyes out. He stood in the middle of the road waving his arms. At first it appeared as if the car was going to stop, but the engine suddenly revved firecely and the mud was splattering everywhere. Ravel had but a moment to throw himself out of the way as the car sped past. Glancing towards the car as it passed, he saw two figures in the front seats. One was the man from earlier. The other was the lawyer he had escorted away. Although only catching the briefest glimpse of his expression, Ravel saw quite clearly that the lawyer was smiling.

'Look here!' shouted one of the other lawyers a minute later when they all came out of hiding, 'he dropped something!'

'Crispy fried duck and rice?', asked another lawyer, running towards the first man.

'No man. It's a note. Listen up. It says he phoned for help and a car is coming to pick us up. It also says he has made a deal with the head of the operation to defend him against accusation of selling fake goods.'

'Aaaah!' cried all the other lawyers in unison, as if a tipping point in their understanding of the situation had been reached, and they knew what this meant.

'What does this mean?', asked Ravel. Despite travelling with them for some weeks, he was still flummoxed on a regular basis by their cryptic mechanics of reasoning.

'It is easy. He is worst lawyer amongst us by a long, long way. He knows he cannot successfully defend businessman. He will have tipped off authorities. He will give poor information to barristers. We just wait now for trial and job is done. Ok?'

Ravel was not entirely sure but could offer no solution. The lawyers were adamant that their colleagues incompetence would win the day and so thy waited for the car to pick them up. The driver was know to some of the group, and they were so pleased to see him that they dived straight into the car and told him to drive as quickly as possible back to their hotel. Once there, they waited for more news. There was nothing that night, but the next morning Ravel was awoken early by someone knocking on the door. It was one of the lawyers brandishing a mobile phone. 'I just got a text', he said forlornly. 'Bad news. Sit down....'

*********TO BE CONTINUED!!!*********

Chinese mud

2008-11-23T19:20:00.002Z

Hello all

There’s nothing like an international crisis to prompt action in the McCrumble household. We’ve been largely unaffected by things until the other day – after all, if you have nothing to lose then what do you have to fear?

To bring you up to speed on events in recent months I’ll spend a short amount of time relaying what happened to young Ravel, my faithful assistant who was last heard of when departing his Bulgarian homeland for the Far East, notably China, where he planned to confront the criminal mastermind behind the theft of his physical and intellectual property (viz a viz wooden replicas of the World Cup trophy).

Despite early promise of progress – namely the name and address of a possible perpetrator, Ravel soon hit soggy ground – literally. They (Ravel and his team of Chinese-Bulgarian lawyers) were sent on a wild goose chase through marshlands to reach an isolated village where the man was reported to have his factory. About half way along their two hundred mile journey they were caught in a rainstorm that rapidly turned the road to mud. Needless to say, they got stuck. No amount of legal expertise, nor even Ravels well conditioned thighs and biceps could extricate them from their situation. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a road less well travelled, and not a soul passed the bedraggled gang for 6 hours. It was only Ravel’s training in story telling that prevented the lawyers from suffering further – he told tales of my misadventures (see blogs passim) that apparently had them ‘pissing in the mud’ with laughter. So many stories, in fact, that the 6 hours passed in no time at all (or so Ravel says - he may have embellished his story a little).

Eventually someone driving a pickup coming from the direction of the factory. One of the lawyers (disguised as a manual worker) flagged the car down and asked for help whilst the rest of the gang hid behind some trees. The car was hauled out of the mud and the lawyer started the engine. It was at this moment that the driver of the other car asked where the lawyer was going. Since there was only one place he knew lay at the end of the road, the lawyer was obliged to give its name, since to lie would have aroused suspicion.

What the lawyer didn’t know at the time (it was later explained during a game of double-or-quits poker) was that the place in question had 2 names – one for people who weren’t trusted by the informant, and one for those whose business did not clash with the inhabitants of that place. On hearing the lawyer’s name for the place, the man became immediately suspicious and ordered that the lawyer turned around to avoid ‘bandits’. When the lawyer refused, the man produced a gun and waved it around as if to emphasise the point about ‘bandits’. He offered to escort the car back to the main road and see him on his way towards Beijing.

Fearing that the man with the gun might be willing to use it, the lawyer had no choice but to agree. He did not so much as glance towards his compatriots crouching in the undergrowth, but simply got in the car and drove slowly away, ahead of the man with the gun. Ravel and his legal aides were now stranded, a hundred miles from the main road and with no prospect of reaching their target anytime soon. For all they knew, the man with the gun might have been carrying Ravel’s precious wooden trophies. A suspicion that was, in fact, actually and very positively confirmed when one of the stranded lawyers used his high powered zoom camera to take a picture. What should he spy but this….

**************** TO BE CONTINUED!!!!!!!!!******************

Home alone....

2008-07-26T14:59:00.002+01:00

Hello all

Today I'm all alone at home - Dolores has taken the children to see her mother, Mrs McHaggerty, who still lives up in the north of the country. By mutual consent we agreed I would stay behind - my relationship with my mother in law has never recovered since I accused her publicly of being a kleptomaniac on the front cover of my book. Understandably, perhaps, she has said if I ever say a bad word about her again she'll sue me for defamation of character. So be it. I will make no defamatory remarks about her whatsoever in this blog from here on in.

I've had a couple of requests to give an update on my faithful assistant, Ravel. First of all let me just assure you all that he is safe and well. What appeared to be a successful kidnap attempt by a gang of Chinese-Bulgarian lawyers (sanctioned by the local police chief, no less!) was in fact a misunderstanding on my part. They no more wanted to whisk Ravel away for ransom any more than I would like to see my mother in law take the place of a crash test dummy. Rather, they had arranged to take him back to Bulgaria in order to begin a legal case against the people who stole Ravel's replica-world-cup-trophy idea (see blogs passim). Ravel knew the lawyers through his uncle - a prominent judge in Bulgaria, apparently. They were in the UK for a conference when they heard about Ravel's predicament. Being half Chinese, they had inside knowledge of the legal system in that country, and promised to help the young man in his fight against the criminals.

What Ravel didn't tell me is that they are taking the fight to the enemy. I found out because he told Dolores not to tell me. She didn't tell me, but Twin Y overheard their telephone conversation and said he had valuable inside information that would only cost me a twenty pound top-up on his mobile phone. Wanting proof that he had such information, I made him sign a guarantee that, if the information proved less than invaluable, I would not only take away his mobile phone, but make him write letters to everyone in his phonebook apologising for his lying ways. I was tempted to threaten him with spending two weeks with my mother in law - who, incidentally, is is not an embittered old hag with a face like a mouldy walnut - but such a threat could easily backfire if they joined forces, so I let it go.

So, to cut a long story short, Ravel is on his way to China, accompanied by two of the lawyers who took him away from here. Twin Y told me that they plan to track the perpetrators down and serve them with the appropriate legal papers. I only hope they manage to get in and out of country without any problems. How exactly they'll find their targets I'm not sure. The criminals who stole Ravel's business are unlikely to be amateurs. I'm becoming more than a little concerned for his welfare - more concerned, even than I would be for Mrs McHaggerty if she, say, took up eating lightbulbs as a hobby to while away the kind of long and lonely nights that are often experienced by people with no social skills and unpleasant body odour issues.

J McC

teaser

2008-07-25T11:51:00.002+01:00

Hello all

This is just a teaser. Sorry for the long delay since last posting. All will be, er, Raveled (geddit?) as soon as I get the opportunity. Since he's been gone I've found myself incumbered by all manner of parental duties that were formally his domain. I'm beginning to think No.3 in particular might now actually recognise my status.

As per Daphne's suggestion, I'm going to start doing shorter posts - just to keep my keyboard from rusting up, mainly, and to hopefully make it back up Kim Ayre's blog list.

cheers

J McC

knock, knock, who's there?

2008-05-25T19:44:00.004+01:00

Hello all

This is not a time for self reflection. Poor Ravel is the one who needs all the help he can get. I feel I have toughened up at least a small amount over the last two years. Being the instigator of one's own downfall has a sobering effect, and I like to think that my experiences put me on a sure footing to help out those less fortunate. A bit like - and correct me if I'm wrong - someone who has been to war and can now advise on joining which unit is least likely to lead to death on the front line.

'Ravel, my good, good friend', I said softly the other morning as he wept slowly into his cornflakes. 'I know this is not a good time for you, and I want you to know that we are all here to help.' The young man looked at me with bloodshot eyes and nodded.

'Yesh bosh. I know', came the slurred reply.

'Ravel!', said my wife more loudly than necessary. 'Are you drunk?'

'Yesh bosh. I come home later than later lash night.'

Dolores bent down to look at Ravel's eyes. 'He's very dilated, Joseph. I reckon he's been on the weed again.'

Twin X entered the room at this point. 'Phew!', he exclaimed, and proceeded to wipe an imaginary smell away from his nose. 'Can you not, like, smell 'im, like?'

Truth was, we couldn't - on account of us both having colds (number 7 this year, caught from No.3 as usual). I bent closer to have a sniff and just caught a mild whiff of sweat, smoke, alchohol and a generic unwashed-ness. 'Oh dear', I sighed. 'I think this might have gone too far. Ravel's started on the path to self destruction.'

'It's not that bad, Joseph', countered Dolores. 'He's just going through a rough patch. That's all this is, isn't it Ravel?'

'Yesh bosh', came the lacklustre reply. 'I go now, yesh?'

'Sure, go clean yourself up and sleep it off. If anyone comes calling, I'll deal with them', I said, patting Ravel on the shoulder. He rose and shuffled off in the direction of his hut, head low, gait unsure.

'He iz like well wasted, innit, you know waht I'm sayin', said Twin X emphatically in a south-London accent (he is currently into some kind of gangster rap music and insists on talking like he never left the streets).

'Leave him alone the pair of you', said Dolores firmly. 'I don't want you (pointing at me) giving him any of your 'life is box of chocolates' speeches, and both you (pointing at Twin X) and your brother...'

'He's me blud, yeah?'

'OK, your blood and you - neither of you are to start taunting him, asking him for cannabis or alcohol. Clear?'

'Dont be raggin uz orrite? We got nuff respect, you know what I'm saying?', said the young gangster, his hands chopping the air to visually emphasise the syllables (at least, I assume that's what he was doing it for).

I held both hands up in surrender. Yet again I was being told to keep my distance by Dolores. Now, I'm not a man to surrender easily to feelings of emasculation, but being told who and who I cannot converse with under my own (admittedly unpaid for) roof was taking it a bit far. 'Dolores', I said as she was clearing the dishes, 'Now, I know I've perhaps given out some bad advice in the past, but you know how I've changed. I know my limits. I won't say anything to upset him, I promise.'

My submissive approach somehow worked. Dolores put down the dishes and tried to give me a hug. I was so surprised by her action that I instinctively pushed her away - assuming, incorrectly, that she was about to swat me with the tea towel or something. 'Come here, I'm trying to be supportive', she said.

We were still hugging two minutes later when there was a knock at the barn door. 'I'll get it', I said, ' it might be the lawyers.' With that, I unclenched and proceeded to the other side of our dwelling (for those of you unfamiliar with our situation, see blogs passim for an explanation). There were several other knocks in quick succession as I unlocked the door. 'Just a moment', I shouted.

On the other side of the door were about six or seven Chinese gentlemen. All but one of them were wearing suits. 'Hello, are you Dr Macrooble?' asked the one who had been knocking. His accent was neither Chinese nor English, but more like something from eastern Europe.

'Er, yes, that is I, though actually my name is McCrumble', I replied, hesitantly.

'Sure, sure', came the quick reply. I wasn't sure at this point, but I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on the man's breath. 'We are here for your man Ravel. He is around?'

I glanced around the men. Though at first glance the majority had appeared neatly attired, I now saw what had all the hallmarks of a group of young men who'd spent the night outdoors whilst dressed for work. A couple of them even had twigs in their hair. They must have got lost finding this place, I immediately surmised. That made them even more dedicated than I thought. I had to think quick to throw them off the scent. 'Er no, he's not here. He, er, went away. Far away. Left last, er, month. He couldn't take what had happened to him. Just left us without leaving a forwarding address. You won't probably ever find him. And I don't have any money either. I, er, have a gambling addiction and spent the whole lot on a horse race at, er, Newmarket, last week. So I think you can go now.'

The same man at the front spoke again. 'Sure sure, we know he is here Dr Macrooble. He live here, we know this. We know he came here last night, and we know he is here now. Please, you bring him to us. We have plan.'

I was not going to back down. Ravel had done many things for me, and I felt utterly obliged to defend him from these sharks. If it came down to it, I was prepared to actually launch myself at them (I did judo at school, and reckoned I could throw two of them at least). 'Look', I said, folding my arms, 'I told you, I have no idea where he is. Now please leave my premises or I will call the police.'

'Show him the SMS from Inspector Davis', said the leader to a man on his left. A phone was lifted and put in front of my face after the text had been retrieved. It said

'You take Ravel with you. He deserves it. Don't let me stand in the way! - Davis.

I read the text a couple of times whilst thinking of what to say next. It might not have been from Inspector Davis, but I did in fact recognise the number (we, er, co-operate on the pub quiz). If that message was real, then it meant Davis was in cahoots with the men in front of me, and wouldn't stop them from taking my loyal companion!

'Don't come any closer, or I'll exercise my right to use reasonable force in defence of my property. You have been warned!', I shouted, my knees bent and my arms held out karate style (why I chose karate I have no idea).

'Dr Macrooble. We are seven and you are just one. We do not want a fight. We come for our man and we go in peace. We are sorry to disturb you but we must insist you hand him over, yes?'

I took another step closer. 'This is for Ravel, you hound!' I shouted, and brought my left hand down towards his shoulder. Thinking about it now, I couldn't actually say why I chose this precise moment to attack. In my head I knew it was a futile gesture. They would make mincemeat of me within seconds. I knew this, and yet still I launched a pre-emptive strike. I felt so indebted to Ravel that I was prepared to sacrifice myself to a bunch of tatty looking Chinese lawyers with European accents, in his name.

Of course, the hand never reached the man's shoulder. I was hauled off my feet and dumped on the ground before I knew what had happened. Looking up I saw the whole bunch of them standing with their arms still folded. It was as if they hadn't even moved whilst throwing my challenge away like they might have blown away a leaf. Was this some kind of souped up martial art, some telekenetic power not seen before in the West? Was I about to be thrown a hundred metres into the wood whilst they skipped amongst the trees throwing bamboo spears at me?

'Sorry bosh. I hope you not hurt.', said Ravel, still slurring his words.

'Huh?', I cried, looking upwards. Ravel's face was near mine as he extended a hand to help me up.'

'You don't need to attack these people. I go now. I look after myself', said Ravel, a thin smile on his face.

'But...'

The leader of the Chinese gang took hold of Ravel's arm, saying 'OK, we must hurry or we will miss the transport. Goodbye Dr Macrooble...and...thanks for your cooperation. Don't get up, we will see ourselves out.'

They set off at a quick jog. For a moment I was minded to run after them, but then Ravel shouted at me not to follow them. He too was jogging, unfettered and apparently un-bothered by his kidnap. Sitting there, I watched them run along the track and turn left towards the hamlet. My confusion was intensified just as they disappeared, as a gust of wind brought their voices in my direction. Now, I'm no expert in linguistics, but I have heard Ravel talk many times with his Bulgarian family on the phone, and I quite clearly heard both his voice and those of at least two other of the gang. They were all speaking Bulgarian......

************TO BE CONTINUED ***********

happy birthday to me, is it?

2008-05-18T11:18:00.002+01:00

Hello all

So I just checked and found that my i-friend Kim Ayres has degraded my blog down to his 'sporadic and AWOL' list. Ho hum. Deserved I suppose, given that I appear to have given up blogging. This is not entirely true of course. It is simply that my audience began to dwindle to such a low figure that I began to question why I was blogging at all. Now I am fully aware that one must blog in order to be blogged, so to speak so yes, it is partly my own fault. But when I look at the output of my i-friend Mr Gorilla Bananas, who regularly gets 50 comments per blog post, I think I'm maybe just shouting into cyberspace, and no-one can hear me type.

Dolores reminded me yesterday - on my 34th Birthday - that I hadn't mentioned the blogosphere for some time. Whether this was intended to press my blogging button, or simply to indicate she was aware of the situation I'm not sure. I smiled, and said that I had more important things to worry about. For example, at the moment, I am desperately trying to raise the spirits of my loyal companion Ravel, whose ambitious scheme of selling wooden football trophies to the Chinese became a victim of its own success just last week.

It was all going well. Despite my reservations, Ravel did manage to negotiate a contract with a firm in China that specialised in shipping football memorabilia to fans in the far east. His perfect facsimilie of the Jules Rimet trophy was sold through their website, and within a week of signing the contract he received an order for ten trophies. The capable young man shut himself away in his workshop (a shed he constructed from some scaffolding planks off an "abandoned" building site, apparently) and set to work. One week later he was packing the trophies into their box, just as the next order arrived. This time it was an order for twenty trophies. He again entered his shed, and asked only that we push food and water under the door (he had constructed the shed in a hurry and had mistakenly sawn the planks for the door somewhat short). Dolores took charge of the catering, and I was told to occupy myself away from proceedings. This, I was told, was 'to prevent too many chefs ruining the food'. I did try to point out that any business enterprise requires a team with complementary skills to proceed. My wife asked 'have you ever watched The Apprentice, Joseph?' before turning her attention to the banana and chickpea mush she was making for both No.3 and Ravel.

Left to my own devices on the first day of this new contract, I took a walk around the hamlet. It was a beautiful, sunny day and many people were out in their front gardens. We are well established here now, and several people said hello as I passed. A few more shut their doors as I approached for reasons I couldn't initially fathom. It was only when I reached the local pub that it dawned on me that that these were the people who benefited from the presence of the cult up at the Manor house (see blogs passim). Still, I figured, if 50% of the hamlet like me, that must make me 375% more popular than I was in the village up in Scotland, where my only friends out of a population of 1500 people were a butcher and a vet. Ratios are good, sometimes.

Anyways, it only took me half an hour to walk around, including a half pint at the pub, and I was back in time for lunch. 'Anything I can do to help?', I asked as Dolores washed up Ravel's bowl.

'How about walking the route backwards whilst wearing a blindfold - that should keep you occupied', she said pithily. I mulled over the idea for a few seconds before rejecting it on the grounds that I was likely to cause myself an injury. 'Nothing that a walk to the nearest hospital and a couple of nights under observation wouldn't fix, I'm sure', she retorted.

Sensing that perhaps my wife wanted me out of the way for a prolonged period, I resolved to go and visit my friend (and former marketing manager) Dr Booth over in Cambridge. I phoned and invited myself for a few days. Mark was worried for a short while that things were bad again between myself and Dolores. 'Oh no', I reassured him, 'she just gets like this whenever something important is happening. She seems to think I might, er, upset the applecart or something. Better if I just stay away really. At least until the whole thing with Ravel settles down into a routine.'

Mark was very busy at work with writing a grant application. I wondered if I might help, but he said he had it all under control and suggested I play the tourist around Cambridge. This wasn't a bad idea - I've visited a few times but not spent much time in this scholarly capital. Looking at the various options I had the choice of visiting 31 colleges, punting on the Cam, taking an open top bus tour, listening to dozens of talks at various venues, watching the university cricket team get smacked by various county sides on warm-up matches (the students start and end their season somewhat early due to the structure of the teaching terms). There were a few concerts etc but none really appealed. So I decided to tour the colleges. I figured if I managed 5 colleges a day that would keep me going for the week, when I would return home to find everything under control.

After about the tenth college on the first day, I was getting a little, well, bored. Now, I'm not taking anything away from the colleges with that statement. They are all superb examples of scholarly architecture, with a multitude of attractive courtyards and gardens and olde-worlde covered bridges to admire. But at the end of the day, they are places of study, not entertainment, and once I'd seen ten of them, I figured I'd pretty much seen them all. I asked Mark again if I could help on the grant application. Perhaps, I suggested, he might need a research assistant?

'This really isn't your thing, Joseph', he said over dinner. 'Its not about parasites I'm afraid. I'm moving into diabetes. Sorry.'

'I can learn...', I said, but there was no real hope of getting any work. I've been out of the academia for a few years now, and as Mark explained, times have changed. There isn't much room for old school people like me. The effort required to put a grant together has quadrupled in recent years. There is no room for taking on a risky prospect - and that's exactly what I would be.

Somewhat despondently I left Cambridge and went home. Ravel was still in the shed, chiselling away day and night. Dolores was less than pleased to see me, I have to say. 'Just stay away from Ravel', she told me in no uncertain terms.

Now, three weeks later, I wish I had interfered. Perhaps I could have stepped in to negotiate better terms with the Chinese firm. Maybe I could have taken on the role of understudy, carving the basic shapes whilst Ravel added the finishing touches. Maybe I would have checked the website to see the back-orders piling up and phoned the firm to reassure that Ravel could deliver. Who knows. What I do know is that we are now being sued for breach of contract, Ravel's trophy has been copied and is now on sale again but is being sourced elsewhere, and Ravel is blaming himself for once again plunging us towards ruin. I keep telling him to not take things so hard. We still haven't recovered from our last ruination - this one won't make much difference. He smile weakly when I tell him this and pats me on the shoulder. I smile back, but behind the smile I'm more than slightly worried. You see, I finally got some insurance money from the fire at the Institute. This means I have an asset. Lawyers love assests, I know that for certain.

J McC

World Cup Glory?

2008-02-11T06:00:00.009Z

Hello all

It's been a while since I last put fingers to keyboard to recount the daily challenges that comprise my attempts to get through this life I've been given / shaped / accidentally run into etc. It's not that I've given up writing or blogging, but rather that my life is no longer such an interesting journey. The last couple of months have seen us adjust more firmly to living a life of poverty, and we are now all very adept at scraping a living. Ravel sells his wooden carvings out of a layby on a trunk road about 2 miles from the barn. Dolores has become the hamlet's leading house-compantion, and now visits over ten elderly people on a regular basis. I have set myself up as a home tutor teaching biology to struggling students. The twins have started attending a secondary school after some protracted negotiations (and a few white lies). Number 3 is now 10 months old and is doing well - he's already walking and charming visitors with a ready smile.

It's so quiet round here that I've had plenty of time to reflect on my own shortcomings. Perhaps more than anything, I've come to realise that I can't simply blunder through life in the belief that my instincts will always bring a satisfactory conclusion. Looking back over my mis-adventures of recent years I was astonished to find just how many times I was the architect of my own down-fall. What was even more disturbing was the fact that I could never see things coming. This latter observation caused me some consternation, and so I approached Ravel one morning for counselling.

'Yes boss?', he asked as I approached. My trusted assistant was carving a piece of ash into what looked like a scale replica of the World Cup trophy.

'Ravel - I, er, need your advice'.

'Huh? Are you sure boss? Sure, fire away at me.'

'Yes, well, I know this might sound unusual, but I want to find something out about myself, and I think you might just be able to help.'

Ravel put down his chisel and blew gently over the top of the wooden trophy. He cleared a chair (a fine piece of furniture made from birch twigs, an old baking tray and old milk cartons) and motioned for me to sit down. The chair sagged under my weight, and made a sound like a whoopee cushion, but held firm - the milk cartons acting as some kind of cushion.

'Comfortable, boss?' asked Ravel as he sat cross legged on the ground.

'Comfortable enough. Right, so, you see - it's like this. I've been thinking about things, and I've sort of come to the conclusion that I need to undergo some kind of re-evaluation of who I am and where I'm going with my life. As part of that process I want you to be totally honset.'

'You know I am honest always. I am proud of my honesty. I hide nothing from you, boss', said Ravel, his voice raised as if indignant.

'I'm not questioning your honesty Ravel. I'm just asking you to be totally honest when I ask you some potentially difficult questions. You see, I am also very aware of your loyalty, and I'm slightly worried that I might force you into a conflict of interest situation by placing your loyalty up against your honesty.'

Ravel looked at the ground, and then at his trophy. There was a slightly awkward pause before he finally spoke again, his voice flat. 'What is it you want to tell me, boss?'

'Right, so long as we are clear, I'm just trying to find out where I've been going wrong. We've been through a lot together and I thought you would be the best person to ask. So don't hold back, Ravel. Just be completely open and honest.' I sat back on the chair and held out my hands as the milk cartons expelled the remainder of their flatulent air. Ravel looked at me with narrowed eyes for a moment before turning back to his trophy, chisel in hand.

'Like you say, boss, you have put me in a conflicting interest. Dolores say I must not massage your ego, but you are the boss, so I cannot not massage your ego, but you say I must be honest, so I cannot be not honest at same time as not massage your ego at same time as not making you upset because you are the boss.'

'I see', I said, not really seeing anything at all. Ravel had almost turned his back on me. I was momentarily minded to admonish him, but of course he was right. I had put him in a difficult position. 'Sorry', I muttered as I rose from the chair. The milk cartons made a sucking noise as they expanded. Temporarily unsure as how to respond, I watched Ravel as he carefully chiseled away at the base of his carving. It then struck me that I should engage in a little polite conversation, to signal that there were no hard feelings. 'So, that's a nice carving', I said slowly.

'Yes boss. I have been thinking that the world cup is coming, and I can move into the market for what you call nick nacks. This will be a best seller. I carve it from memory but I know for sure the measurements are correct.'

'Er, OK, Ravel. So, er, the World Cup is in 2010, yes?'

'I know boss. I take great care so need to start early. I need to build up stock to make sure no-one is disappointed. Simple business rules.'

I sat down again. One of the milk cartons collapsed and I ended up sitting at a slight angle. On the one hand I was keen to promote Ravel's artistic talents, but at the same time I was wary of the need to meet supply and demand criteria whenever one was undertaking any kind of business venture. 'It could be a best seller indeed', I ventured, trying to be diplomatic. 'So, er, who are your customers Ravel?' I looked around the room as if trying to locate them.

'China, boss.'

'Huh?' I exclaimed loudly, as the realisation of his mistake dawned on me. 'Only one problem with that, my good man. I think you've got the World Cup and Olympics mixed up. The World Cup is in South Africa. It's the Olympics that are in China - and they're on this year!' With that, I stood up and patted Ravel on the shoulder.

'I know boss,' replied Ravel. 'I keep up with the news on my winding up radio. I send to China then China send them to football fans all over world. I have contract. They come next week to take photograph. They...'

'Huh?', I exclaimed again. 'Hold on. You're telling me you have a business venture in China? You didn't tell me about it? Who is coming? Have you signed something? We can't afford to lose anything Ravel!'

My faithful companion could sense I was getting a little anxious. Now it was his turn to pat me on the shoulder and inject a dribble of patronising tone into his words. 'Boss, I know what I am doing, yes? They bring money or there is no deal. Sit down and let me explain, ok?'

I sat down on the milk-bottle chair once again, drew breath in an attempt to stop the palpitations that had suddenly gripped me, and listened to what Ravel had to say. He told the story in a rather long format, so I'll give you the abridged version. Essentially, he'd been out one day selling his carvings of mushrooms, woodland animals etc in the usual layby just outside the village. A man had stopped and was perusing the nick-nacks whilst humming the famous England football anthem 'Vindaloo' by the popular band 'Fat Les'. Ravel had never heard the song before, but was intrigued by its melody, and offered the man a mushroom in return for him teaching the song. The two of them started chatting about football and wooden nick-nacks and all manner of things, including the Olymics. Now, it turned out that the man who bought the mushroom was travelling to China the following week to sign some business deal related to the Olympics, and the little wooden object was to be a present for his business-partner. Ravel asked if such things were popular in China, to which the answer was 'probably not'. However, it then turned out that the man's business partner was a great football fan, and had always dreamed of holding the World Cup trophy aloft. Something like a wooden lightbulb lit above Ravel's head at this point, and he offered on the spot to make a (carbon?) copy of the trophy in whatever wood the man desired. Three days later, he'd carved a perfect replica in ash, using only his memory of pictures of the trophy for measurements.

To cut a long story even shorter, the man took the trophy to China and came back two weeks later with an abundance of praise for Ravel and his talent. He also came back with an order for 30 more trophies and a promise of 'handsome payment'. The deadline was next week.

'Are you sure this isn't a scam?', I asked after Ravel had finished his story, still not sure whether to believe what I had heard.

'I am sure not.', he replied, holding up his latest replica to inspect the finish. 'You wait, boss. Soon our money worry are finish. I teach your boys how to carve - we sweep up in China, no problem.'

I left at that point, not wishing to dampen his enthusiasm by any logic devaluation of his dream. If it is a scam, I guess it hasn't cost us anything except several hours of Ravels time when he could have been carving wooden mushrooms instead. Dolores was pleased when I told her, saying that my attitude towards Ravel had much improved of late. She was so happy, in fact, that we had an, er, early night - the first in over 6 months. That made me so happy that I decided to blog again.

World Cup glory here we come!

J McC

Mcrumble's Christmas message

2007-12-24T07:44:00.000Z

Hello all

This year we shall be having a somewhat muted Christmas. With no income to speak of, we have called a moratorium on presents - although Ravel has volunteered to make us all something 'traditional' from bits of wood he's scavenged. He claims he spent many a happy day in the Bulgarian forest near his childhood home, whittling and carving logs into animal shapes that he would sell to tourists. I wait to see what he manages to do with the local timber.

In other news, Dolores has invited the elderly lady she works for in the village over for Christmas dinner. This charitable gesture was not popular with the twins, who told me they didn't want 'some farting old biddy' ruining their Christmas. I was minded to chastise them for referring to the lady in such a way, but then remembered how she managed to force us out of her house some weeks ago by using her downstairs toilet and leaving the door open after a particularly noisy evacuation. It remains to be seen whether she can exercise self-restraint as we tuck into the Christmas bird (a pheasant, scavenged by Ravel, cause of death unknown but most likely a blow to the head as judged by it's rather squashed beak and the splatter of blood found nearby).

Dolores has told me that I should make a new-year's resolution to get us out of the barn and into proper accomodation. She pointed at the blog and asked why, if I'm still a 'celebrity', can't I use my status to get a decent job? I did point out to her that I use the word 'celebrity' somewhat sardonically, and that any celebrity status I enjoyed has long since passed, and that she knew full well that if I could do something about our situation, I would. She reminded me at this point that I am still on probation, and told me I should think long and hard about improving our lifestyle. No 3, she said, is not going to be brought up in a barn.

My situation brings me to introspection at this time of year, and on more than one occasion I've been brought to tears with emotions of shame, self-pity, hopelessness and helplessness. As I look round my family I see people I love dearly, but my sense of failure brings any attempts at reconciliation to a short stop. Dolores is remarkably patient, but I sense that I might be on a time limit here.

Oh well, enought about me. Merry Christmas everyone!

J McC

lab lit

2007-12-16T21:33:00.000Z

Hello all

Lablit.com is a site devoted to the improving the portrayal of scientists and science in fact and fiction. As a scientist interested in self-improvement through the medium of blogging, I felt it appropriate to respond affirmatively when asked if I would contribute an article. It just so happened I had something to say after trying to teach the twins something about parasitology (my former scientific discipline of choice).

You can read my efforts by clicking on the link below:

McCrumble's lab-lit article

regards

J McC

Calendars galore

2007-11-16T13:59:00.000Z

My marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, has just informed me that 2008 versions of his popular calendar are now available. 'Show them the pictures!' he urged, by way of encouraging people to buy one. 'And don't forget to tell them that the profits are going to charity.' He also wanted it be know that anyone buying a calendar will get £2 off the price of my book.

So there you have it. Calendars and books. Two ideal gifts, and all for a worthy cause.

www.matangini.org.uk

regards

J McC

Taking a break

2007-11-07T16:08:00.000Z

Hello all

I'm taking a short break from blogging in order to spend as much time as possible building bridges with my family, and perhaps putting together my next volume of memoirs (if demand is high enough). Those of you familiar with this blog may recall Denise, my one-time receptionist who gave up her position at the former Cumbernauld Institute to save me from being sent down for an act of self defence against my childhood nemesis, one Toby Hancock-Jones. She has been in touch to ask if I have done what I promised some months ago, namely to bring her altruistic tale to the public's attention by way of enlightening others to the value of loyalty. I had to admit that I have been lacking on that front, and must therefore devote blogging time to her story.

Stay tuned, and don't forget that I can be contacted on joseph.mccrumble@yahoo.co.uk You can also find me on facebook from time to time. Don't forget that volume 1 of my memoirs is always available to buy - and despite my pennilessness I am determined to continue offering all royalties to charity.

J McC

Leida and the Swan

2007-10-28T09:50:00.000Z

The phone rang. It was my sometimes Marketing Manager. He sounded cheerful. 'Hi Joseph - did you see the review?'

'Yes I did, Mark', I said, flatly.

'Not bad, eh? Should boost sales a bit'

'I doubt it - that reviewer described my writing as "car-crash literature". Who wants to buy into that?'

'She also said it would make an "excellent" gift. Christmas is sown up, my friend. So, what have you been up to? Haven't heard from you for ages. Was your phone off or something? I was trying to get hold of you last week.'

'It's a long story. Have you seen the blog recently?'

'Aah, not as such Joseph. I've been rather busy trying to keep things going here. Very hectic at the moment. So, anything interesting?'

'If you really want to know I suggest you read the last few entries and phone me back.'

'OK. Will do. Stand by'

Thirty minutes later the phone rang again.

'Wowser!'

'Hello Mark.'

'You got yourself into some deep doo doo there mate, for sure for sure. But here we are talking on the phone, so I guess it all worked out in the end, yeah?'

'yes and no. Do you want to hear what happened?'

'Yeah!'

OK. Well, the next day was a Monday. I went down to have breakfast as usual with Mrs T, but she wasn't there. All I found was a note which told me that she would be back in the afternoon. I assumed that she must have been called away, so I had breakfast and went outdoors. I was tidying up one of the rose beds about an hour later when it started raining, and I popped indoors to get a waterproof. It was then that I heard a a muffled scream coming from upstairs. This struck me as odd in a number of ways, not least because the house should have been empty...'

'It was the housekeeper!' exclaimed my quick witted Marketing Manager

'Not as such. I walked inside to hear another scream, and quickly ascertained that the noises were coming from the first floor landing. Ascending the stairs, I heard what sounded like a moan coming from the gallery.'

'Oh yeah, let me guess they were all...'

'As you can imagine, my curiosity was piqued. So anyways, I walked down the landing and put my ear to the door. I'd never been inside myself, but Dolores had told me how it was full of erotic artefacts. Of course, she'd never been inside herself, being a bit of prude...

'Too much information my friend!'

'Sorry. I just...anyway - I tried the door and to my complete suprise it opened. The first thing I hear - before I can even get my head round the door to see what's going on - is someone swearing very loudly. Next thing - loud footsteps of someone running towards the door. I barely get my head out of the way before - bang - the door's slammed shut.'

'Ooh, could have been nasty...'

'Messy, for sure. My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think about my previous encounters with them and suggest to myself that might not be the best idea. Also, I didn't have my phone, and I'd never seen a landline in the house. So then I think about running from the place, but have no idea whether that security guard would be watching.'

'Let me guess, you tried the door again?'

'How did you guess?'

'You have a knack of launching yourself into unsustainable situations on the pretext of acting rationally, but really as a result of your intrinsic inability to correctly understand the warning signs.'

'Er, do I? Anyways, I had to really, to find out what was going on. So I turned the handle and opened the door. This time, no swearing. I peek inside and see the contents of the gallery. You ever been to a museum of erotic artefacts, Mark?'

'No, not many of them in Cambridge, as it happens.'

'Well anyways, it was full of what you might expect. Statues, phallic symbols, paintings, etcerea. Moderately interesting if you are into that kind of thing, I guess. Now, like you I expected something to be going on in that very room. But no. Whatever was taking place was happening beyond the gallery. You see, Mark, there was a door at the other end that closed as I stepped into the gallery. I just had to find out...'

'You are either braver or more foolish than me, Joseph.'

'I jogged through the gallery - stopping I must admit, but only once, to admire an original painting of Leida and the Swan - you know the one where..'

'I am aware of the story.'

'Of course. It was a very fine painting - very graphic but very well painted. Anyways, not what I was there for, so I moved on, and finally reached the second door. It was unlocked!'

'No shit - it's like they wanted you to follow them...'

'Well - let's see. So I try the door, and it opens into a completely dark room. I can't see anything for a moment, but then a candle is lit and the whole scene is laid out in front of me...'

'Huh? What scene?'

'OK - how do I describe it - you've seen those old horror films, yes, where the hapless maiden is laid out on a sacrificial altar whilst the high priest is poised with his dagger to make the sacrifice?
'Good grief...it wasn't...was it?'

'No. Not quite. But Mrs T was there, lying on a bed, and Stonemason was standing over her, carrying a knife. He was also holding what appeared to be a watermelon. Without even acknowledging my presence, he stabs the watermelon three times and let's the juices dribble onto Mrs T - who, by the way, is fully clothed and in no way restrained.'

'Er, right...'

'He then points directly at me and says - and this is exactly what he says - "Approach, stranger, and make the sign of the order in remedy of the original sin". Do you mean me? I say to him, assuming he must have mistaken me for someone else. At which point he looks over at me and shouts "What the f**k are you doing here?". The door was open, I say. At which point he throws the melon in my direction and tells me to f-off. His aim was so good that the melon caught me right on the forehead, and I fall backwards out of the door. To my complete and utter suprise the back of my head doesn't strike the actual floor, but the knees of someone standing immediately behind me.'

'Good grief...'

'As I fall on the ground I hear the word 'arseschlok' and realise I've just hit the knees of the chef. He bends over and hauls me up to my feet. By this time both Mrs T and Stonemason have left their positions in the room and are standing in front of me. They don't look happy. Stonemason then says to the chef 'You are late, you German idiot. To which the chef says " ja, sorry master - I had food from village Indian last night and today got some bad diarrohea and could not leave the toilet". Mrs T then points at me and says 'he's ruined it. He's seen it, and ruined it. We cannot continue. Under rule 27c, if any employee witnesses the remedy of the original sin, we are tainted once again and must scatter to the four corners of the Founder's Field.'

'A cult!' exclaimed my excited marketing manager.

'Exactly that, Mark. I knew something was up all the time I was living there, but just couldn't put my finger on it. Now, there I was, the central figure in the dissolution of their order.'

'So what happened next?'

They started talking amongs themselves about what to do. This clearly hadn't happened before, and none of them knew what it meant to scatter to the founder's field. Or where the field was. They started getting annoyed and pointed at me a lot. Stonemason suggested they take me with them, wherever they went. I told them that would count as kidnap, to which Mrs T said - "how do you think the rest of us got into this?". Finally, the chef says "This is a complete arseschlok. I'm leaving. Anyone going to stop me?". To which Stonemason says "Under rule 19a, no employee is allowed...". But he doesn't get any futher because the chef punches him to the ground and runs off. Stonemason gets up and thinks about running after the chef, but then Mrs T says "I've had enough aswell. Let's just leave. The owner won't bother to look for us". So then Stonemason holds up his hands and says "OK, that's it. We can't break the rules, so we must disband. Well done, McCrumble. You were destined to join us, but by some unfortunate twist of fate originating from a dodgy curry, you have destroyed us. Leave, before I change my mind. Your belongings are in my room. Tell no-one what you have seen here, or we'll be back.'

'But you're telling me!'

'I'm telling the whole world, Mark. I mean, it was hardly normal up there. They were going to actually kidnap me! I also know they won't be coming back in a hurry.'

'How come?'

'Well, I didn't hang around. I went upstairs for my things, then went to the security hut for my phone. It was on Stonemason's desk, alongside copy of the house rules. I picked both up. Rule 28b clearly states that once the ritual has been tainted, the fellows of the order may never visit the site again.'

'Phew, that was a lucky escape then!'

'Yep. Fortunately Dolores believed my story - I met her on my way out as she was on her way in to start cleaning, and explained everything. She didn't go into work, not surprisingly.'

'So you are back with your family?'

'For now, at least. Penniless again. Dolores remarked at one point that we'd still have an income if I'd let them kidnap me. Well, must go. The twins want me to watch their archery practice. Bye.'

So yes, dear reader. As you may have deduced, I have finally returned to the barn, after uncovering a cult within the manor. I am going to endeavour to put my marriage back onto the right tracks. Dolores has put me on probation, but really I think she might be just a little glad to see me home again. How do I know? Because when I got to telling her what was inside the museum of erotica, I didn't manage to finish my description of Leida and the Swan...

J McC

The TCS review

2007-10-26T12:20:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Before I continue with the previous story, I bring notice that The Cambridge Student has posted a favourable review of the book. You can read their review here:

TCS review of McCrumble

If you have arrived here after reading the review, welcome. Do not be alarmed if you don't quite understand what is going on. I have trouble working things out most of the time, so we already have something in common. The best thing I can suggest is that you buy the book, then start reading the archives from Sept 06 onwards to find out what happened next.

best wishes

Joseph

Tea for two

2007-10-18T06:35:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Sorry for the rather abrupt end to the last post. I was in my room at the time, and heard footsteps in the corridor. It was all I could do to scroll down and press publish (remember, I am using a mobile phone with a small screen) before the door opened. Moments later, the phone was confiscated.

In case this soounds a little confusing, let me tell the story in chronological terms, picking up at the point where I was contemplating how long it would take me to sprint for the border. I was just about to set off when a rather large man grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me off my feet. I had no idea there was even a security guard on the premises, let alone that I had been stalked by cctv from the moment I left the second floor landing. This was explained to me as I was marched back at speed towards the house. But rather than entering, I was taken round the back and into one of the stable buildings. On the other side of a door I had never noticed was a security post, complete with a bank of monitors, a bed and kitchenette. I was told to sit down by the security guard, who then, somewhat unexepectedly, offered me a cup of tea.

'Dr Joseph McCrumble, I presume?', he said, handing me the mug. 'Sorry, no milk or sugar.'

The fact that the man knew my name was an additional surprise. 'Er, yes, and, er, no problem. And, er, you are?', I said, hestitantly.

'Stonemason.' said the guard, checking the monitors as he spoke. 'As in, that is my name, not what I do. I am the security guard here, in case you were wondering.'

'It did cross my mind', I said dryly. 'So what am I doing in here?'

'It is my job to interrogate trespassers. The owner is very fond of his privacy.'

'But I wasn't trespassing. I'm staying here as a gardener whilst I sort out my...'

'I am aware of your position, Dr McCrumble. Dolores told us what was happening between the two of you, so we agreed to let you in under the rules of the house. You are quite a good gardener, by the way.'

'She did? I mean, thanks.'

'Rule 19a states that no employee shall venture onto the grounds at the weekends without the permission of the owner. You were therefore trespassing.'

'OK...', I said, wondering where this was leading.

'Under rule 19a, employees observed trespassing are to be confined to quarters and rendered unable to communicate with the outside world until such time as the owner is convinced that there has been no breach of privacy.' As the security guard spoke, he began to roll his shirt-sleeves upwards.

Upon hearing and seeing this, my mind immediately focused on keeping calm and not revealing that I had a mobile phone about my person. It was located in my jeans' pocket, and I knew that Stonemason would only need to exercise a light frisking to bring about its confiscation. Somehow, I had to offload the mobile to somewhere I could retrieve it unnoticed after the search. Looking briefly around me, I could not see many obvious hiding places. To my left was the kitchenette, and I figured that if I could make a distraction, I could perhaps deposit the phone in the sink. It was a slightly risky venture, but the only viable option from where I was sitting.

It would have to be a fairly major distraction, or else I would not have sufficient time to wrestle the phone from my (slightly tight) jeans pockets and place it quietly amongst the pots and pans. Stonemason's attention had been caught by something on the screens. I was holding a cup of tea. Now, I'm no electrician, but I do know that tea and television monitors don't mix very well. Especially when a cup is thrown at the screens.

'What the...', cried the security guard as the lukewarm brown liquid spilled over the monitors. He looked round at me with a mixture of confusion and menace. I shrugged my shoulders.

'Sorry, it was a spasm. I get them under stressful conditions. Wait I'll get a cloth.' With that, I stopped waving my right arm around, stood up and turned towards the kitchenette, my left hand on my pocket containing the phone.

'Sit down Dr McCrumble', said Stonemason firmly. 'I'll get it.'

My heart skipped a beat, and momentarily I thought my opportunity lost. But fortunately the security guard had to search amongst the pots and pans to find his cloth, during which time I could retrieve the phone from my jeans' pocket. Stonemason then moved over to the monitors to wipe the screens. I stood up again and placed the phone carefully in the pans.

'What are you doing?' said the security guard, wiping a screen.

'I'm, er, getting another cloth. That's not doing the job properly.'

'Yes it is. It's worked fine. Sit down', said Stonemason impatiently, clearly upset by the incident. Momentarily I was pleased to see him agitated, but an image of him taking out his irration during the forthcoming search popped into my head, and I felt suddenly uneasy once again. 'Right, now no more spasms, or I'll have to tie you to the chair', he said.

'Sure, I won't move at all.'

'Yes you will. Stand up. I need to frisk you for communication devices. Do you have any you want to hand over before I search you?'

'No.'

'It will look better if I report to the owner that you voluntarily submitted any devices.'

'None to submit, Mr Stonemason', I said confidently. 'Search away.'

The (slightly too rough in my opinion) frisking lasted only a couple of minutes and of course revealed nothing. Retrieving the phone was straightforward, as it was within easy reach of where I was standing, and I just had to wait for the security guard to turn away for a moment, which he did to pick up his coat. Victory is mine, I thought as I was taken back to house and up to my room. Stonemason told me not to leave the room until further notice.

The first thing I did was send a text message to Dolores, explaining what had happened. She sent a one-word response, suggesting by her choice of word that she might have considered my excuse to be slightly, or perhaps completely 'pathetic'.

I spent last Sunday confined to quarters, and wrote that last blog entry before Stonemason entered, confiscated the phone on the spot and left me totally cut-off from civilisation. Why I wasn't fired, and ejected from the manor on the spot, I couldn't work out. I asked Stonemason that very question as he was leaving the room, but he didn't answer. I was left without any answer until a couple of days later when the whole sordid picture of what was going on in the manor house was finally revealed....

*******TO BE CONTINUED!!******

Freedom?

2007-10-14T07:29:00.000+01:00

Hello all

The weeks rumble by, and I am still here at the Manor house. Fortunately I have discovered how to blog from my mobile phone, so at least I can keep in touch with the outside world - albeit slowly as I have never learnt how to use my opposable thumbs to any great effect when it comes to texting.

This week I receieved a message from Dolores that she was going to allow me a home visit. I was initially overwhelmed with positive emotion at the prospect, but then it dawned on me that I was probably just going to see how things had changed for the better in my absence. Each time I talk with my wife she tells me how much better behaved the twins are, how she has adapted to not having me around. She says she misses me, but I'm beginning to think that is just the natural grief that comes with any separation. So it was with some trepidation that I prepared for my first encounter with my family in over a month.

Dolores said she would see me yesterday (Saturday). My heart sank a little, for normally I would be penned in my small room at the top of the house under rule 18b - no unauthorised staff movements in the house at the weekend. To escape from my room would mean passing through the living quarters of the owner (who visits evey weekend with his wife and two teenage boys). Unlike the housekeeper, they have no particular schedule, and I hear the boys running around the house at all hours of the day. Luckily, they never bother entering the attic, as there is nothing up here of interest except the stash of surfboards in my room. As we are at least twenty miles from the nearest wave, and I know from the housekeeper that they never visit the seaside, it is unlikely the surfboards are going to be used any day soon.

Anyways, I decided after careful analysis of the situation that I would attempt an escape at 1300 hrs - the time when the family usually begin their lunch in the dining room. I knew I could, by treading very lightly on all fours, exit through a back door at the opposite end of the hallway without being seen. Normally I don't crawl anywhere, but in this case I knew there was no choice, as a large mirror hung in the hall would reflect my image into the eyes of the owner, sitting at the top of the table, if I was upright.

At 1pm I descended from the attic onto the second floor landing. The emotive aroma of a roast-beef dinner caught me unawares, and I was immediately transported in my mind back to the last time I had enjoyed a proper lunch with my own family, many weeks ago. The effect was so strong that I was unable to supress a tear, which I wiped away with my shirt sleeve before declaring to myself that nothing was going to stop me being re-united with the people I love.

Oh so quietly I descended the stairs onto the first floor landing, leant over the banister. and watched as the weekend chef carried a tureen into the dining room. Over the babble of conversation I heard a deep foreign voice (indeterminate origin) thank the chef by his first name (Anton). I then heard the chef reply in a crisp german accent, in terms which surprised me. Now, I'm not well up on how the other half live, nor do I have much insight into how the nouveau riche treat their staff, but is it generally true that a chef (complete with mushroom hat) would, having served up the first course, thank his boss with the words 'You are most welcome, Sir', barking out the last word as if on parade in front of a sargeant major, before clicking his heels and exiting the room?

As if this wasn't surprising enough, I then heard, quite distinctly, the chef say the word 'arschelok' in an angry whisper as he entered the kitchen (for those of you who are unaware of the vulgar words available in the German language, I will provide a literal translation - the word 'arschelok' is equivalent to our moderate term of insult 'areshole'). This short outburst was quickly followed by the sound of metal striking metal - a sound loud enough to reach both the dining room and the first floor landing.

The owner must have heard the chef, but the babble of conversation continued without interruption. Curious, I thought to myself as I slowly descended the stairs. This was the second hint that relations between the owner and his staff were somewhat unusual. Making a mental note to find out more, I stepped off the last step and onto the floor. Down one end of the hall I could see the entrance to the kitchen. Inside the kitchen was the chef, lighting up a cigarette before leaning out of a window to smoke it. Immediately to my right was the entrance to the dining room. From my position at the bottom of the stair I could neither see nor be seen by the occupants. Opposite and to the left was the mirror.

Taking a deep breath, I adopted a crouching stance and moved into the hall, turning left. My exit was about ten metres away, on my left. On approaching the mirror I went down onto my belly and crawled, commando style, until I was sure I was clear. A quick glance behind me confirmed that the chef was still smoking his cigarette, so I once again adopted a crouching position until I reached the door. Standing up, I tried the handle. It moved silently downwards, and I was able to push the door open without making a sound. On the other side was a small vestibule, with a key in the door. Holding my breath, I turned the key and opened the door.

Freedom! I said to myself as I strode from the house, gulping down the fresh autumnal air. Just half a kilometre away was my beloved wife, my children and my research assistant, all eagerly waiting for my triumphant return. There was to be no more separation. I was going to re-unite the family, re-ignite my marriage. Just half a kilometre. Three hundred metres to the end of the drive, then another 200 metres to the barn. I reckoned I could cover the distance in less than 3 minutes if I sprinted.

Notice I said 'was'. There is a good reason for this, but you'll have to wait until next time I get the chance to blog before I can tell you. I am about to have my room searched, and it is likely they will find my phone. Actually, I can hear

Me and Mrs T

2007-10-07T07:18:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Still living in my small room at the manor house, spending my working days in the garden for a pittance (the minimum wage does not apply here, apparently). True to human nature, I have adapted to my new situation, and begun to find solutions to my problems. The strain of the abulution issue has now been, er, eased, by the provision of a bed-pan which I keep in the second-floor landing. This happened after I was forced to confront the housekeeper with the ridiculousness of my situation. She was reasonably sympathetic, but adamant that the rules of the owner were non-negotiable.

'Does he not allow you any latitude?', I asked one morning over breakfast.

'No he does not', she replied, swirling her weak tea with the handle of a bread-knife.

'And that is OK by you?', I asked, determined to soften her attitude with a display of empathy.

'The owner was very kind in allowing me to stay here on a permanent basis', she said queietly after a short pause. 'For my part I agreed to follow the house rules to the letter. If that were not the case, the whole house would fall into rack and ruin very quickly, on account of the owner not actually being here most of the time. There are those in the village who would see themselves sitting at the dining table, you know. One small slip, and it could happen, just like that.'

Each time she spoke in her soft Suffolk accent, her bony fingers would clench as if she were in pain. She would not look me in the eye, but instead focused on the action of her swirling tea. I did sense, at that point, that perhaps all was not well at the manor, but my attempts to probe deeper were immediately frustated by the chiming of the kitchen clock. 'Time for work', said the housekeeper quickly, rising from the table, leaving her full cup of tea behind.

'Your tea, Mrs T...', I said, smiling and holding the cup out to her.

'Too much milk', she said sternly. 'I was talking too long and it went cold because there was too much milk. Now, you get to the garden.'

I left the kitchen in a good mood. Despite having taken breafast with Mrs T every morning for the past few weeks, this was the first time we had managed to break the ice. You see, the house rule about fraternisation bewtween staff extends to casual conversation at the dinner table. This is, apparently, to reduce the risk of factions emerging within the staff that could undermine the authority of the owner in his absence.

Dolores was distinctly unenthused about my theory. 'Frankly, Joseph, I don't care if they are at war with each other. I'm more interested in saving our marriage, aren't you?'

'Yes darling of course. I just, er, so - how are the twins?'

'They are behaving remarkably well. I'm beginning to think that sending them to boarding school was perhaps at the root of many of their problems.'

'Er, right. Good. But, I would remind you, darling, that they volunteered to go to boarding school, on account of our inadequate parenting.'

'Ravel is teaching them survival skills. Next week they want to go and spend a night with him in the wood.'

'Good good. I'm sure it's all good for their development. What about the baby?'

'He's fine. Doesn't seem to miss you I'm afraid. Come to think of it, neither...'

I was forced to interject at this point, lest I found out that I was completely superfluous to requirements. Later, whilst removing some weeds from the main drive, I reflected on recent conversations with my wife, and came to the conclusion that all the evidence pointed to the conclusion that I have, indeed, been replaced by Ravel. Not in the strictest marital sense, but in terms of support for Dolores. Should I allow this to continue, I summised, I might find it harder to justify returning home...

J Mcc

Dumped

2007-09-29T07:13:00.000+01:00

Hello all

I have been banished to a small room in the local manor house for the foreseeable future by my wife, Dolores. She saw red a couple of weeks ago after a genuine misunderstanding involving a Belgian cake. It emerged that she had been planning a trial separation for some time, and that the issue of the cake merely provided the leverage she needed to force me out of the marital bed and onto a lumpy single mattress in a room that would find better use as a walk-in wardrobe. This blog is temporarily focused on my attempts to live a dignified life in exile.

My severely restricted view of the extensive grounds reflects my hypothesis that this room was never intended for habitation. Instead of gazing over a Capability-Brown inspired vista, complete with crumbling folly and a herd of rare-breed cattle munching contentedly, I see the gable of the rear East Wing extension jutting out over the courtyard. My room, you see, is in the attic, and the tiny dorma window was clearly installed to provide some natural light in the days when electricity was not available.

My other clue as to the original purpose of the room is the plethora of surfboards stacked up against the walls and furniture. To reach the single-door wardrobe I have to move five surboards onto my bed, and keep them balanced there by bracing one leg against the stack whilst I retrieve my shirt.

There is no sink, and indeed no tap anywhere in the attic. To use the facilities I must venture onto the 2nd floor landing, where there is a small bathroom. Outside the bathroom is a notice that says 'NO SOLIDS', which means I have to descend the stairs to the first floor landing whenever I need a number two. Unfortunately, this bathroom lies in the private quarters of the owner of the manor house, and as such is distinctly 'OFF LIMITS' to staff (except the housekeeper). I have been told that if I use the toilet at all I risk being ejected from the house, and I have therefore had to take advantage of movements of the staff during certain periods of the day. I won't bore you with too many details, but just to give you a flavour of how controlled I must be in my ablutions, here is the plan for the week:

2130 - 0730 - Not possible (flushing sound wakens housekeeper)
0730 - 0800 - Housekeeper takes shower - room unavailable
0800 - 0830 - Housekeeper has breakfast in room directly below bathroom
0830 - 0900 - Staff meeting (which I must attend)
0900 - 1230 - work in the garden (no access to house allowed)
1230 - 1300 - Housekeeper has lunch in room directly below bathroom
1300 - 1305 - Housekeeper walks round garden (Monday, Weds and Friday only)
1300 - 1700 - work in garden - no access to house
1700 - 1730 - Housekeeper eats her tea in the room below the bathroom
1730 - 2130 - Movement within house prohibited (housekeeper scares easily)

You can see from the above scheme that I am restricted to use of the bathroom during 3 x 5 minute slots a week. The weekends are no-go by default, as the owner of the house and his family turn up every Friday evening and stay until Sunday evening. During the weekend I am confined to quarters as the owner insists on total privacy. This means staff must vacate the premises. As I have nowhere else to go, I just sit in my room and read. Blogging is almost impossible - to write this entry I have had to feign illness and fool the housekeeper into allowing me a two-hour window to visit a doctor in the nearest town (about ten miles away).

I would like to say that I am able to exercise self discipline under such a regime, but sadly that is not the case. You see, those 5 minute slots on Monday and Friday are the times when I am allowed to talk to my wife. Dolores works as a cleaner on these days, preparing for, and cleaning after, the owner's visits. Fraternisation between staff is normally forbidden, but the housekeer has told Dolores she will turn a blind eye for 5 minutes on these two days. Our meeting takes place in the dining room, with each of us sitting at one end of the long mahogany table. Dolores asks questions related to my health and state of mind, and reports on the activities of the children - Ravel, apparently, has taken over many of the duties expected of myself, and is excelling at looking after No.3 whilst Dolores home-schools the twins. Each time we meet I tell my wife that I love her, but that I can't talk for very long as I desperately need to use the toilet. She, however, insists that we take all the time available to work through our issues, and that my ablutions cannot possibly be more important than our marriage.

This leaves Wednesday. Last week, the housekeeper did not take her walk around the rose garden, but instead decided to change the flowers in the bathroom as they had wilted prematurely. I was on my way to the room and only managed to avoid being caught by hearing the housekeeer singing something from the Sound of Music as she emptied the flower water down the pan.

You can imagine that I was absolutely busting at this point, and there was no way I could put off my visit to the toilet any longer. If the housekeeper was in the house, it meant the garden was empty. I had no choice but to run upstairs to the toilet on the 2nd floor, retrieve some toilet paper, run down the stairs and hide behind a hefty bush. I don't think I have ever experienced such a rush of relief in my entire life.

No comments about fertiliser, thanks.

J McC

Belgian delicacy (part II)

2007-09-19T19:40:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Sorry for the long absence. Not that many people have noticed. Blogging is a very fickle way of life -you need to keep up a constant presence or else people will drift away and your name is quickly forgotten.

Some analogies there with my actual life. Since being forced out of my former Institute by an act of arson, I have been largely unnoticed by society, and the steady flow of requests by the media for stories about parasites have all dried up. I'm thinking I might have to drop the 'celebrity parasitologist' moniker, and replace it with something like 'McCrumble down and out in rural Suffolk'.

My marketing manager, the occasionally intelligent Dr Mark Booth, called me the other day and demanded to know when I was going to get back on my feet. 'My feet have turned to mud', I lamented - not a metaphor, in fact, but something close to the truth as I was standing in a very soggy patch of soil when he called my mobile.
'Come on Joseph. I know you well enough by know. You can't resist the lure of science. Sooner or later you'll want to get things going again, find a lab, start some experiments. We need you to get going Joseph. The scientific community needs you.'

I understood what he meant, of course. Parasitology is a discipline from which it is impossible to escape by means of simply burning down your laboratory. Even now, with my life at perhaps its lowest ebb for many years - even now I can't but help think that one day I'll be dissecting rats once more, making new discoveries about the parasitic worms that lurk within. It is this single shred of optimism that keeps me going.

In other news...

The thorny problem of my Belgian delicacy was finally resolved this week. It turned out to be a misunderstanding of epic proportions. The belgian delicacy in question was not, as everyone suspected, a person with whom I had an adulterous liason, but a chocolate cake with a personalised message, inscribed by one of Belgium's finest cake decorators, for my wife. I had been drunk when I made the order, and had asked Clara to use 'Belgian delicacy' as a code against Dolores knowing what I had ordered. It was my own way of trying to show her how much I care.

The cake arrived a few days after I finally plucked up the courage to phone Clara and find out what had happened. This time there was no ambiguity, and the misunderstanding was rapidly resolved. I gave her my address, and she said that she would have the cake sent by courier. It was her uncle who would decorate the cake with the message that I had specified. Five days later and the package arrived, addressed to myself. I was busy painting the coffee table that Ravel had made from an old pine door when Dolores delivered the package. My wife was not smiling, and spoke with a flat voice. 'It says here, on the package that it is from someone called Clara. Clara lives in Belgium, according to the address on the back. Coincidence?'

'No darling!' I exclaimed cheerfully, thankful that the issue was about to be resolved. 'It's something for you!'

'What are you on about? Are you taking the piss Joseph? I've just about had enough of this. '

'No really, darling. It's a surprise. Please just open it. You'll see.'

'It's not addressed to me. You open it', hissed my wife, throwing the box at me. I was holding a can of paint at the time and caught the box awkwardly. It slipped from my grasp and fell onto the door, which was lying horizontally between two wooden crates. In a reflex-driven attempt to to stop the parcel from bouncing off the door I dropped the can of gloss paint and leant over the door. The paint can landed on the floor and discorged its contents over my feet, and I missed the parcel. It bounced off the other side of the door and landed in a deep puddle. Dolores, seeing my anguish at the possibility of losing the parcel, made the immediate, and not unwarranted, conclusion that the contents were somehow valuable to me. Her reaction was nonetheless somewhat extreme. Instead of striding off in protest, she walked round to the other side of the table and deliberately stamped on the parcel. She was wearing wellingtons at the time, and the large surface area of her footprint made a substantial indent in the parcel itself - I estimated that she managed to compact the box by approximately 50%.

Satisfied that she had destroyed the contents, she walked away. I was shocked by her behaviour, but determined that this misunderstanding should go no further. 'Stop there!' I shouted, my voice full of emotion. 'It's just a cake Dolores! Please believe me. It was meant to be a surprise. It's for you. Please come back!'

My outburst managed to stop Dolores in her tracks. She turned round and paused for a moment as if thinking how to respond. When she did finally speak, it broke my heart. 'Screw your cake Joseph. Screw you, screw this place. You want to keep up this charade then do it alone. I've had enough.'#

'But it was all a misunderstanding..', I shouted. 'Please - just look inside the parcel. It was for you. It was a cake, for you. The whole thing was about a cake. The Belgian delicacy was a cake all along. Clara was the person who arranged the cake. It was just a misunderstanding Dolores. Please check the box.'

My wife did not check the parcel as requested. Instead she took several deep breaths before taking a few steps closer. What she said next broke my heart for the second time in as many minutes. 'OK, Joseph. So it was a misunderstanding. If you say there is a cake for me in the box then I believe you, and I'm sorry I stamped on it. But...just how many more misunderstandings do we need? How many times are you going to put me through the emotional grinder then tell me it was all a misunderstanding? Am I supposed to forgive and forget every time, just pretend it doesn't matter?'

'What do you mean...?'

Dolores was more than ready to tell me what she meant. For the next fifteen minutes she talked non-stop about what it all meant. By the end of her monologue I was left in no doubt that our marriage was not the rock-solid edifice I always imagined. Somewhere along the line, and I'm not sure where that happened, I had started to take my wife for granted. At the end of her outpouring she made that quite clear, before finally telling me that she needed some time alone. I had no option at that point to agree to move out of the barn for some unspecified period. That afternoon I packed my bags and moved into a spare room in the manor house. This was made possible only by the fact that Dolores works there as a cleaner two days a week, and told the housekeeper that I was going to do some gardening. We agreed that I would not pester her during her working hours, and that we will talk again in a few days.

I am now sitting in my small room, contemplating where I have gone wrong.

The message on the cake, by the way, said 'To Dolores, my everlasting love. For you, I will do anything.'

J McC

Belgian delicacy

2007-09-08T11:30:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, I recieved a phone call from someone in Belgium, called Clara. You can read a transcript of the conversation in the last post. I did receive a second phone call from Clara that was unfortunately overheard by my wife. More of what transpired in the aftermath of that phone call will be revealed at the end of this post.

So what else can I report? Should I tell you all how my world has diminished since being forced to leave the Institute I loved? Should I become nostalgic for a life I once was proud to live, replaced now by a a daily, almost prescribed, routine of looking after children and helping my former research assistant to continue converting the partially converted barn in which we are all sequestered? I doubt you come here to listen to such sounds of melancholy after the joys of previous posts, so I won't bore you with the depressing details. Suffice to say that I am not quite the man I would like to be at the moment. Something has changed within - I can't quite put my finger on it, but it feels as if some of my joi de vivre has been extinguished.

When I look around me of an evening, I am forced to admonish myself for being so down. Here is my beautiful wife, mending the socks of our twins by candle light (they are currently being home schooled, as the local schools were full and we are awaiting news of an application elsewhere). Over in the corner of the barn are the boys themselves, climbing over bales of hay whilst playing a game of 'fox and hounds' (the exact rules escape me, but the winner gets to bite the loser until they start crying, apparently). Outside is Ravel, the most faithful person I have ever had the pleasure to meet. He is putting the finishing touches to a coffee table made from an old pine door that someone in the village gave us last week. Despite having no paint-stripper, sandpaper nor plane, he has still managed to remove 3 layers of gloss and bring up the original grain. When I ask him how he does it, he points to a thick layer of paint under his nails and tells me that he 'scrape away the paint like removing frozen ice off windscreen.'

No3 is now 5 months old, and is becoming a handful. He can't quite sit up, but tries at every opportunity. He can't crawl, but put him down on any surface and he'll roll over onto his stomach, raise his head, let out a grunt and kick his legs manically until he gets too tired. On the one hand, I am looking forward to the day he can actually move under his own steam, as I won't have to carry him around all the time on educational tours ('look, here's some grass, here's some hay' etc etc), but then I suppose when he can walk I'll spend all my time holding his hand and still doing the tours. The twins are keeping their distance, and for that I am truly grateful.

Ravel was initially keen to help with the child rearing. He told us that he had helped raise his younger brother, and was therefore an experienced baby sitter. Taking him at his word, we left he baby with him one afternoon whilst we hitched into the nearest town to visit the job centre (there wasn't one). On our return we found the baby in the field outside the barn with a piece of rope round one ankle. The other end of the rope was tied to a stake. In the hands of our infant was some sheep dung from a pile next to the spot where he had been deposited. Dolores managed to extricate the unsavoury excrement, and summoned our assistant. She immediately banned him from any more child care activities until he had read at least 5 books on the subject.

The result of her injunction on Ravel has simply put more pressure on me to provide care for the baby. I have not shirked my responsibility, you will be glad to hear, and in fact I have taken it upon myself to provide as much of a stimulating but comfortable environment as possible. To this end, I instructed Ravel to make a sling from an old shirt and I now carry the infant wherever I go, singing nursery rhymes and engaging No 3 with gurning and baby noise whenever possible. My efforts seem to be paying off, as Dolores has become noticeably less stressed in recent weeks.

Except, that is, for one occasion last week, when the edifice that is our marriage took an almost fatal blow to its foundations. And all because of a Belgian delicacy....

'Hello, is that Joseph. It is Clara here. Can we talk?' said the flemish voice. My phone had rung just as we were eating dinner.

'Er not really. I'll call you back later if that's ok?', I said tentatively. Dolores was busy feeding No.3 and was talking to Twin X, and didn't seem to notice I was on the phone. I hung up and carried on eating. The dinner finished, I made my excuses and walked to the back of the barn. Clara's number was in the recent calls list. It was an international number, so I made a mental note not to talk for long. 'Hello, it is me, Joseph', I said when she answered.

'Oh Joseph. Good. I have been waiting to talk with you for a week now. I thought maybe you were not so keen any more.'

'I er, no that's, er not it', I stammered. I still could not remember who Clara was, or where we had met, but I was somewhat worried that something had happened between us that she wished to follow up on.

'Good, so you wish to go ahead with it then.'

'I'm not sure Clara. You see I...'

'But you have already paid Joseph!' exclaimed the lady, laughing.

'I have?'

'In cash. You said it was best that way so your wife would not find out by looking at your bank statement.'

'I did?', I hissed. I was becoming increasingly confused by where this conversation was heading. Awful thoughts were beginning to form in my mind.

'Ok, you were quite drunk at the time. I think maybe our beer was too strong for you, eh?'

'Sorry, Clara, but I have to admit, I don't actually remember paying for anything. Could you just, er, run me through what happened?'

'What, the whole evening?'

'Er, yes, actually. You see, I, er, suffer from a, er, a spontaneous amnesia disorder', I said. It was a lie, but I wanted the conversation to move forward and not admit to having been too drunk to remember. Clara laughed, and I sensed immediately that she was not convinced.

'OK, Joseph, whatever you say. We had a very nice evening together you know. We talked for a long time and then you told me that you and your wife do not get along so good and I said what you need is a Belgian delicay and that I could provide you with that. You said yes, please help me. Dear Joseph, you then said I should refer to it always as a belgian delicacy, in case your wife should hear something. You seemed so unhappy Joseph, how could I refuse? Now all we need is to confirm your address and your delicay will be with you very shortly.'

'I, er, yes, of course. So, just so I fully remember, what is the, er, delicacy exactly?' I asked, my fertile mind wandering from the sublime to the ridiculous. I may have received the answer there and then, but my attention was drawn away from the phone by the unmistakable sound of Dolores coughing.

Now, keen readers of this blog will be aware that sometimes I get into situations that take me by surprise. I don't know why it keeps happening, despite my best efforts to prevent such circumstances, but I do know that my initial response is nearly always the same. It is marked by a feeling of panic, that hits my mind and spreads throughout my limbs at an astonishing rate. I can progress from presenting myself as a lucid, intelligent man to a discombobulated, un-coordinated idiot within seconds.

I'm not proud of this reaction, but feel compelled to record it for posterity, and to hopefully bring about a more complete understanding of who I am, each time it happens. I won't go into details here, and I will leave it up to you to imagine exactly what happened next, but suffice to say, within a few seconds I was weeping like a schoolboy who has just been caned and Dolores was shouting the dreaded D-word.

It took me six hours to calm her down. I had to first confess that I didn't really know what had happened between me and Clara. I swore to her on Number 3's life, that I would never be knowingly unfaithful. She quite rightly told me that that wouldn't count if I was too drunk to remember anything. Dolores then made me promise to go to the GUI Clinic, and declared she would be withdrawing herself from any physical activities for six months (the length of time required for antibodies to a certain well-known viral infection to develop).

We are one week into the six month period. I've kept my phone switched off the whole time in case Clara rings again. I have a feeling this story is going to be one those where, unfortunately, I have to say....

******TO BE CONTINUED******

Meeting report

2007-08-26T06:56:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Back from Belgium after one of the longest, beeriest, lack-of-sleepiest weeks of my life. For those of you unfamiliar with the low-lying country and its foibles, let me tell you that apart from eating tray-fulls of chips and mayonnaise, the other favourite past time of the Belgians is drinking beer of strength approaching or exceeding 8% (the strongest one I tasted whilst there was a whopping 11.3%, and boy was it good).

Ordinarily, you might expect such challenges to one's physiology would be sequestered outside normal working hours. But as I have already alluded, this was no ordinary conference. For a start, the beer was flowing for the whole week, as the organisers had set up a bar in the conference centre, and the barmen refused to take any money. One could down a glass of either dark or light beer (both 8%), from the first coffee-break at 10:30am, up until the end of the last session at 6:30pm.

Had this arrangement been made in Engand, I'm sure I would not have been alone in taking more than my fair share of the malted yeast solutions on offer. Perhaps I was glad to be temporarily free of the stresses of recent months, de-mob happy as I returnd to the scientific community I consider my home. Certainly I was happy to make several acquaintances, old and new, whilst I supped at the Belgian bar, and at no point did anyone suggest I should actually put down my beer glass and listen to some science.

Were my drinking restricted to conference hours, then I am sure I would not have had to take the hair of the dog most mornings with a blood mary from the contents of the mini-bar at the hotel. This was so effective that I managed to maintain a low-level of hangover then entire trip (except on the last day, when I didn't actually go to bed, and left the hotel still feeling innebriated). The reason for this, and other, late nights was the preposterous amount of hospitality laid on by the conference organisers. Normally, the kind of conference I attend is strapped for cash when it comes to sponsorship, but here there was no shortage of corporate money, and the drug companies supplying the veterinary industry were more than happy to show their generosity when it came to food and drink.

Dolores was less than enthused when I delivered my report on the week. 'I thought you said you were going to do some networking, start a collaboration, bring in some money!', she shouted when I reached the details of the final night's hospitality (a mediaeval spectacular in a 13th century castle complete with fire-eating jesters and roast wild boar).

'Well, I did network, actually...', I countered, 'I just can't quite remember what I networked about. But I'm sure, love, that it will all come back to me. I just need a couple of days to recover.'

'You what? I've been stuck here all week looking after the twins and the baby, and you say you need some time off?'

'That's not exactly what I said, I just...'. My attempts at correcting Dolores's interpretation of my needs fell on stony ears. She turned and strode off towards the kitchen. I was momentarily tempted to follow, but then my phone started ringing. I pulled it from my jeans pocket and looked at the number. It was from a Belgian mobile, but there was no name attached. 'Hello?', I said tentatively.

'Is that Joseph?', said a female voice with a flemish accent.

'Speaking.'

'Is it alright for us to talk now?'

'Er, yes. Sorry, but can I just ask who is calling?'

'You don't remember me Joseph?' said the lady, chuckling as she spoke.

'Er, no, it's not that. I just don't recognise your voice on the phone.' At this point I glanced over to the kitchen window. Dolores was doing something at the sink. Coincidentally, I presume, she looked out of the window at the same time, and must have caught the look of slight concern on my face as she frowned.

What would you have done in this situation? I had nothing to fear or to feel guilty about, yet I turned away as if to seek privacy, and then walked to an area out of sight of the kitchen. The lady on the other end of the phone was asking me whether I was still there. 'Sorry, you're going to have to tell me your name I'm afraid', I said once I was out of sight of my wife.

'OK Joseph. It's me, Clara. I did not think I would sound so different on the phone. Do you like my phone voice. My accent is not too strong for you is it?'

'I, er, no, sure. How are you?'

'I'm good Joseph. How is England?'

'Yes, the weather is getting better, thanks.'

'OK, good. You said I should call when you get back, so I called.'

'Yes, good. Well, it was nice to hear from you.'

'OK, so I guess now is not a good time to talk. Is your wife there?'

'No, I mean, er, yes. I'd better go. Bye.'

I have no idea who Clara is, or why she rang. Honest. I only mention the conversation here to prove that I am completely above board and not hiding anything. I hope.

J McC

Conference season

2007-08-19T07:35:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Despite being penniless, I'm still proud to be a scientist. To that end, I am about to fulfill a long-term invitation to a conference in the mayonnaise-loving country of Belgium. The olde-worlde town of Ghent is playing host to about a thousand vets from around the globe with an interest in parasitology. My marketing manager - the erudite scientist known as Dr Mark Booth, will be accompanying me, as he is speaking to the assembled vets on his favourite topic on Monday. I will be in the audience, of course, silently praying that he doesn't make a mess of things. Usually he is OK, but he does have a habit of sprouting off into some tangential subject and running over time. Many a chair has had to remind Dr Booth that there are 'only two minutes left' on the clock.

Fortunately, my expenses are being met by Dr Booth, who had set money aside to attend but then found out he was an invited speaker. He very kindly offered to pay my registration, travel and accommodation. It's the first time I have been to a conference in over a year, so I intend to really enjoy the affair. There is something comforting about sitting in a darkened seminar for an entire day, with nothing to do except listen to a string of ten-minute talks puntuated by questions and refreshment breaks. One can leave the troubles of the world behind and allow oneself to wallow in pure academia.

Dolores was initially sceptical about the trip, and accused me of abandoning the ship. I managed to placate her with a promise that I would exploit the occasion for networking purposes, and reminded her that conferences are an ideal place to set up collaborations (which often lead to grant applications). Mollified, she smiled and told me to have a 'good time', before heading off to her new job at the manor house.

Yes, that's right. My wife has found employment as a domestic help in the services of our neighbour, a foreign business man specialising in some form of 'import-export' as his secretary told us last week. He uses the manor as his weekend retreat, and likes to have it thoroughly cleaned before his arrival every Friday evening and after his departure on Sunday evening. As the manor house has 8 bedrooms , 6 bathrooms, 3 receptions, an orangery and a gallery full of - what was termed 'foreign erotica', it is clear that there is a lot of cleaning to be done. For that reason, Dolores has been contracted to work for two days a week - Monday and Friday. At her interview, my wife had asked how the position had become vacant. The secretary was reluctant to say at first, but eventually relented and told us that the prevous cleaner had been caught using an item from the gallery during her lunch break 'for personal pleasure'.

Knowing my wife's somewhat puritanical attitude towards erotica in general , I have full confidence in her ability to focus on the dusting.

J McC

Cap in hand

2007-08-14T17:37:00.001+01:00

Life continues at a very slow pace. There has been no news from the police investigating the destruction of the Institute. One of my contacts in the village near where we used to live told me on the phone that the rumour machine is fully functional. Someone apparently told the vicar that they had overheard me telling the butcher that I was fed-up of living in the area and was looking for an excuse to leave. The conversation with the vicar was overheard by the cleaner, who told her husband, who told the butcher that I was planning to burn down the Institute and claim on the insurance. The butcher told the police that there was a rumour going round that Curly was an innocent victim and that I had gone mad.

The police recently rang to ask me to tell them of my travel plans. I suggested that they concentrate on finding Curly before he does something similar, and informed the sergeant that I could not formulate any travel plans without having access to money. At this point the policeman asked if I had been able to obtain any work. I told him that there were very few vacancies for PhD-trained scientists specialising in parasitic infections, within the hamlet or neighbouring area, and hung up.

'We really do need an income, Joseph', said Dolores one night over our dinner of poached (ie, snared) rabbit and (stolen) carrots. 'Look at us. We can't even provide toothpaste for the kids. I mean, how much longer are they going to have to chew on sticks to keep their teeth clean?'

She was right, as usual. Chewing on sticks is a tried-and-tested method of tooth cleaning, but sooner or later we would need to provide more elaborate goods, like toilet roll. You see, I had spent all our current-account money on replacing essential items (microscope, books) lost in the fire, but had forgotten about the consumables. When Dolores had opened the first package from Amazon she had assumed that the book had been ordered before the fire, and that I had simply informed the company of our new address. After the seventh book (an excellent tome by the famous parasitologist Claude Coombes) arrived, she began to suspect I was making fresh purchases. I admit that I might have been a little hasty in trying to reconstruct the library (I lost about 30% of my books - mainly those kept in the lab), but it was an attempt at resolving my transition from somebody to, well, nobody.

'How much have you actually spent?', she asked, having already established that I had made upwards of twenty purchases.

'I'm not entirely sure, love, but I suppose it must be, er, somewhere in the region of just under six hundred or so....'

'SIX HUNDRED?'

'Parasitology books are not mass-produced. They have a limited...'

'Our money is limited, you idiot. What were you thinking?'

'The insurance would...'

'WE DON'T HAVE ANY INSURANCE!'

'Well, love, that's not strictly true. We are insured - I'm just not sure how much. And I thought if I could - now just hear me out here - I thought we could get going again and do some consultancy work for the - please just listen - do some work for the local vet. I've got his number and I thought if I got a microscope I could....'

'A MICROSCOPE?'

And so it went on. To cut a long story short, I had inadvertedly spent all our current-account. We have some savings, but they are all investment based, and have never recovered from the dot.com crash of several years ago. Fortunately I hadn't thought of raiding them before being caught by Dolores. Same difference, really, as we are still penniless, and looking seriously towards taking on some menial work until such time as either the vet returns my call, Uncle Jake wires some money, or the insurance company become the good guys.

J McC

Making ends meet

2007-08-09T10:04:00.000+01:00

The twins are dancing around the yard, making whooping noises as they throw small stones at the corpse of a rabbit they retrieved from the nearby meadow. This show of boodlust is most likely connected with their statement that they were going to become 'hunter-gatherers' for the summer. I laughed when they told me, my rational head pointing out the flaws in their plan within seconds.

Perhaps my derision merely spurred them on. So far, they have reaped a virtual harvest of fish, fowl, small mammal and the odd vegetable - pilfered from someone's garden. I should protest, of course, but since moving here we have been living on very limited means, and any contribution to the larder is, frankly speaking, more than welcome.

Dolores, for her part, has stoically offered to take work up at the manor house as a part-time cleaner. If Uncle Jake's money doesn't come through soon, we both might have to take advantage of the local job market. There isn't much available around here, bar some casual work on one of the farms.

I suppose I should back-peddle a bit at this point and bring you up-to-date.

We are living in a hamlet somewhere in deeepest Suffolk. The actual building is a barn that was partly converted some years ago before the cash ran dry. It belongs to a friend of Uncle Jake, and we have permission to live here until such time as we get our act together. This may take quite a long time for various reasons. First, I made the classic error of not insuring the contents of the Institute to their full value, and we are therefore very unlikely to receive full compensation. Second, Uncle Jake is having 'cash flow niggles' as a result of some dodgy accounting by his dodgy accountant. Finally, without my laboratory I am... like a polar bear without an ice floe, a mosquito without a bloodmeal, a tree without any roots - starved of purpose and unable to sustain either myself or my family.

The result of this emasculation is plain to see, and the temptation to squander my unbridled optimism and mope around in a self indulgent moray of low-level depression is growing each day. Dolores, my beautiful, strong, wife, is coping better than myself. She carries on almost as if we were still in the Institute, and has taken steps to ensure that our three children are put under as little stress as possible. Truth be told, the twins are loving the change of scenery, and No. 3 doesn't seem to have noticed anything.

Ravel is making himself useful as an odd-job man. He rises each morning at 6am and brings us tea like he used to back at the Institute, undertakes his regular exercise routine, and continues with his home improvements. The place was unfurnished when we arrived, but now looks almost inhabitable, even though most of the furniture is made from MDF (it's all we can afford). Dolores has stitched together some cushion covers from a few off-cuts she scrounged from a woman in the hamlet, and the twins stuffed them with straw. If there is one thing we are not short of, it is straw - until recently the barn was still being used as a storage facility for the dried cereal stalk.

At least the sun has come out. I took a walk today to study the manor house, which sits on a nearby hill. One of the locals told us that the hamlet used to belong to the estate, and that the current incumbent of the manor - a foreign business man, is planning to buy all the property up and turn the place into a village theme park for his children and their friends. From the dozen or so houses, three had already fallen into his hands, I was told, and the barn is, apparently, on his hit list. A visit to the manor house is due, I think.

J McC

google my book

2007-07-26T14:34:00.000+01:00

My marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, has just informed me that my book is now featured on the Google books site. He's apparently allowed anyone to read 20% of the contents online. All you have to do is click on the following link

Preview the book

He also asked if I was ready to publish volume 2! What a cheek. I mean, it's not as if he's made much headway with volume 1. As if that wasn't enough, he suggested that I 'fill in some of the blanks' before submitting the manuscript. When I told him that my priority was to re-establish some kind of family life before I undertake any more writing, he simply sighed and said that it was up to me what I did, but that my readerhip might well expect something in the near future. Given that my readership is less than stable (numerically, not mentally), I'm not sure they are really expecting anything.

I turned the tables and asked what he was doing to market the book. Again he sighed, this time following up with a lamentable tale about being buy at work, finding it hard to get publicity, no-one willing to give a review etc. Given this, I said that I fail to see how going to the effort of producing another volume would be worth it. 'Aaah, but, Joseph', he replied. 'If you produce two books, that's more space on the bookshelves, more material to your name, and how many people do you know who have published 2 books for charity?'

'I'll think about it...', I said, solemnly. 'My level of enthusiasm is currently quite low.'

'Cheer up, old boy!', responded Dr Booth. 'I know you've had a hard time, but it could be a lot worse. Look on the bright side!'

At this point I looked out of the window in my temporary office. It was pelting with rain. So hard, in fact, that I couldn't see the other side of the yard. A sudden melancholy descended, and I wished Dr Booth farewell before stepping outside. Within moments I was soaked to the skin, but I remained for some minutes, reflecting on recent events as rivulets of rain water trickled over my face. The twins saw me from their room and banged on the window, telling me to get inside before I contracted pnuemonia. For a moment I was tempted to shout back and tell them that getting wet in summer rain does not, in itself, cause pneumonia, but then I remembered that a great-aunt had died under such circumstances some years ago (she had got lost during a rain storm and was found 2 days later. She died of pnuemonia shortly afterwards). Acknowledging the twins, I retreated indoors, where Dolores insisted that I remove all my clothing before stepping into a shower. What she forgot to tell me was that there was no hot water, on account of her having had a bath whilst I was on the phone.

Oh happy days, where have you gone?

J McC

Catch Curly

2007-07-17T16:03:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Following the destruction of my Institute, a reward has been offered for information leading to the capture of the chief suspect - the man whose picture is displayed in the previous post. My Uncle Jake, who was the main benefactor of the Institute, issued the following statement yesterday, and asked me to post it on the blog in case Curly was reading this:

'Attn Curly:

You burnt down my nephew's Institute, and for that you are going to pay. I am not only offering a substantial reward of $10,000 for your capture, but I am ensuring that the British police force are given additional resources to help them in your quest. On top of that, I am launching legal proceedings to sue you for damages to my property. Yes, that's right Curly. It was I who owned the Insitute, and I do not take kindly to sinners like yourself making other people's lives a living Hell by your phsycotic actions. The best thing you can do now is turn yourself over to the British police force, to prevent me from having to actually pay out the reward.

Yours truly

Jake'

Burning down the house (Part II)

2007-07-07T07:16:00.000+01:00

Hello all

The last few weeks have been unsettling, to say the least. Fortunately, we are now in new accomodation and connected to the internet. I can now begin to piece mine and my family's lives back together, and hopefully re-build the Institute - albeit in a different physical guise.

But first - you need to know what happened, and why I have been absent. So here is the concluding part of the final chapter detailing the end of the previous incarnation of the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology...

-----------

I couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. Inside the laboratory someone was deliberately attending the bunsen burners that were heating the charcoal that was heating the steel bath. What was inside the bath I had no idea. My previous panic that perhaps No.3 was the occupant had now subsided, which meant I was less concerned about immediately busting down the door. But there was still a need for action, and it was my duty as head of the Institute to stride forth in full McCrumble mettle.

'Ravel!, ' I called to my research assistant, who was over by the reception desk, looking at the cctv images from the lab. 'Break down this door now!.'

'Better to go in back door boss', said Ravel, still concentrating on the camera image. 'Hey I recognise this man. You see here. Look.'

I strode over to the reception desk and peered at the image. It was becoming increasingly smokey in the lab, but I could still clearly identify the person inside. It was a man whom I thought had left for good, someone I never expected to see again, and someone I never thought badly of in our previous meeting. Yet here he was, in full view, caught red-handed on cctv (woe betide anyone who tells me our surveillance society is a bad idea!).

It was Curly.

Yes, the very same man who so recently had taken advantage of my hospitality (and bike) was now in the very act of conducting what was either a) poorly planned and totally unauthorised experiment or b) an deliberate act of arson. In my state of relative calm I now vascillated between the two ideas - my natural belief in the goodness of other people advising me that he was simply an overexcited fan of experimental research who was seduced by the academic lifestyle and unable to control his enthusiasm, whilst my sceptical side suggesting that he was a lunatic criminal acting out some lurid fantasy.

'Boss, look, he is removing clothing!'

Sure enough, Curly had just stripped to his underpants. His semi-naked appearance confirmed that he was well endowed with body hair, and also revealed a medium-sized tattoo on one shoulder. It was the internationally recognised biohazard symbol.

'Right, Ravel, we need to stop him before he causes any real damage. You distract him here whilst I sneak in the back door.'

'Er, ok, boss, but maybe I go to catch him. In army days we were taught to...'

'No, Ravel. Sometimes negotiation is preferred over brute force. I could never forgive myself if I let you come to any harm. You stay here and take care of Dolores and the child. It's time I took charge of the situation.'

Dolores grabbed my arm.' Let Ravel go, Joseph. He's....'

There was no time for argument. Already Curly was in some advanced stage of his 'experiment' - talking manically to himself whilst pouring what appeared to be dry ice over his upturned face. I turned to my wife and cupped her face in my hands, smiled, kissed her lips in mid sentence, kissed the head of my screaming infant, patted Ravel on the shoulder, and exited by the front door. Moments later I had pulled open the back door of the lab and was face to face with the near-naked American. He was startled to see me suddenly beside him, and reacted by throwing what was left of his cannister of dry ice in my face.

'Hey McCrumble!', he shouted as he lept away. 'Good to see you again. Sorry I stole your bike but I had to go buy the tin bath and they didn't have one in the village. I brought the bike back - it's up by your exhibition shed.'

'Er, fine. Good.', I said slowly, unsure how to react to his apology.

'I was going to finish this experiment on my own, but seeing as you are here, you can be my assistant. Hey, how about that - the great McCrumble becomes my assistant!'

I wasn't sure where this was coming from. So far as I was aware, Curly had no prior knowledge of either myself or the Institute. Our previous meeting had been entirely opportunistic and engineered by the police.

Or so I thought. Curly was clearly in the mood for engaging in conversation, and it wasn't long before the truth came out...

'OK, so before we go any further here...', he said, 'I should let you know that my background story -you remember, the one about searching for my ancestors - well, that was a load of bullshit. I really came looking for you.'

'You did?'

'Sure. Your Uncle Jake sent me.'

'Huh?', I cried, surprised to hear the name of the Institute's benefactor coming from Curly's mouth. 'What? How?'

'Well, OK, if you put me on the spot I have to admit he didn't actually send me. He kind of fired me, on account of some genuine mistake I made in his lab and sort of accidentally blew it up. But I needed to continue with my experiments, and he told me all about you Dr McCrumble, and I knew I had to find you. But I didn't know where you were, on account of the fact that you live anonymously - why is that, by the way?'

I was listening intently to his story, but at the same time aware that there was still an unauthorised fire in my laboratory. Whilst I was prepared to explain myself, it seeemed more appropriate to attempt a resolution to the current threat, so I said, 'It's a long story. I'll, er, tell you later. You want to put out the fire now?'

'Nah. The fire is an essential part of the experiment. You see, if I don't have the fire, the bathwater won't get any hotter, and the hedgehog won't cook properly.'

'You are cooking what?' I said, a uncomfortable image suddenly flashing through my mind's eye. 'A hedgehog? Why? What hedgehog?'

'I dunno. Just a hedgehog. He was in that cage over there.'

I didn't need to look. The only cage in the laboratory containing a hedgehog belonged to Timothy. It was now, finally, clear to me what was in the pot.

'Timothy! Are you in there?' I cried, stepping forward to make absolutely sure. Curly moved to block my path.

'No time to waste Dr McCrumble. The experiment is reaching a critical stage. We, er, need some more dry ice. You get some whilst I take measurements.

I had to think fast. If Timothy really was in the tin bath, he was either already dead, or in the process of being boiled alive (somewhat oddly perhaps, I was reminded at this moment of the classic experiment involving Shroedinger's cat, whose state of being was unknown prior to observation). Whichever was the truth, I had to persuade Curly to put out the fire, for should there be any altercation, it was possible that a nasty accident would ensue. 'It's OK, Curly', I said quietly. 'I can take charge now I'm here. You've done a great job so-far, and I'll make sure I mention you in the lab book.'

'Hey Doc, that's what your Uncle Jake used to say. Like Uncle like Nephew! But it's OK, really. I can handle it. You need to trust me more. I spent six years as a trainee technician because I was, you know, a bit slow at getting things right. So you can probably see that I'm a bit proud of my acheivement that I finally got a job at your Uncle Jake's. And I really appreciate you taking me on here, but you gotta trust me or I'm going to be worried that all that training was for nothing. You trust me, don't you Dr McCrumble.'

'Er, of course, Curly. So, in your training you would have learnt about inter-observer measurement error, yes?'

'Sure, Doc. It happens because one person always measures things slightly differently to another. I get it. So you think we both need to take measurements, huh?'

'Exactly!' I shouted, clapping my hands with relief at this breakthrough.

'Yeah, well, I never did believe the textbooks. That's why it took me so long to train. I kept questioning things. I think I can take pretty accurate measurements. I've got 20-20 vision and rock-steady hands. Now you get the dry ice will ya like I asked, or the experiment is going to be ruined, and it will be your fault, and I may have to fire you for incompetence.'

Damn, I thought to myself. He was clearly irrrational, and therefore unlikely to respond to negotiation. The time had come for physical intervention. Ravel was peering in from the door, and I knew that he was waiting for my signal. But I was afraid that Ravel's entry into the lab would precipate a brawl, with potentially dire consequences. My first priority had to be to put out the fire, so instead of collecting dry ice, I poured some distilled water into the pot, making sure that my back was turned. Once back at the scene of the 'experiment' I waited until Curly was writing something in his notepad and threw the water over the flames from a safe distance. Unfortunately, my aim was poor, and most of the water landed on Curly's feet.

Now, most people would be a little annoyed at finding their shoes suddenly wet whilst indoors, but I had clearly struck a nerve. Curly's face took on a purple shade as he glared at me with what I can only describe as a look of absolute hatred. His fists were tightly closed as he spoke, his speech suddenly peppered with expletives. He told me in no uncertain terms that I had ruined the experiment, that I was no longer his employee, and that I should leave immediately. I shouted back that I would do no such thing, and squared up to him. I reminded him, also in no uncertain terms, that this was my laboratory, my equipment, and that he was not actually employed.

'That's enough McCrumble!' he shouted. 'You just clear up this fucking mess right now then get your sorry ass out of here, you piss-faced limey.'

'What mess?'

'This!', he shouted emphatically, raising his left leg and kicking the 'equipment' on the bench beside him. He struck three times to dislodge first the bunsen burners, then the steel bath, and finally the charcoal platform. The whole assemblage looked very unstable for a moment, before a fourth kick brought it crashing down. The bunsen burners continued to spew flame as they dangled off the bench, whilst the hot charcoal scattered and the bath disgorged its contents.

Timothy was not inside. Neither was there any water. Instead, he had filled the bath with almost my entire collection of preserved rodent specimens. Each rodent was still in it's jar when the bath tipped over, but as they hit the ground they burst open. The preservative was formaldehyde - a highly inflammable chemical. One of the bunsen burners had fallen on the floor whilst still attached to its line, and just a few moments after the first jar hit the ground, I was facing an almighty conflagration, not to mention the sight of Curly picking up burning rodent carcasses and throwing them around the laboratory. There was, I surmised at this point, nothing to do but run.

'Run!' I shouted, and headed for the back door. Ravel met me, extinguisher in hand. We turned round to minster the extinguisher, but in doing so received two or three flaming rats in our faces, one of which set light to Ravel's hair.

'Retreat!' , I shouted, and we left the laboratory. 'Phone the emergency services!' I yelled to Dolores, who told me she had phoned them as soon as I had entered the lab. They turned up a few minutes later, by which time the lab was in a poor state. Most of the benches were on fire, and the cupboards had been emptied. The thick smoke had turned acrid, and was leaking through the main door. Curly was no longer visible, but I forbid anyone from going to look for him. Laboratories are notoriously unsafe places when on fire, a sentiment re-inforced when the fire chief told me they would operate in 'defensive mode' until a risk assessment had been made. This meant the fire was not going to be put out in hurry. We were told to evacuate the building, and promptly obeyed. Fortunately, both Ravel and Dolores had managed to remove most of our valuables and sentimental items before the order was given, and all we had to do was retreat to a safe distance whilst we watched the Institure burn.

Perhaps it could have been saved if the lab hadn't actually exploded. The fire-doors would have prevented the fire from spreading, but in the end they were useless. The explosion sent burning material onto the roof of the living area, and within minutes the whole place was ablaze, despite the brave attempts of the fire brigade. Hours later, only a smouldering wreck remained. Curly must have made good his escape (he is still at large), and, as I have already mentioned, Timothy hedgehog is missing.

So what about us? Well, this all happened a few weeks ago. Since then we have moved out of the area, and are now living in England. I'm not prepared to say where, just in case Curly comes looking for us. For the time being, at least, I'm going to have to remain anonymous. I'll keep up the blogging as we start our new life. Whether I will carry on my valuable scientific work depends on many things, and I won't know for a while. Until such time, dear reader, please be patient as we try and adjust to our new lives.

J McC

gone but not forgotten

2007-07-04T10:48:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Sorry for not yet completing the tragic tale of the demise of the Insitute, or being around much to answer comments / visit other blogs. I'm trying to piece things back together and keep everyone else going. We are moving into new accomodation soon, and hopefully once there I will be in a better position to consolidate and bring closure to the events of previous weeks.

yours

Joseph

P.S. Anyone who thinks they have seen Timothy Hedgehog (who was certainly not kidnapped, as some may believe) - could you please contact me. He is somewhat distinctive in appearance, and is also noticeable for the fact that he can converse in fluent english.

Burning down the house

2007-06-17T16:05:00.000+01:00

It is with great regret that I have to announce the end of the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology. My heart is heavy, and the tears are welling up as I type. I never thought I would see the end of a place I have called home in such a dramatic and unnerving way. What happened can only be described as a tragedy, both in terms of bringing an end to a great Institute, and the loss of Timothy Hedgehog. He has not been seen since the events of a few days ago, and is presumed to have lost his life in the inferno.

Yes, dear reader. The Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology has been burned to the ground. The picture above shows a fireman trying to douse the flames, but it was to no avail. Within three hours, the place was nothing but a carbonised shell of its former self. Only the Art Institute escaped the flames - it now stands as probably the loneliest portacabin in the world.

You must be keen to now how such a bastion of scientific integrity was brought down. I can tell you that it was no accident. I feel not a small amount of guilt, but I was in no way responsible for the actual events that took place. The responsibility for the fire that destroyed my Institute instead rests with two parties with whom I have differing degrees of association.

It is a sad day when a father has to implicate his own sons in a tragedy of this nature. But I must adhere to my principles of honesty and integrity, even if it means sacrificing the reputations of my nearest and dearest. You see, it was the twins who produced the experimental protocol that involved bunsen burners heating a bath of water containing a baby. They denied they would ever actually put their protocol into practice. The irony is that they didn't need to - someone else tried it on their behalf.

I first knew something was wrong when the smoke alarm sounded. We were all asleep. I got up and followed the sound. It was coming from Laboratory 1. Peering through the glass part of the door I first saw only the red light of the beeping smoke alarm. Intrigued, I peered closer into the gloom. What caught my attention was a row of bunsen burners arranged on top of one of the lab benches. On top of the burners was a barbecue grill covered in charcoal, and on top of the charcoal was a steel bowl, contents hidden from view. The smoke from the charcoal had obviously triggered the alarm.

It took me a couple of seconds to work out what was going on. Please remember that I had been awoken from a deep slumber, and the arrangement was so unfamiliar that at first I couldn't quite place things in my mind. When the realisation eventually hit, I was almost frozen to the spot with fear. My mind raced back to the moment I saw the twins' drawing of their planned experiment on the baby. Here, right in front of me, was the physical manifestation of that repulsive idea. The absolute horror and confusion of the situation made me feel physically sick. My son, in that bath! Why was it happening now? Who was responsible?

I pushed on the door, expecting it to open. But someone had locked it. I shouted for Ravel and Dolores to come quickly, before using my shoulder in a futile attempt to get past the fire-doors (new ones, installed not 2 weeks ago with re-inforced glass). A few seconds later Ravel was by my side, battering away at the glass with a boxing-gloved hand. It was hopeless. I started to hyperventilate, smacking at the glass, crying my son's name as if it would force him to awake. There was no response - just the regular beeping of the smoke alarm to drive me into a twisted state of blind panic.

'What's going on?', asked Dolores. Her voice was calm, reasonable, utterly inappropriate.

'What do you mean?' I shouted hysterically, tears in my eyes, my words barely forming in the maelstrom of my disordered mind. 'Our son is being cooked alive in there! Twins! bunsen burners! Phone the fire brigade! Ravel, smash down that door! Now!'

'Look, right in front of you Joseph. What is this?'

'No time!' I shouted, running past her to fetch the nearest fire extinguisher, figuring that, if I could just smash the glass in the door, I could jump through the gap and save my boy.

Dolores was in my way as I approached the lab door, extinguisher in hand.'Out of my way!' I shouted, raising the extinguisher in readiness.

'Joseph!', she shouted.

'Boss..!', shouted Ravel.

'Waaaaa!', wailed No.3.

Am I hearing things? I briefly wondered, as I brought the extinguisher down on the glass door. It hit the strengthened glass and bounced off, forcing me to lose balance. I tripped over, falling half backwards, half sideways, the extinguisher still in my hand. The fall winded me, leaving me helpless on the floor for just long enough to draw my companions' attention away from trying to bash down the door. Ravel peered down at me, his face expressing nothing more than mild concern. My wife, clad in dressing gown and carrying something in a blanket, looked at me with nothing more than slight scorn. 'You alright?', she asked pointedly.

'Don't just stand there!', I yelled whilst grabbing Ravels outstretched arm. Back on my feet I was about to swing the extinguisher once again when I heard the distinctive cry of my son. Oddly, like the last time, the sound appeared to be coming from behind. I had become inflicted, I thought, by some bizarre form of tinnitus.

'Waaaaaa!'

'I'm coming son!', I shouted, my arm poised for what I knew had to be the definitive strike. 'Stand back everyone!'

'JOSEPH! HE IS RIGHT HERE, IN MY ARMS! Will you please calm down and look!' My wife's urgent voice cut through my panicked brain like a laser through jelly. Such was the force in her words that I was interrupted in mid-lunge, and my eyes reflexively obeyed her command. They turned towards the blanket in her arms, where, to their surprise, they happened upon the screwed up face of none other than No.3, my new born son, who, just moments before, had been boiling alive in a tin can on top of a row of bunsen burners.

'He's alive!', I cried, as if that was the last thing I expected.

'Of course,' replied my wife. 'He's been here the whole time. Your red mist was so thick you just couldn't see him. He was never in any danger. Honestly, Joseph. Sometimes you really should try and keep a grip.'

'Son!', I cried, the tears streaming down my face as I realised my error and approached my wife. 'I thought you...oh dear...I'm sorry, I just...'.

'Er, Boss,' said Ravel, as I stroked the infants face and hugged my wife.

'Not now Ravel', I said quietly, as I felt the welcoming wave of calm and relief sweeping through my recently tortured mind. And with the tears of relief came an absolute mandate. This was the last time. Never again would I panic unnecessarily. No longer would the name of McCrumble be syonymous with misplaced hysteria. If this episode had taught me just one thing, it was that I should never lose sight of the facts.

'Boss, I think you should stop making hugs and look at this', said Ravel, his voice slightly more urgent.

'Can you please deal with it Ravel. I'm trying to mend something here', I countered, still embracing my wife and child, my tears of joy dripping onto the infant's angry face. Let him be angry, I thought. He could be the angriest baby in the world and I would still love him.

'I can, but you won't be happy if I do it my way.' It was Ravel again, persistent as ever.

'Alright Ravel, what is it?' I sighed, my attention still firmly on wife and child.

'There is someone in the lab boss. I see them just now.'

I'm sure you will agree, dear reader, that such a revelation would cause many people to experience a loosening of their grip on the situation. But not I, Dr Joseph McCrumble, scientist, guardian of my family, leader of men. Something approaching an epiphany had just occurred, and nothing was going to upset my karma. Not even if I was facing the biggest ever threat to my life and livelihood. A typically melodramatic sentiment to some, perhaps, but this time entirely appropriate. For as I peered into the gloom beyond the still-intact firedoors, I saw first the body and then the face of the man who was trying to destroy my Institute...

**********TO BE CONTINUED!!!!***********

Sad news

2007-06-15T15:38:00.000+01:00

He came back.

The Institute is no more.

Timothy Hedgehog is missing, presumed dead. Everyone else OK.

I am blogging under emergency conditions.

Will tell full story when I have got my head around what happened.

Sadly yours

Joseph McCrumble

Jailhouse McCrumble part II

2007-06-09T11:44:00.000+01:00

The story so far...

The local police inspector requested me to host a suspected thief for the night in my supposedly secure Art Institute (in truth, a portacabin). You can find part one of the story below this post. I pick things up at the point where the suspect arrives at the Institute, accompanied by an officer of the law.

'The inspector sends his apologies for any inconvenience caused, Dr McCrumble', said the constable as he promted the suspect to leave the car. The man emerged rubbing his eyes, which were quite red. Hayfever? I wondered.

He was a large chap, dressed in short-sleeved shirt and shorts, head almost completely shaven apart from what looked like goatee stubble. He looked American, a hunch confirmed when he opened his mouth and said 'So you're McCrumble then, huh?'

'Dr Joseph McCrumble, yes. I'm the director of this Institute - the Cumbernauld Inst...'

'Sure', interrupted the man, stretching his rather hairy arms. 'I need to pee like a racehorse. Where's the john?'

'I've put a bucket in your, er, room', I said.

'Huh?', growled the American. 'Look sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not pissing in a bucket. When I go, I really go. You want splash back on your nice floor?'

He had a point, so I asked the officer if it would be ok for the man to use the toilet inside the main building. The constable didn't make any objections - indeed he seemed rather keen to hand the suspect over to me and get back to the station, citing a very busy charge sheet as his excuse (I found out the next day that the cells were full of scantily-clad female partygoers who'd decided to put on an impromtu 'show-and-tell' at the local May Ball. The policemen spent the evening trying to find out what the 'show and tell' involved.)

'What if he makes a run for it?', I asked as we walked towards the Institute bathroom.

'That's very unlikely Dr McCrumble. We have his passport and wallet back at the station.'

'Can I ask what he's in custody for?'

The American answered, 'they think I stole the priest's barbecue. It's a pile of bull. I was putting it back. We already used it. The priest gave us permission before he left on holiday. These clowns couldn't work it out so they arrested me.'

We walked the rest of the way to the toilet in silence. Once there, I was minded to ask if the suspect should be accompanied, as I knew the window was open. But a quick mental reckoning made me realise that the barrel-shaped torso of our new house guest would be unable to fit through the small square window.

'We'll be back at 7:30 or thereabouts to pick him up', said the constable as we waited. 'I suggest you keep an eye on him using your cctv. If he does cause any trouble, just give us a call. Though if it's after 3am we might not be able to send anyone in a hurry, or at all.'

'Great,' I sighed, looking at my watch. It was now 12:30 am. Everyone else was asleep, and they would not appreciate being told that they had to take turns guarding a suspected barbecue thief. It would have to be me, I decided, my heart sinking further at the thought of another sleepless night.

Once the American had emerged, we took him over to the Art Institute. He was polite enough not to make any disparaging remarks, and even complimented me on the abstract design of the duvet cover. At this point the policeman made his excuses and departed, jogging to his car.

'Are you likely to need the toilet again?', I asked of the American as he lay down.

'I sometimes get loose bowels in the early hours - it's not for certain, but if I need to take a crap I'll wave at the cameras. You'll be watching me to make sure I don't push through one of these walls and run for the hills, won't you?'

My resolve to do my duty was already thinning. The American did not give an air of a persistent offender, and his story was plausible - the priest often took pity on visitors to the area in need of facilities. I as also feeling very tired, and knew I would not be able to keep my eyes open all the time, waiting for the sign of the impending poo.

'Look', I said at length, 'As far I see it, I'm not actually bound by any law to keep you in here all night. If you promise not to make a run for it, I can't see any reason why I should lock you up in here.'

'Hand on heart, sir.', said the suspect, a broad grin on his face, offering his hand.

'OK, let's go. You can sleep in the boy's bedroom. They are at boarding school.'

I led the American (his name was Donald, but he said everyone since college called him Curly, on account of penis having a slight bend when erect) to the main building. En route, he told me his story. It turned out he was in the UK researching his family history, and was visiting the village to find the grave of his great-great grandfather. The priest was about to leave the village to see visit a friend in Cornwall, but had met the American in the churchyard. Curly had told the priest that he wanted to cook up a big steak for his dinner, but didn't have access to the kitchen at the bed and breakfast he was staying. The priest had said he could borrow the church barbecue, and even threw in some charcoal and lighting briquettes. Having cooked the steak, Curly had been walking back to the vicarage when he was spotted by the police, who thought he was a vagrant, and arrested him on suspicion of theft, pending contact with the priest to confirm his story.

'Typical', I said in response to his tale. 'They wouldn't spot a real criminal if he walked into the station carrying the head of their latest victim, but they seem very keen to arrest innocent people like you and me for no reason at all.'

Standing at the entrance to the boy's room, we shook hands once more and bade each other goodnight. I told Curly that Ravel would bring him a cup of tea at 7:00am, so that he would be better prepared for the police when they came to pick him up at 7:30am. I went straight to bed, and listened only for the clicking sound of the boys's bedroom door to indicate it had been closed.

My dreams that night were extremely vivid. Curly made a brief appearance, trying to persuade me to measure the curvature of his spine, before turning into a football and bouncing into a nearby lake. The baby slept soundly, and I did not wake until Ravel brought tea at 6:30am. I told him of our house guest, and instructed that tea should be given. Two minutes later, I heard a gentle knock at the boy's bedroom door. There was no answer, so Ravel knocked again. 'Go in,' I whispered loudly, and I heard Ravel open the door. A few seconds later, my research assistant was at my bedside, holding not only an un-delivered cup of tea, but a note. It read:

'Dear Joe

Thanks for putting me up last night. I gotta skiddadle as I'm meeting an old friend and I need to catch a train. I'll go to the police station myself - hope you don't mind but I'll use your bike to speed me along. regards Curly.

'Phone the police!' I shouted.

To cut a long story short, Curly did not go back to the police station. He took my bike, cycled to the nearest train station, and is now somewhere unknown. The police suspect his passport is a forgery, and his wallet belonged to someone else entirely. Why they didn't check that when they arrested him, I have no idea.

He doesn't appear to have taken anything from the Institute, at least, probably on account of my good acting as a good samaritan. So as far as I'm concerned, it's case closed.

Jailhouse McCrumble

2007-06-04T20:57:00.000+01:00

'You must be joking!', I cried down the phone, interrupting the police Inspector at the other end before he could finish his, admittedly rather ridiculous, suggestion.

'Not at all Dr McCrumble', countered the policeman. 'Your facility will meet our needs very well. Not only is it secured to a high standard, but you also have CCTV. We will be in touch on a regular basis, and it will only be for a night or two. I understand this is most irregular, but the situation here is simply too much for us to handle on our own. Think of it, if you will, as an example of community policing. And you owe us a favour. And we'll compensate you for your inconvenience, of course.'

'I do? You will?'

'Yes. Let's not get into details just now, shall we? I'll send him round now. You might like to check your window locks and such like. And hide any valuables you might be keeping there. We've also run out of bedding, so you might like to find a spare mattress and duvet. Well, I must go now as our guests are demanding some dessert wine. He'll be with you in thirty minutes.'

I placed the receiver and rubbed my eyes. It was close to midnight. I had been in bed for nearly an hour before the police called, dreaming that I was pulling No.3 out of a crater - the result of the twins tying the poor baby to a home-made rocket. It was one of those calls in the middle of the night that makes you wonder who's just died. Mrs McHaggarty (the mother of Dolores), has not been well lately - she claims she has deep vein thrombosis, so she was the first person on my list.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, it was the local police Inspector. He was having a dinner party, and had been alerted by the duty sergeant regarding an acute shortage of cells at the local station, on account of the village May Ball having turned riotous and several revellers having been arrested for lewd behaviour. The Inspector then called me, to discuss what he called 'a matter of local security'. The ridiculous suggestion he made was that I should host a suspected thief in the Cumbernauld Art Insitute on account of the police cells being full. Such was my surprise, and so brief was the conversastion, that I didn't have time to suggest I house one of the revellers instead. What was the inspector thinking? A thief, in my Art Institute? What if he took a liking to one my works of art?

This question was one of many racing through my mind as I awoke Dolores. She was even more annoyed than me, and told me to tell the police Inspector to choke on his After Eights (actually, she swore rather badly, but I know the local police read this blog, so I've censored her comments). 'What are you going to do?', she finally asked.

'I suppose I'll have to go along with it. The Art Institute is secure, I suppose...'

'Its a portacabin with single glazing and flimsy window locks! If he stamps his foot hard enough the floor will give way. Has the Inspector ever actually visited?'

'He came to the opening ceremony a couple of years ago. I'm a bit surprised actually, now you mention it. Well, mmm, actually, now I think about it - maybe I did exagarate the level of security to him a little bit.'

'You idiot. Trying to impress were you?'

'Not so much impress as....well, you know how it is...'

Dolores turned over at that point and switched off the light. I tried to rouse her, but she refused to become more involved, citing my own buffoonery as reason for her recalcitrance. In the end I was made to search out the spare mattress and duvet on my own. I dragged them down to the Art Institute and opened up the door. The exhibition space was empty, as I've not had time to produce any new art work this year. The door to the office was ajar, so I closed and locked it before checking all the window locks. I briefly wondered about toilet facilities, as the only one for the Art Insitute is a portaloo outdoors, about 10 metres behind the cabin, before spying the bucket I had filled with sand for putting out small fires / stubbing out cigarettes. On emptying the bucket I felt a small surge of pride in my ingenuity. So long as he wasn't prone to sudden bowel movements, the bright-red receptacle would easily suffice for the night.

I'd barely finished locking up when I saw the police car pull up to door of the main building. I recognised the officer as one who had previously arrested me, and we exchanged brief smiles before he opened the rear door of his car and motioned for the inhabitant to emerge....

***********TO BE CONTINUED*************

Songtime

2007-05-28T16:57:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Following the decision that the weekend was cancelled after finding a note-pad full of experiments to be performed on the baby by the twins, we were left to entertain ourselves. The twins are under house-arrest until this evening, and have been sulking the whole day. They still protest that they were not going to actually perform any experiments, but they both have form, and frankly I don't believe them. Dolores is in complete agreement, which makes things a bit easier.

I was in the office, reading some emails, when I heard Dolores start to shout. I left the office and ventured into the living area. Dolores was clutching onto the latest copy of 'Green solutions' - a locally produced publication aimed at people interested in saving the environment. She heard me enter, threw the magazine on the floor and shouted 'I don't believe it!'

'What's up dear?', I asked.

'Global bloody warming!' she said loudly, scowling.

'It's here to stay, darling, so you might as well get used to it', I suggested, trying to be helpful.

'Every day I get bombarded with new ways to help save the planet. I mean, how much further can we go? Look at this...' she jabbed at the magazine on the floor, '...this bunch are saying we should piss in our plant-pots to save water. It's sending people barmy.'

'Yes dear. Do you want me to go to the garden centre?'

'Sod off, Joseph.'

I left my fragrant, if occasionally irrascible wife to her diatribe against the environmentalists and retired to the office. Having read my emails I was suddenly struck by a nugget of creativity, and thought of writing a song. This is something in which I've dabbled previously, but without much success. My trouble is not with the lyrics, but with the tune, for I have no gift for melody. This time, I decided, I would use an existing tune. I had the famous 'My favourite things' from the Sound of Music in my head, and Dolores' rant as a basis for the lyrics. Three hours, 6 flapjacks, 4 cups of tea and one lunch later, I had it. Here then, for the first time ever, I present a song what I wrote. It is to be sung to the tune of 'My favourite things', and is entitled...

'Ode to the disgruntled environmentalist'

Argentine Mangoes and Lamb from New Zealand
Too many airmiles to fly them to England
Organic turnips are what we must buy
So long as they've travelled no more than 2 miles

Chorus:
On a donkey's back, in a woollen sack
Shorn by hand from the sheep
Pick your own berries and wash them in pee
Recyle the tears, that you weep

Meat from a small cow that never saw light of day
Crabs that were plunged into death the old fashioned way
Frogs legs in garlic served on a hot plate
These are the foods we've been told we must hate

Trainers and clothes from developing nations
Coffee from farms in rainforest plantations
Engery from unsustainable source
These are all forbidden products of course

Opting to fly on your annual holiday
Leaving your dvd plugged in the mains all day
Driving to anywhere beyond your street
All of these things are stamped on your crime sheet

you've...got...to

Grow your own compost and eat it for dinner
Nettle tea stewed with bath water's a winner
Rip up your decking and use it for fuel
Wear long grass skirts, pack your kids off to school

Chorus

Twin trouble

2007-05-27T05:54:00.000+01:00

Oh dear

The twins came home yesterday from boarding school. They were very pleased to see No3 again, and for a short time, in the early evening, I was content with the whole family. Dolores was cooking dinner, the twins were paying attention to No.3, and I was reading the local free paper. There was a story about a local farmer paying someone to dispose of a suspected case of bird flu, a picture of twins who were doing a 3-legged marathon for charity, the sad tale of the demise of the village butcher's shop, and a guest article by the village's new community support officer, warning of a local crime spree.

It was whilst reading this story that I noticed a piece of paper hanging out of the back pocket of Twin X's trousers. I couldn't make out all of what it said, but I did quite clearly see the word 'Experiment'. Pleased to see the twins taking an interest in science, I asked them what the experiment was about. Their reaction was somewhat unexpected. Instead of simply relaying the required infomation, they spun round and began to back away from No 3's cot. They then began disssembling in the manner of 12 year old children caught in the act of some petty crime to which they cannot possibly admit.

So far as I was aware, no crime had been committed. They'd only been back for a few hours, and had been supervised the whole period. The fact that they ran away therefore made no sense. I called them back into the living area, keen not to ruin the peace and quiet that had so far blessed their return. But it was fruitless. They were determined not to yield to my gentle persuasion, and that fact alone made me increasingly suspicious. If they hadn't already committed an act of hostility towards something/someone, they might well be planning it.

'Show me the piece of paper boys!', I shouted down the corridor at their rapidly retreating selves. On hearing this cry, Twin X did not do as commanded, but instead tore up the paper and put it in his mouth, chewing furiously before swallowing. The act of standing still to destroy the paper was their fateful flaw, as it slowed them enough that I could catch up. I just managed to pull the last piece of paper out of his mouth. It was blank.

'Why did you swallow the paper?', I asked in a traditionally firm tone.

'I was hungry?', suggested the youngster. This was an unlikely explanation as they had recently finished a pre-dinner snack of cheese dippers.

Faced with this clear untruth, but a lack of any evidence, I had to concede that they were just being their usual, boisterous, dad-baiting selves.

Or so I thought.

We were putting the boys to bed that evening. It was quite late, as they'd been regailing us with dubious tales of their escapades at school. I volunteered to tuck them in, and held their hands as we walked towards their bedroom. The sound of one of my favourite Genesis tracks - the 23 minute long 'Supper's ready' - was playing on the Hi-Fi in the living area. Ravel was out somewhere with friends, and Dolores was reading a magazine. The scene was set for a peaceful night, free of stress, free of admonishment, free of punishment.

The boys changed into their pyjamas, brushed their teeth and climbed into bed. They looked almost angelic as they smiled and said they were glad to be home. I returned the sentiment, kissed them on their foreheads, and made to leave the room. Had I not paused before switching off the light, maybe the night would have continued to offer a sense of calm, and not a cross word would have been spoken. But pause I did, and all because I wanted one last look at my twin boys, a moment to ponder how fast they had grown, how much they had developed in recent months as puberty began to transform their minds and bodies. I was filled with a small amount of pride, knowing that, despite their flaws, I had raised two fine, intelligent boys

Perhaps I was jumping ahead in my expectations of my children. After all, they were still just only just 12 years old, and it's well known that boys develop slower than girls. On the other hand, maybe I'd just drunk a little too much wine.

It doesn't really matter now.

What happened is this: as I turned back to gaze once more on the face of Twin Y, I saw his hand move rapidly to push a bag underneath his bed. One eye was open, the other tight shut. For a fraction of a second I was tempted to ignore what I had just seen, but unfortunately for Twin Y, the act of pushing the bag had dislodged an A5 sized note-pad that had been sitting in the top. It fell out of the bag with a barely audible whisper, as the pages brushed over the bag's handle, and flopped onto the floor, opening in the process to reveal a page with writing and a diagram.

Perhaps if the boy had remained calm, I might have overlooked what had just happened. After all, I have always tried to distill a sense of tidiness in the twins, and this hasty act of self-organisation could have been considered to fall within that remit. But unfortunately for him, and his brother, and me, and Dolores, he didn't remain calm. Instead, he looked down at the pad with a look of horror, pointed over to his brother and shouted 'he's farted!', before pulling the covers over his face as if to avoid the smell.

Twin X looked non-plussed for a second, which was just long enough for me to realise that the notebook was significant. I stepped forward and peered down at the page. This is what I saw...

We did not get much sleep that night. The pad was full of protocols, the majority of which used No.3 as the experimental subject. None of them, so far as I could tell, had the health and welfare of the newborn anywhere on the agenda. The boys strenuously denied that they were going to carry out any of the experiments, but as I looked back on the evening, I recalled that they had taken a particularly keen interest in the day-to-day activities of the infant, even going so far as to write down details such as what time he generally slept in the afternoon, and where we disposed of his nappys.

I confiscated the note pad. The kids have been confined to quarters until further notice. The bank holiday weekend trip to the village fair has been cancelled. No.3 is never more than two feet away from either myself, Dolores or Ravel.

J McC

Roger's dilemma

2007-05-26T11:17:00.001+01:00

Hello all

In a recent post, I encountered a sick badger called Roger. I was concerned at the time that he was coughing in a way not dissimilar to an animal suffering from TB, and resolved to test him for the disease. Timothy Hedgehog appeared to be satisfied with my suggestion, but the badger was less than keen.

'I cannot submit, Doctor' said the short legged mammal as I bent down to pick him up.

'Huh?' I said, although I wasn't entirely surprised. Seeing as the animal could talk, it was possible he already knew what would happen if he was positive for the disease.

'It is not that I am personally afraid...'

'But...'

'But I'm afraid that I belong to a badger sect whose prophets are the revered Bodger and Badger, bovine blessings be with them. The teachings of Bodger are sacred to us, and one of his commandments is that we should never submit to medical tests, for fear of disturbing the universal badger aura that unites us all. I cannot allow you to test me doctor. You may only offer palliative care.'

I sighed. This was a clear case of sect-conditioning. I doubted that Roger had any real idea who Bodger and Badger were, but he remained adamant that I must not test him for TB. I was faced with a dilemma. Should I go against his wishes, and risk violating his badger's rights. Or should I take a wider view that society was more precious than the wellfare of a single animal.

Timothy hedgehog supplied a surprisingly diplomatic answer. 'We have some spare cages I think, Doctor. Perhaps you could put Roger in one of them, temporarily, until he gets better?'

I was forced to mull over the idea as we walked back to the hotel. I held Roger in my arms, stroking his fur and equating him, in some bizarre anthropomorphic way, to No. 3. I imagined that myself and Dolores had the same ideaology as the badger, and that someone wanted to test our baby for a genetic disease - the outcome deciding the baby's fate. What would we expect?

Of course, we would expect others to respect our way of life and leave us alone.

I couldn't bring myself to break the poor badgers heart. His stoicism was admirable, more so in my eyes, perhaps, because I lack stoicism sometimes when it is required. As we approached the Institute, I therefore resolved to offer the badger the care he desired, and let nature take its course. Roger is now in a cage, and is given all the food, water and warmth that he desires. So far, there is no sign that the disease is progressing, but he does have a chronic cough and rheumy eyes. I'll let you know he he progresses.

J McC

dreamcoat

2007-05-25T19:13:00.001+01:00

Hello all

Like every blogger, I get stray visitors looking for somewhere else but whose keywords seem to fit in with a post of my own. I ignore most of them, but this one from google made me chuckle..

'i close my eyes to see for certain ahh - joseph'

I had no idea a story about a disastrous trip to a pizza restaurant by Ravel and a girl from the village would find me associated with the Lord Lloyd Webber. I am humbled.

J McC

Love to win

2007-05-20T15:10:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Well, who would have thought it possible....

After a rather volatile affair lasting 4 months, it is finally all over.

I wrote several times, hoping to explain myself and give answers to several difficult questions.

For almost the whole four months I was spurned, and eventually I gave up trying.

Then, quite suddenly, the following email appears....

-------------------

From: Jason@lovetolead.info
Subject: Merit prize

Good afternoon

I've pasted a url below which links to the article which, it has been
decided, is the best of the competition.

http://lovetolead.info/ViewArticle/tabid/56/EntryID/124/Default.aspx

Would you agree?

Warm regards

jason

--------------

I clicked on the link and hey presto....

Of course I agreed, and yesterday I received the congratulatory email. So my thanks finally go to Love to Lead and Toshiba. Bless 'em.

I'm now an award winning blogger!

cheers

J McC

Badger in the undergrowth

2007-05-19T17:03:00.000+01:00

I wondered last week why Timothy Hedgehog was so keen on me writing something in support of the badger community. He told me it was essential that people took pity on badgers and treated them with the respect they deserve. I was a bit surprised by his approach, mainly because I've never heard Timothy lobby for anything other than a more comfortable cage since his arrival several months ago.

After the post had been up for a few days, everything became clear. 'Dr McCrumble...' said Timothy one morning as I was picking lice and other ectoparasites from his body. 'I have something to tell you...'

'Mmm...' I murmured, not really taking much notice due to be pre-occupied with a particularly strong tickthat refused to be removed, and was grasping hold of one of Timothy's hind legs.

'You like badgers now don't you?' asked the hedgehog.

'I always like badgers. Unless they're sick...'

'He's not sick, as such...OUCH!'

'He...?' I replied, holding up the tick, now fully engorged with hedgehog blood.

'Do you have to be so rough?'

'I had no option I'm afraid. I might have been too late already. If he was carrying....'

'I don't want to know.'

'So, what were you saying?'

'There is someone I'd like you to meet. His name is, er, Roger.'

'Right...', I said slowly, unsure where this was going.

'He's over by the art studio. Can we go now?'

I'd just about finished picking arthopods off Timothy's legs and so agreed. En route to the art studio I heard the sounds of No.3 crying, and the gentle tone of my wife asking Ravel to find Timothy to help soothe the infant. 'I'll bring him in a minute', I shouted.

Timothy directed me to the back of the studio, and pointed with his front left leg towards a sheet of corrugated metal sheet that had been previously used to shield some firewood. Lifting the sheet must have startled the animal hiding beneath, and all I saw were the back legs and stripey rear of a small badger as it scuttled out of sight underneath the art studio.

'Roger!', cried Timothy, 'It's me, Timothy. You can come out. I've brought the doctor.'

I mulled the combination of Roger and Badger in my mind whilst waiting for the timid animal to re-emerge. The combination sounded not unlike Bodger and Badger - the name of a long running children's TV show starring a puppet badger (named Badger), and his master (called Bodger). It was a show I've never seen, but which was immensely popular during its ten year run, apparently.

Anyway, it took a few minutes of coaxing by Timothy before Roger emerged. I could see immediately from the dullness of his coat that he was not in the best of health. Judging by his size, I could also tell that he was a juvenile.

Roger sniffed loudly and looked at me inquisitively with rheumy, dark eyes. He then produced a rather large amount of phlegm, which he coughed out at my feet. It was yellow-green, indicating that he might be carrying some form of infection.

'Hello Roger', I said quietly, as one might to anyone one meets for the first time.

'Are you a doctor?', asked Roger, his quiet voice barely audible above the background sounds of birds in the neighbouring wood.

Before we go any further, I should point out that I am not Dr Doolittle's twin or direct descendent. Nor have I ever met Rex Harrison or Eddie Murphy. I was not expecting a reply from the badger, as I was under the distinct impression that Timothy hedgehog was alone in the universe for being the only animal that could talk on a par with humans. To be faced with another mammal that apparently converse, in English, was momentarily both surprising and shocking. It is a testament to my scientific training that I was able to keep control of my feelings in order to keep the animal calm.

'Well, er, Roger', I began, 'I'm not actually a medical doctor, nor indeed a vet, but rather a Phd. Is that any help?'

Roger emerged a bit further into the light. I could see now that he was really quite sick. He looked both underweight and dehydrated, and I was forced to manifest the idea that the poor animal may be infected with tuberculosis. If so there was only one course of action...

******TO BE CONTINUED!*******

Save the badgers - The Daily McCrumble

2007-05-14T16:59:00.000+01:00

An attempt in the Republic of Ireland to control the spread of bovine tuberculosis by culling badgers has failed, miserably. Thousands of badgers were killed in the attempt, prompted by the speculation (and very limited reasearch evidence) that badgers spread TB to cattle. The incidence of TB has increased. This is not the first time that killing off the much-loved, black-and white striped, short-legged omnivores has failed to do the job, which makes you wonder why they keep flogging such a dead horse. Could it be do to with the perceived improvements in cost-effectiveness of snaring badgers vs routine TB testing in cattle?

TB testing still happens in the UK. But did you know that during the foot and mouth epidemic a few years ago, the testing was suspended for 9 months. And guess what happened...

That's right - the badgers got sick (ref 1).

On top of that, badgers are very socially mobile creatures. Badgers in general are attracted to smaller groups (ref 2), and male badgers will head off for groups with a higher proportion of females. You can easily see how killing off part of a group increases social mobility, thus potentiating the spread of various infectious diseases

What happens, then, if you stop testing for TB and cull badgers?

That's right - you move TB infested cattle around, thus spreading TB to the local badger population. Then, by killing off a proportion of the badgers, you cause the badgers to move around, thus spreading TB amongst the badger population.

This is what happened in Ireland.

RIP, badger

J McC

(This report was commissioned by Timothy Hedgehog, who wishes to bring the plight of his woodland friends to the blogosphere)

Not another phone scandal? The Daily McCrumble

2007-05-12T20:32:00.000+01:00

News just in...

Here in the UK, ITV have apologised, after forgetting to remind viewers that a phone-in quiz show that depends on people phoning in to guess the answers was not, as you might expect, live.

Is this another example of a phone-in scandal, something to rival the escapades of the BBC when they 'forgot' to remind viewers that one of their 'live' cookery programmes was recorded two years ago - a mistake that had thousands of amateur cooks throwing mushroom fritatas at their televisions in frustration?

Sadly no. It turns out that the program was shown on the hugely popular ITV2+1 channel. Anyone familiar with the imaginative abbreviations that TV executives like to use to separate their channels will immediately recognise that the program in question could not have been live, as it was being shown 1 hour behind the mother channel, ITV2. Nonetheless, ITV estimate that 'hundreds' of people may have been affected when they tried to phone in. My sources tell me that the 'unfortunate human error' was due to the fact that the girl who normally writes the reminder that goes on the screen was out shopping for a new Kate Moss dress (allegedly).

Mmm. Look closely at the BBC article and you'll see that ITV have offered refunds, despite the lines apparently being closed. My scientific training allows me to spot a discrepancy here. If the lines were closed, how could people be charged? One suspects the lines never close - it is simply the case that there is no-one there to take the call.

Were you affected? If so, you might be ideal for an experiment that I'm conducting as part of a damning expose of the whole industry. Read on for details of how to take part.

How to enter:
Think of a word beginning with N that describes someone who likes to play on these TV quiz shows. Send your answer to Ima.numpty@yahoo.co.uk. I'll pick someone at random, (but it will probably be you) within the next 24 hours. If you are chosen, you'll be given a special premium phone line that you should ring at least 50 times in the next two days. All you have to do is simply count how many times you hear a real voice after the 5 minute recorded message, and tell me by email at the above email address. If for some reason you don't make it to 50 calls (eg, a technical failure after your 48th attempt!), let me know and we'll start the clock again. If my expose is commissioned by ITV2+1, I'll make sure your contribution is given full accreditation by including your name in the list of victims that I will show on screen, thus ensuring you finally make it onto the telly.

Good luck!

J McC

The fat man runs

2007-05-11T08:37:00.000+01:00

Hello all

My marketing manager, the slightly overweight Dr Booth, has told me that he intends to shed his beer/cake gut by undertaking a sponsored run around the sights of London. He is quick to point out that he is not doing this for fun, but as a way of raising money for Stand Up for Africa - the registered charity to which the Matangini Project belongs. The run is scheduled for the 1st July, under the banner of the ASICS 10k British London run. He also asked me to point out that he never normally runs anywhere, so although the 10k may not be in the same league as a marathon, it's still a mountain to climb...

Dr Booth has established a page at justgiving.com:

www.justgiving.com/marks10k

You can donate any amount from just £2, and if you are a UK taxpayer, the charity will claim 28% giftaid on your donation.

The money raised will be put towards a borehole in a rural Kenyan school. The borehole will provide approx 300 children with a sustainable source of clean water, and considerably reduce their exposure to a wide range of water-borne diseases.

best wishes

J McC

Milk stupor

2007-05-06T11:12:00.000+01:00

No.3 is now a month old, and putting on weight like he was trying to out-perform that chap who tried to commit suicide by eating McDonald's burgers for a month. He gulps down milk from Dolores' breasts like a seasoned beer drinker downing a yard of ale. It makes me wonder if maybe he possesses one of those gullets that can stay open for prolonged periods to allow rapid flow of whatever fluid is being swallowed.

Such is the little one's appetite that he cannot be satisified with the content's of my wife's breasts. His little face reddens the moment she prises him off - often after an hour or more of constant suckling. At first we thought he just had colic, but the constant chewing of hands straight after each feed led us to believe that maybe he just wasn't getting enough. Eventually, we had to concede that perhaps his natural feed would need topping up with formula.

I had forgotten since the days of the twins just how much formula a new-born drinks. The instructions on the packet said about 3 fluid ounces, so that is what I told Ravel to prepare. He was gone a while, during which time I tried to placate the infant by taking him on an educational tour of the living area. When I met Ravel in the corridor he was not returning from the kitchen, as I expected, but seemed to have emerged from the main laboratory. 'Everything alright?' I asked.

'Sure boss, I was just using bunsen burner to warm bottle', answered my research assistant. 'Quicker that way, yes?'

No.3 knocked the whole lot back in a matter of minutes, and I swear I saw him pointing at his toothless mouth as if to say 'feed me' as soon as he had finished. 'They know when to stop', said Dolores, so I told Ravel to prepare another 3 fluid ounces.

He didn't quite make it through the second bottle, but he gave it a damn good try. Those of you with children will know that a newborn's stomach is about the size of their fist. I figured we stretched it by a factor of four or five, but he didn't seem to mind. 'I think we may have spawned a binge-drinker' quipped Dolores as he finally fell off the teat and closed his eyes.

It certainly appeared that way. No3. remained motionless for a moment or two before his eyes re-opened about half-way. His arms were limp, his legs were extended and floppy. I picked him up and he made not a move. His arms did not flail, his legs did not kick. His eyes remained half closed, the pupils glazed over, his lips puckered. I jiggled his arms to elicit a response, but he was effectively comatose. I reckoned that not even the sight of his grandma McHaggarty in a polka-dot bikini and full make-up could have awoken him from his milk-stupor at that point.

'Have we overdone it?', I asked, not recalling seeing the twins in quite such a state during their time on the bottle.

'We might have. But frankly, if it keeps him quiet for a while, I don't mind. You?'

'Er, I guess it'll be ok. I mean, like you said, they know when to stop, don't they?'

The stupor lasted 2 days. No3 remained half-awake the whole time, quiet as could be, barely a movement beyond the occasional startle reflex. He refused both breast and bottle, and passed neither solid nor liquid into his nappy. We were unworried for the first 24 hours, then we started to fidget, before wondering if we should take No.3 to the nearest A&E (a long long way away).

Sometime after the 50th hour, something stirred in No.3's moses basket. Dolores shouted at me to come to the bedroom. No.3 was still under the covers, but had curled himself up into a tight ball, head tucked down into his chest, arms drawn inwards, knees up to his chest. The only bit of flesh showing was on one of his feet that had lost its little sock. He was making small snuffling sounds and breathing rapidly.

'Colic?', I suggested, though, from what I remembered from the twins behaviour when they were colicy, it seemed a bit extreme.

'Don't know', said Dolores, shrugging. 'I think we might have to go the hospital though. This isn't normal.'

Ravel entered the room at this point, munching on some toast. He peered into the basket and said 'OK, now he is good. He will be less trouble now.'

'Huh?', we said, in unison. Sometimes my research assistant is just a tad too cryptic.

'I add something to formula to make him less angry', said Ravel, bending down to look more closely at the infant. 'We use it all the time in Bulgaria. It worked good. Look...'

I bent down to get a closer look but saw nothing unusual. 'Just what did you add?', I asked, pointedly.

'Timothy hedgehog gave up small sample of blood. I heat up formula and...'

'You did what?', we cried in unison.

'I mumble?', asked Ravel. 'I said I...'

'Yes, we heard', I said, impatiently. 'What were you thinking? Why?'

Ravel moved away from the basket and gazed into the garden beyond. 'In my home, we have many hedgehogs. We use them for many things. They make good companions for infants, but first you have to give baby a drop of hedgehog blood. You will see now that when they lie close, your baby will be instantly quiet. Wake him, I bring Timothy, we test, you see I am right.'

'How much blood did you use, actually?', asked Dolores sharply, her maternal instinct shining forth.

'Just to make formula very slightly pink. Timothy not miss it', answered my research assistant.

'I don't give a fig about Timothy. If you've done something to my baby Ravel, I'll...'

'I promise no harm. We test now. I bring the animal.'

We waited for Ravel to return with Timothy. The hedgehog was looking a bit fractious, undoubtedly due to having lost some blood unnecessarily. Seeing that No3 was still asleep, Ravel prodded the infant until a sharp cry was heard. I moved to pick up the baby and check he was OK, but Ravel stepped in front to bar me from getting close enough. He then prodded No.3 again, this time prompting a continuous stream of noise. 'OK, now baby is awake, you watch what happens', said Ravel, having placed the screaming infant on our bed before finally moving out of the way.

The term 'awake' was an understatement. No.3 was bawling like never before. Dolores bent over with arms outstretched, but before she had a chance to lift her baby to her chest, Ravel had already placed the hedgehog on the bed next to No.3.

The effect was instantaneous. No3. stopped crying. He assumed a relaxed position with arms and legs loosely stretched. As Ravel pushed No.3 closer, the baby first tried to latch on to Timothy's lower jaw....

When he realised that no milk was forthcoming, he put his arm around the hedgehogs abdomen, seemingly oblivious to the spines, and promptly fell asleep...

Ravel stood there, a big smile on his face. 'See, I told you it works!' he said.

'I'll reserve judgement, Ravel,' said Dolores sternly. 'This doesn't explain why he was in a milk stupor for 2 days. If Timothy's blood was contaminated...'

'No dear', I interjected. 'I've tested Timothy for just about everything. It's very unlikely. And Ravel said they use this all the time in his family. Look at Ravel. Nothing wrong with him, is there?'

'Not on the surface', acknowleged Dolores. 'OK, so it worked this time. But the effect will wear off soon, won't it. Then what? Do we put Timothy on a line and milk his blood every other day?'

'Dolores, this is long-term solution.' remonstrated Ravel. 'I sincerely promise, the hedgehog will not lose more blood. Baby will not cry if you put hedgehog nearby.'

Well, that was four days ago. So far, No.3 has been very peaceful. A couple of times he's started crying and we've put him next to Timothy with the same results. Could be just coincidence, of course, and under no circumstances can I recommend this course of action to anyone else. I would not have let Ravel use the blood of any hedgehog had I received prior knowledge of his intentions. But sometimes the greatest scientific discoveries are entirely down to serendipity and circumstance. Watch this space, as they say...

Is commercialism killing the blogosphere?

2007-04-27T16:49:00.000+01:00

The last question in the Love to Lead competition is quite a brave one. Why? Not because it tackles a controversial theme that forces people to take sides and defend their opinions. Nor because we are being asked to tackle one of the many big questions on life, the universe and everything. No - it's simply because it appears the organisers are putting themselves in the stocks. In my last entry I'm therefore going to use the Love to Lead competition as a case-study within the wider question.

Let's look at the facts...
Since the beginning of this competition, there have been numerous attempts to subvert the rules and regulations. The organisers have had to remove entries on the basis of them being either unintelligble, or copied from somewhere else. The voting system was abused on a number of occasions, and several of the winning entries are from people who have no history of blogging, and were clearly after the prizes. The rules had to be changed on several occasions because of systematic abuse and unfairness. You may form your own opinion on the quality of the winning entries, and what made them winners.

Where did it all go wrong?
It's not rocket science to identify why the whole thing didn't work very well. It boils down to the voting system, which was open to abuse from the first week without any real attempt to close the main loophole that allowed people to exploit their connections in the wider on-line community. Cynics might argue that the whole venture was an experiment in pushing commercialism onto the blogerati to see what happens. One can guess that the whole thing was meant to go viral, with bloggers emailing each other like crazy, thereby pushing the Toshiba brand firmly into bloggers minds. The result, in my opinion, met with only limited success and was a deeply unpleasant experience. Had this been a competition where the only prize was praise from fellow bloggers, the quality of the contributions would have been rather different, and the atmosphere would have been much healthier. It was commercialism that brought in the cheats, and it was the cheats that ruined the competition. No-one can say the last 15 weeks have been a fair fight on a level playing field.

What does this case-study tell us?
The experiment didn't work very well. The number of entries each week has not been huge, despite the publicity and the prizes on offer. The free-spirit of the blogosphere depends entirely on not having commercial pressures from any direction. As soon as a monetary value (literal or material) is placed on the writing any blogger, things start to turn ugly. We can take heart from the fact that the commercial interests did not penetrate the blogosphere any deeper.

So, is commercialism killing the blogosphere?
On the evidence of this attempt, the answer has to be no. It's just a flesh-wound. We can't extrapolate too far, of course, but it looks like the current attempt at taking the life out of the blogosphere has failed. Breathe easy, fellow bloggers, the threat has now passed.

Long live the blogosphere!

The McCrumble affiliate program

2007-04-23T15:10:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Dr Mark Booth, my marketing manager, has informed me that the 'bookstore' known as Borders have stocked my book in their Cambridge branch. He sent the following picture as proof:

They have apparently sold one copy.

Become a McCrumble affiliate today!

Interested in contributing to a worthy cause at no expense to yourself?

Fond of the written word?

Keen to support self-publishing writers?

If so, then you might like to consider becoming a McCrumble affiliate.

Here's how it works...

Pop along to your nearest bookshop (preferably an independent) that you think might be interested in stocking McCrumble. Approach the manager/purchasing person and ask them if they would consider putting McCrumble on their shelves. Upon receiving an affirmative response, ask them to contact me at joseph.mccrumble@yahoo.co.uk with their details, and I will organise for my marketing manager to undertake negotiations. Should the negotiations work, you will automatically become an affiliate - a badge you can wear with pride!

cheers

J McC

Breast is best

2007-04-18T12:37:00.000+01:00

Hello all

No 3 is now over a week old and doing well. We did get off to a shaky start, though, as Dolores insisted on breast-feeding despite never having attempted it before. When the twins were born, she was advised to use formula to ease the feeding burden, and found it so convenient that she never once offered her breasts to either infant. The twins have since blamed some of their aberrant behaviour on not having recieved the goodness contained within breastmilk, and it was for this reason - amongst others, that Dolores decided to throw away the formula and push No.3 onto her left breast within minutes of his birth.

The neonate latched on enthusiastically and began sucking out the life-giving colostrum. The feeding only lasted a few minutes before he rolled off, burped, and fell asleep. A midwife, satisfied that he was able to latch on and suck properly, announced that both Dolores and No.3 would be fine. She also told us to expect a 10% loss in birthweight over the first few days that would be regained over the next week, or thereabouts.

Having stretched NHS finances by turning up at one of their hospitals to give birth, we were not encouraged to hang around for very long. There were no complications to keep us in the hospital for more than one night, so the next day Ravel came with the car (and car seat, of course), to pick us up.

Everything went well, or so we thought, until a few days later when a midwife came to weigh No.3. It turned out he had lost a bit more weight than expected. The midwife asked if No.3 had been feeding regularly, to which Dolores responded in the affirmative, but this did not stop the midwife suggesting that we might try a little formula as a top-up. Dolores agreed to this in front of the midwife, but renounced her intention minutes later - after the midwife had left.

'What...?' I asked, surprised at this clear breach of a verbal agreement.

'I'm not touching the bottle, Joseph. You've seen what bottle feeding can do. Look at the twins...'

'Yes, I know love. But just a few drops won't hurt. Millions of kids are raised on formula. I know you think the twins suffered, but there are a number of confounding factors that really should be taken into consideration.'

'Stuff confounders. I'm not using a bottle. We'll just have to feed him more. I'll be in the nursery.'

With that, Dolores strode off, infant under her arm squealing like a piglet on its way to slaughter. 'Stress, boss', said Ravel. 'She need some peace and quiet, like you get in Bulgarian woods.'

'Huh? What are you suggesting? I should take them into the forest for a few days?' I asked Ravel, my voice revealing a degree of frustration at Dolores's lack of flexibility on the formula vs breast issue.

'I come from big family', replied Ravel. 'Many women always around to offer advice. Who does Mrs McCrumble have to help? Where is her mother?'

He had a point. Mrs McHaggarty (the mother of my wife) had only made a brief appearance, despite living only 50 miles away. She had walked in, given No.3 a rapid physical examination, pronounced him fit and left a couple of hours later telling Dolores to ring her if she needed anything. Dolores, ever independent, took this as a snub from her own mother, and had not rung.

'Feeding from breast is not so easy, boss. It isn't just simple to put nipple in mouth and give good suck.'

Ravel was right, of course. I'd read about the decline in familial support for new mothers due to people living further apart from their parents than ever before, but hadn't brought it up mainly because I wanted everything to run smoothly and not introduce it a new 'issue' for Dolores to worry about. With hindsight I realised I had been wrong, and I now realised that I had an 'issue' of even greater magnitude.

'Leave it with me, Ravel. I'll sort something out,' I said, though in truth I had nothing to offer. My own parents live many miles away, and I still don't have a very good relationship with the village, who view my work and lifestyle with some disdain.

I was distracted from the 'issue' for a while whilst answering some emails. Dolores remained in the nursery and Ravel took himself into the garden for a spot of reading. I became tired at some point - likely as a result of only having 4 hours sleep the previous night, and decided to go for a nap. I dreamt that Dolores was walking in the woods, spraying milk from her breasts whilst No. 3 slept in a rucksack on her back. It must have been about 5pm when I awoke, feeling thirsty. on my way to the kitchen I heard Ravel's voice coming from the nursery. Wondering whether Dolores might have called for help whilst I was sleeping, I performed a u-turn in the corridor and made quick-steps. As I approached the nursery, I heard Ravel, quite clearly, say 'Dolores, let me have a go, yes?'

I automatically coughed before entering - as I always do if I feel I might be interrupting something. It was unnecessary, of course, as I was entering the nursery of my own child containing himself and two other people who could not be doing anything that would be deemed interruptable. The shock was therefore very real when I entered the room to see Ravel lift his head from the general area of the bosom of Dolores, turn towards me and present his visage with a very noticeable line of milky-white liquid over his top lip.

'WHAT IN THE NAME OF McCUMBERNAULD ARE YOU DOING?' I shouted, my voice warbling from the flood of adrenalin in my brain. 'WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?'

Ravel looked surprised at my burst of anger. Dolores looked annoyed and said, firmly, 'he's helping my milk come in, Joseph. What does it look like?'

'I surely don't have to tell you what it looks like from over here do I? What is this, some kind of Bulgarian peasants folk-remedy? Do all the men in your village take turns, eh? Line up in front of the the poor mother so you can all get your kicks sucking...'

'That's enough you pillock!', hissed Dolores, her face screwed up with annoyance. 'Don't bring your paranoia in here. I asked Ravel if he knew of any techniques to help with milk production. He was looking at how the baby was sucking.

'He asked to have a go!', I squealed, my anger not yet quelled, and my suspicions still raised that something untoward had occurred.

'I was trying to unlatch the baby but couldn't get my finger under his lip. Ravel offered to help.'

'I'll bet he did. Do you mean to tell me that you have let a member of staff interfere with your breasts? Why didn't you ask me, huh? You think I can't pull a baby off your breast? And why's he got that white stuff on his lips, huh?'

'I enjoy a drink of cappucino coffee, boss', said Ravel quietly, pointing towards a cup half-filled with said drink on the bedside cabinet.

Dolores looked skywards as she realised the source of misunderstanding 'Look...' she said firmly, pausing to ensure I was listening. 'Just calm down will you? This is not the time to be precious about my breasts. I need help, and Ravel has the right experience. He's my breastfeeding counsellor. Deal with it. You can either watch and learn, or keep out. I need to relax, and you do not help standing there with your arms folded looking like you have acheived some moral victory. If you want to help, go fetch a hot damp towel.'

I was suitably admonished. The mistake had been all mine, and I felt incredibly humbled. The arrival of No.3 has, I admit, led to a number of re-assortments of my mental state. I will continue to adjust, and no doubt overcome the obstacles associated with a new-born, in the McCrumble tradition of rational and comprehensive analysis. Dolores is happy for me to deal with things in this way, providing that I spare her the details of my thought processes and do what she (and Ravel) says. On balance, I think this might be the best approach.

cheers

J McC

No.3's Caption Competition

2007-04-10T16:07:00.000+01:00

What is he thinking?

No 3 has arrived!

2007-04-09T23:06:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Well, that didn't take very long! I am pleased to announce that No 3 is now part of the McCrumble family. He weighed in at just over 3kg, and was screaming and kicking moments after arrival. Mother and baby doing well. I'm so proud, that I'm going to break with my own rules on familial anonymity (see posts passim) and post a couple of photos. I figure no-one will recognise the young'un when he finally gets out and about.

The twins have told me they are excited about having another brother. They want to understand what it was like to be so young and 'flexible' as Twin X succinctly put it. Twin Y thought I might be too old to have another child, and asked me if I ever intended playing football with No 3 when he was the twins age. When I answered in the affirmative, my first-born merely snorted, and proceeded to imitate an old man with scoliosis and a walking stick. Oh what a couple of wags they are becoming. I am minded to keep a close eye on them when No. 3 comes home, in case they attempt to subvert his innocence.

Please join me in a virtual wetting of the baby's head. To No 3!

J McC

No 3 on its way....

2007-04-08T08:51:00.000+01:00

Hello all

No sooner did I set my mind to blogging (almost) every day, when Mother Nature decides to scupper best laid plans (yet again) and bring forth a new member of the McCrumble household. No. 3 will be with us shortly. Normal blogging service will resume fairly shortly after his/her arrival, all being well.

J McC

Ravel's Goulash - The Daily Mccrumble

2007-04-04T20:39:00.000+01:00

Did anyone watch that programme on channel 4 the other night about eunuchs? It was stomach churning stuff that left me feeling vaguely queasy and putting my hand lightly over my pants in the general groin area on more than one occasion. I wanted to turn over to another channel - any channel would do - but Dolores insisted on watching. She was giving herself a mini pedicure at the same time, and at one point where some very thin young man revealed his empty sack, she lent in my direction and said 'snip snip' whilst waving her nail scissors at my nether regions. She's been in a funny mood lately, and I put it down own to her hormones, but the experience left me feeling distinctly uneasy. Ravel, on the other hand, was engrossed. He watched the whole programme open mouthed, in silence, on the edge of his seat. At the end, he turned to me and said 'I had no idea...' before leaving the room. He returned a few minutes later and asked if he could prepare us dinner for the next day. We discussed what was planned, and said that we would be happy for him to cook for us - something that happens at least once a week. It's always goulash, but it's good goulash, using a recipe handed down from Ravel's grandmother.

An hour later I called it a day and decided to retire. There was a light on in number 1 laboratory, so I detoured to switch if off. Inside, Ravel was working on something at the operating table. This was a little curious, as he never normally works this late. I heard what sounded like a an electric shaver, and saw Ravel make small sweeping movements with his right arm. On the operating table was a pan from the kitchen. 'Everything alright, Ravel?' I asked, feeling curious but not wanting to make him feel like I was watching his every movement. He is currently my only research assistant, and I've been reluctant to play the hard boss in case I lose him. I'd previously asked him to catch up on some work that had been given a low priority, and guessed this was what he was now doing.

'Sure boss I will finish in a minute and switch off', said Ravel, not bothering to turn around. 'You go to bed with Dolores. Don't forget I cook tomorrow.'

I was about to go but something didn't quite seem right, so I walked towards the bench. Ravel didn't hear me approaching as he was listening to some music on his mp3 player. I first peered into the pan, and was vaguely relieved to see it was empty. I then looked at what Ravel was doing with his hands.

My hunch was correct that he was using an electric shaver. With his left hand, he was holding down Timothy Hedgehog, whilst with his right hand he was carefully shaving the undercarriage of the insectivore. This wasn't too unusual, as we always shave our hedgehogs before an operation to prevent hairs entering the wound. Timothy, despite his experience of being on the operating table, had the look of a hedgehog fearing he might be about to cut into tiny pieces. He was unable to communicate his feelings due to the thick rubber band that was wrapped around his snout.

Ravel sensed my presence just as I was about to challenge him. He switched off the shaver and looked first at me, then the pot, then Timothy. 'Yes boss?' he asked, his tone somewhat nonchalant considering the scene before him.

'Ravel, I was just, er, wondering what you might be doing with Timothy.' I said slowly, choosing my words carefully so as not to offend my only assistant. 'I, er, didn't know he was due for an operation.'

'He isn't boss. I just had an idea for tomorrow. Timothy is good for my idea.'

'I see. Was Timothy happy with this, er idea?'

'I guess. He try to bite me so I had to put on the rubber band. It's OK, boss, he come to no harm. I work very carefully.'

'Ravel, I don't mean to be suspicious, but what exactly are you doing with Timothy?'

'Boss, if I tell you it will ruin the surprise.'

'OK, sure. Well if you promise he's not coming to any harm...'

'No boss. I look after him. You trust me, yes?'

Eager to display my trust in my one remaining research assistant, I backed down. I have been allowing Ravel to take a more independent role in the laboratory of late, and felt that perhaps I was just being a little too protective of my equipment and animals. Ravel and Timothy were well acquainted, and I admonished myself for being too uptight as I prepared for bed.

Yesterday I was away most of the day, and I didn't see much of Ravel until the evening. He was in the kitchen cooking goulash when I returned. My mind returned to the events in the lab the night before, and I was minded to just go and quickly check that Timothy hedgehog was still in one piece. Poking my head through the doorway into lab 1 afforded me a view of his cage, and I was relieved to see him snuffling around in his straw.

Dinner was served about 8pm. Dolores was not feeling too well, and had gone to bed early with only a few rice-crackers for company. Ravel's goulash was the usual meaty soup served with fresh bread, but this time there was something else in the mix. 'Dumplings?' I asked, picking out a small, oval shaped mass of what looked like suet.

'Is that what they are called boss?' asked Ravel, slurping a spoonful of thick broth.

'Yes. But they don't taste much like suet,' I said, sucking and rolling one of them around in my mouth to understand its flavour and texture. How did you make them?'

'I didn't really make them you know,' answered Ravel. 'I just dropped them into the goulash for added flavour. They are good yes?'

'Yes. Very tasty. Slightly meaty. Quite salty. Where did you say you got them?'

'Timothy gave me...'

The words barely penetrated my inner ear before the mouthful of goulash, complete with dumpling, exited my bucchal cavity in a surprisingly graceful arc. The dumpling landed back in the pot, but most of the soup landed on Ravel, who couldn't jump out of the way fast enough despite his military training in the Bulgarian army and self-described 'reflex like cheetah'.

'You castrated Timothy?', I squawked, suddenly filled with anger that my trust had been abused. An image of the poor little hedgehog wailing in a castrato voice popped into my head.

Ravel calmly cleaned his shirt with napkin. 'No boss. Timothy gave me instructions on how to do operation. These come from hedgehogs in freezer. I figure they don't need their balls too much any more. That programme the other night gave me idea for improving recipe. I use them long time ago during army survival course, but forget how to remove intact. Timothy - he was in bad mood, biting and he annoy me too much with his always talking so I gag him with the rubber band. You don't worry boss. I not hurt my friends. You right to trust me, eh?'

'Er, sure. I, er, think.' I stuttered, slightly apprehensive about allowing this violation of lab procedures. Unauthorised removal of animal parts is not allowed by Insitute rules, and I was monentarily minded to put Ravel into the incident book with a view to initiating disciplinary procedures. But I have to admit that the goulash did taste much better than usual. After a few moments reflection I came to a conclusion and said 'I'm not sure Ravel...but, well, they do add flavour. OK, sure. Let's finish it.'

I have to admit it was the best goulash I have ever tasted. The addition of hedgehog's testicles, straight from the freezer to the pan, was inspired. Next week, my No.1 research assistant has promised to introduce me to another dish inspired by his army training - something he calls 'head cheese', though he refuses to give any details. He does love his surprises...

J McC

Dog sniffs mobile phones - The Daily McCrumble

2007-04-04T14:11:00.000+01:00

The BBC news website has recently updated / recycled a story that a dog in the UK has been trained to sniff out mobile phones, so that prisoners can no longer make illicit calls to the outside world and arrange their next job (and I'm not referring to anything that requires a national insurance number here). At first I assumed this was an April fool, but some research made me see that original story first appeared in the Times (Sept 06). Depending on your point of view, this is either the future of contraband detection, or a dead duck with a shelf life shorter than the attention span of a chav at a classical music concert. What would it take, you think, to fool the dog? I'm no expert, but I think that the smell associated with mobile phones is probably quite easily masked by being rubbed with prisoners underpants, socks or aftershave. Your average criminal, I suspect, cares not what their phone smells like, but would not like their stash to be tainted in the same way. I don't want to give inmates of any HMP ideas with my solution to their snooper-dogg-dog problem, but do suggest that now the story is in the public domain, prison chiefs think again about relying on a springer spaniel with a phone-fetish to lead their effort against the contraband menace.

**** UPDATE *****
It appears my idea has, unfortunately, been independently adopted by criminals in Cumbria. One police force is already trialling a dog to sniff out contraband cheese after an upsurge in complaints from local prison officers that a large number of prisoner's cells smelt like ripe Stilton.

J McC

A post a day keeps dementia away

2007-04-03T20:43:00.000+01:00

This is my first daily blog. An attempt, if one be needed, to ensure that I keep my brain working on a daily basis. I was stimulated to begin writing a daily blog by Dolores, who read somewhere that people who do more than 4 crosswords a week reduce their risk of alzheimers by 50%. As a scientist, I'm a little sceptical that it is the action of solving crossword clues per-se that prevent the clumping of amylo-proteins in the cortex, and would like to know if alternative forms of puzzle-grappling have the same effect. What if someone eschews the idea of playing with words and focuses exclusively on the popular, numerically-oriented, square-filling game known as Soduku. Will they accrue the same benefit?

The problem with these ex-cathedra statistics in general is that they make good headlines but rarely stand up to scrutiny. Ask yourself - why 4 crosswords, why 50%, how was this measured, how long was the follow-up, what are the caveats?

I don't do crosswords, or soduku. Am I doomed? I'm having trouble remembering things already, so I thought I would kill two birds with one stone by writing a daily diary. On the one hand, I'll be keeping my brain active, and on the other I'll be writing things down to help me remember what I did / plan to do.

I'll confess now that it's unlikely to be daily, or even much of a diary, but at least I begin hopefully. It's going to be mainly my thoughts-of-the-day, probably reacting to some news item, particularly if it involves the government / business trying to convince us that modern life is good, when it is, in fact, often rubbish. The other blogs will keep going, if I remember to update them.

J McC

P.S. Dolores thinks I'm 'nuts' just for trying to do this. She has a point, and it's already got me worried. Am I actually going to drive myself crazy by attempting to prevent degeneration?

Correction

2007-04-03T20:30:00.000+01:00

Hello all

That most eloquent, erudite and shrewd of bloggers, Mr Kim Ayres, has left a comment on McCrumbledaily.blogspot.com suggesting that I should run my daily blog from this site, and the more meaty stories from the other site. I ruminated on this idea for a short while and came to concur with his sharp insight into the issue. So that is what will do. The current site will become the repository for my daily rant, and I'll start a new blog for the stories.

Sorry for the confusion, and please watch this space!

J McC

The Daily McCrumble

2007-04-03T12:13:00.000+01:00

Hello all

I've started a new blog called The Daily McCrumble. It will be an incisive, cutting edge, humourous, sceptical, upbeat, uplifting, no-nonsense, fact-finding, gut-busting dollop of McCrumble every single day (except during weekends, holidays, wedding days, funeral days, off-days). Comments are positively encouraged. The focus will be on current affairs, particularly those that amuse / confuse / annoy me. This blog will remain the focus for events at the Cumbernauld Institute and beyond.

The first post is already up, so why don't you skiddadle over there before you forget.

mccrumbledaily.blogspot.com

Happy reading!

J McC

Is Art more valuable than Science?

2007-03-30T09:14:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Having given up trying to win the Love-to-Lead competition, I was emailed the above question. As a practitioner of both art and science, I felt compelled to attempt an answer - not least to spark a debate within myself as to where my loyalties lie.

Here we go....

There is no doubt that a piece of Art is generally worth more in the public's eye than a piece of Science. When, for example, was the last time you were tempted to shell out £50 quid or more on a public appearance, or a publication, by a scientist? I'm both an artist (www.mcrumbleart.blogspot.com) and scientist, and I can tell you that I've never made any money from the public for my innovations into the biology of parasites.

Come to think of it, I've never sold a piece of art, either.

Any offers on this fine example of abstract art?

No-one ever plays tribute concerts to scientists, nor will you find retrospectives of their work anywhere outside a science museum. The few genuine celebrity scientists around today (Stephen Hawking being the best example) garner respect, and are valued because of their intellect, but who would squawk in protest if Hawking decided to switch off his speech-synthesizer and become a wheelchair-bound recluse? If all the Scientists in the world went on strike, who would notice, who would care? A stark contrast, you must agree, to the impact of your average boy-band giving up the ballads and retiring to their mansions.

We value Art because it is collectable, because we need to be entertained, because we are living in the age of the cult of celebrity, because we are addicted to endorphins and adrenalin. Science offers some level of entertainment, but it's a niche market and aimed at people who are most likely to become scientists themselves (flash-bang test-tubes etc). Whereas Art is everywhere, ubiquitous and inescapable, most of Science lies buried deep in the background of mainstream life - further beyond the public's eye than the civil service (though Science is less villified, admittedly).

So is 'Art' more valuable than 'Science'?

No. Not even close. There's no real competition. And before you ask, it's got nothing to do with not selling any artwork. Leonardo failed in this respect, and look at him now...

You wouldn't be reading this article if it wasn't for Scientists. We would still be cramming into churches by the village load, looking skywards for answers and inspiration, scribbling our letters on slate with bits of natural chalk. There would be artists in abundance, and they'd maybe enrich our lives a little with their impressive rendition of real and imagined worlds (using basic pigments of course). But we'd have a life expectancy in our thirties, be unlikely to travel outside our village, drink unpastuerised milk, contaminated water and unrefined wine, itch and scratch on a daily basis, never see our grandchildren (not only would we not live long enough, we'd have no glasses to correct our myopia), and think that the cockerel's crowing makes the sun rise. Hurrah for the Enlightenment!

Yeah, yeah you might say. Valid points. But did Science ever make anyone happy or excited, eh? There's plenty of value in happiness. And we all crave at least a little excitement in our lives.

Sure. Art can deliver an adrenalin-induced, heart-pounding experience that makes tens of thousands of people smile in unison. Science can't produce an ecstatic response, and is really only responsible for moments of excitement amongst scientific practioners when they receive notice of acceptance for their latest paper (aah, the memories). So, OK, we can score Art higher in terms of excitement. But happiness? I don't think so. The excitement associated with Art is a transient experience, the length of which is defined by the talent of the artist in keeping you engaged (this includes time after the event spent sharing your experience). Science has no direct connection with happiness as it sits too far away from our day-to-day lives. So neither Art nor Science are valuable in that respect. What really does bring long-term feeling of contentment and happiness, and I know from personal experience, is a sense of belonging. Being part of something, having an identity that other people share and empathise with on a regular basis.

In my opinion, that is the most valuable thing on earth.

Dr Joseph McCrumble
Scientist
Artist
Celebrity Parasitologist
Please Press here if you like this article!

The statistics of mood change

2007-03-28T17:10:00.000+01:00

Hello all

The clocks went forward on Sunday morning, and by the end of Monday I had noticed a lifting of mood amongst the Institute staff and visitors. I put it down to the increased light availability and higher doses of vitamin-D, but now I'm not so sure, as other explanations have come to, er, light. As a scientist, I am always interested in the effect of these other explanations (aka CONFOUNDING FACTORS). If they are not taken into account, we all run the risk of BIAS in our INFERENCES and CONCLUSIONS.

In the case of the mood-lightening, I think there are two confounders...
1) the Annual pay rise which came into effect on Monday at 2pm
2) the arrival of our new receptionist, Jemima, at 1pm on Monday.

Items 1 and 2 are confounders because they were both associated with the clocks going forward, and are likely candidates for increasing mood. The trick, and this is a general principle in these matters, is to adjust for the confounders in one's analysis. If the correct adjustment is made, the truth will emerge. In the present analysis, I wanted to ascertain whether it was the clocks going forward, the pay rise, or Jemima that was causing the mood change. At the same time, I was aware that a combination of any two factors could MODIFY the degree of mood change, and I was therefore keen to investigate evidence of INTERACTION between all three factors.

The table below corresponds to the response of everyone in the Insitute at 5pm on Monday when I asked them about each of the above changes

Name	Posn	Clocks	Raise	Jemima
Ravel	R.A.	I forgot	It is not so much	She look good, eh boss?
Jenny	Cleaner	So light!	Was that a raise?	I think her roots need attention
Dolores	Wife	Don't care	I'm surprised you still have staff	Was she the only candidate?
Dave	Visitor	Sorry I was late this morning!	N/A	Phew!
Angela	Visitor	Is it spring forward, fall back or the other way round?	N/A	What happened to Denise?

Upon visually inspecting the table, I was left wondering how to analyse the data. The SAMPLE SIZE was particularly small, and there was a wide variety of responses. Standard statistical analyses were not possible, so I relied on a little known technique of EYEBALLING the data.

My visual anlaysis revealed that there was no clear winner in terms of the main EXPLANATORY FACTOR. Most individuals to whom the pay rise was applicable seemed content, and there were mixed repsonses, though generally positive, towards Jemima. Dolores was the only respondent to have persistently negative responses, and I am therefore going to undertake a POST-HOC analysis of her in isolation.

CONCLUSIONS
The increase in mood throughout the Institute (excluding Dolores) was due to a combination of increased light levels, the arrival of new member of staff, and the annual pay rise. No one factor dominated.

J McC

Donatetion

2007-03-22T16:07:00.000Z

Hello all

If, like me, you are fed up of the whole phone-vote scandal affecting the national television media, you may like to know of a new way of competing/voting/donating that doesn't require texting or phoning, and won't lead to a hefty fraction of your donation going to a multi-national communications company.

What can it be? I hear you cry.

I call it Donatetion (TM).

Simply pop along to www.justgiving.com/matangini and make a small donation (don't forget to tick the 'claim gift aid' box if you are a UK taxpayer). Mention the word 'McCrumble' in your message and you will be automatically entered into a competition to win a copy of my book. Once I get to £50 worth of 'McCrumble' donations, I'll pick a name at random and contact you with details of how to claim your prize. You can limit the number of entries, and thus improve your chances of winning, by making a larger donation.

Good luck!

J McC

Matangini Exhibition in Cambridge

2007-03-21T13:48:00.001Z

The above photo is of an exhibition mounted in Hughes Hall, Cambridge, using photos taken by my marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth. He is an avid (amateur) photographer, and has spent many years working in Africa on parasitic infections (we sometimes collaborate, but he specialises in tropical diseases whereas I have much wider ranging interests). He insisted that I show the picture to my blog readers, so here it is...

J McC

McCrumble short-listed for blook award!

2007-03-19T14:46:00.000Z

Hello all

Apparently, someone has coined the word 'blook' to mean a book that is derived from a blog. I don't care much for the word myself, but what influence do I have, eh? A short list was recently announced for some competition that I had never heard of, and was therefore unable to enter. After my initial disappointment, I decided that, in the free and entrepreneurial spirit of the blogosphere, I should mount an alternative competition for bloggers who had missed the previous call. I therefore inaugurated the Cumbernauld Institute of Art Blook Awards.

Resources were scarce, on account of having nothing in the budget to cover 'blook awards', so I was forced to limit my advertising to the local newspaper, for just one week, in the 'small ads classified' section. I know this part of the newspaper is well read by the local population, and was therefore somewhat disappointed to receive just one nomination, and no original entries. My disappointment was amplified when I discoverd, to my slight consternation, that the nomination had been made by Ravel (my trusty research assistant) and that it was for my own book!

Fearing the worst, I checked the competition rules. Fortunately, I found that I was eligble to enter, provding I did not nominate myself. The deadline for entries was this morning at 11am. No one else entered or nominated, which means my book is the only one on the short-list. A panel of independent judges from a representative cross-section of the village (a school teacher, the butcher and a local farmer) will read all the entries and make a collective decision based on quality of writing and entertainment value. Given that the short-list is quite, er, short this year, I suspect the winner will be announced before the end of the month. The first prize is a voucher for £250 to be spent in the Cumbernauld Institute of Art Shop.

The short list:

'The Wonderful World of Joseph McCrumble'
Dr Joseph McCrumble takes us on a highly entertaining adventure through the ups and downs of his life as a parasitologist forced to work anonymously on account of a cruel twist of fate involving the accidental genocide of a town's entire population of pet rabbits.

Wish me luck!

J McC

Cambridge Science Festival

2007-03-16T12:04:00.000Z

Hello all

I have been asked by my marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, to bring your attention to an important event in the scientific calendar. All next week, the University of Cambridge is running a Science Festival. It's an annual event that attracts about 45000 people each year. Many departments take part in engaging the public with their scientific research. Dr Booth will be on hand to engage with whoever shows up at the Dept of Pathology on Tennis Court Rd from about 10am to about 3pm tomorrow (Saturday 17th). He'll have a specimens of parasites (in jars, of course), some pictures and video footage showing what parasites do to people, and of course copies of my book to sell. He has promised me that 50% of the cover price of each book sold on the day will go to the Matangini Project.

More details on the Science Festival are available here: www.cambridgescience.org

regards

J McC

P.S. I would love to be there, but unfortunately have to remain at the Institute to entertain some overseas visitors.

When Moose met McCrumble

2007-03-11T21:35:00.000Z

Hello all

I was in Cambridge for a few days last week to help my marketing manager in a scientific context. Whilst there, I suggested meeting up with Mr Moose (see sidebar for link) as he lives nearby. I went along with Dr Booth, but I was forced to remain sober as I was staying some distance from town due to an administrative mix-up (I'm still getting used to not having Denise around). We met with Moose at a pub called the Mitre - a well known drinking hole in a part of town densely populated with eateries and drinkeries (is that a word?). It was about 7pm when we all met up. The conversation was a bit polite and stilted to begin with - after all we were all essentially on a blind date - but not long after the third or fourth pint it became clear that Moose and Dr Booth were getting along just fine. I, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly sober. I'm not used to being the designated driver, and I must confess that I had a hard time joining in with their increasingly random and pseudo-philosophical conversation.

After about 5 pints of orange and lemonade I was feeling a bit peckish, and suggested we go for something to eat. Neither Moose nor his drinking buddy seemed bothered, so I wandered off on my own (unwilling to eat in the pub whilst they bantered away on the relative virtue of organic vs local beetroots). I wasn't sure what I wanted, but eventually stumbled across a kebab van calling itself the 'Van of Life'. I ordered a cheeseburger and ate it on my journey back to the pub, pausing en route to admire the facades of a number of Cambridge colleges.

When I reached the Mitre, shortly after 9:30pm, I was somewhat alarmed to see that the two drinkers had left, complete with their belongings. In their place were a couple of young ladies from Poland, who had no idea where Moose or Dr Booth had gone. I asked at the bar, to be told that the gentlemen had left instructions that I would find them at a pub called the St Radegund. I had no idea where the Radegund pub was, so the bar person (also from Poland) kindly drew me a map. I briefly debated whether to go back to the hotel, but there was little reason to sit in my room when I could at least walk around town, so I set off in hot pursuit.

They weren't in the Radegund, but had moved onto the King St Run (according to the Polish-sounding barman). Nope, not their either. At this point I decided to call it a day, and began walking back to the department where Dr Booth works. On the way I passed a pub called the Fountain. There, in seats by the window, were the two of them, engaging in what appeared to be an arm-wrestling competition.

Moose caught sight of me, and in doing so lost concentration for just long enough. Dr Booth slammed his opponent's hand onto the table and let out a high-pitched squeal of triumph. Moose barely noticed, and simply waved me in with his free hand.

They were both very, very drunk. I asked if they had any food, to which they both replied in the negative. There was a row of empty Tequila glasses between the two of them, one of which Dr Booth tried to drink from as I sat down. 'Hey Joe, lishen to diss', slurred my marketing manager. 'Moosey's gotta great idea. Tell him your great idea Moosey. No wait, I'll tell him...'

Moosey waived his hand to indicate compliance.

'Lishen Joe. Right. You wanna drink? Me and Moosey are on Tequila shlammers. You know, the ones with shalt. But we are doing Shlammers lite, as we have no shalt. So anyway. Moosey's big idea. Have you two met before?'

'No,' I said curtly, my arms and legs crossed to indicate my general dissatisfaction with the circumstances.

'Doesn't matter. He's a great chap. You know what his big idea is?'

'No.'

'Moosey. Tell him your idea.'

Moose leaned forward so that I could hear his big idea. He was surprisingly articulate given the amount he must have consumed, and it crossed my mind that maybe Moose was more adept at holding his liquor than Dr Booth. He grinned and said 'Well basically, Joseph, I've come to a crossroads in my life and I'm looking for a new challenge. I've decided that I'm going to help Mark here with his...'

At this moment some young ladies passed by the pub and knocked on the window. I recognised them as from the Mitre. They mouthed something that looked like 'so you found them', to which I gave a feeble thumbs up. Moose and Dr Booth watched the ladies walk by, then turned to me saying 'Well done Joe! What you sitting there for? You're in mate'

'Yeah sure.' I responded, not without sarcasm. 'So, Moose. You were saying something about helping Mark. His charity I presume?'

'Huh?' said Moose. 'What charity? Nah. I'm going to help Mark with his work, Joseph. I'm going to be his...whaddaya call it - research assistant!.'

'Right. OK. Is that so?' I asked. Mark was nodding furiously, though I wasn't sure whether or not he understood the full implication of taking on Moose as his scientific accomplice. 'Have you, er, any experience?'

'Mark has promised complete on-the-job training. How hard can it be?'

I left shortly afterwards, leaving them staggering towards a night-club, arm in arm singing an old Osmonds song. Mark's last words to me were 'cheer up you sad old bashtard. Ish not the end of the wurld, ish it?'

Moose just winked and shook my hand. What that symbolised I have no idea. I wish them well in their endeavours.

J McC

5 times less is more

2007-03-07T21:58:00.000Z

Hello all

Quick rant. I've just endured yet another example of someone selling the benefits of something by saying it will cause "'5 times less breakage". Now, I'm no statistician, but even I know that you cannot, by the laws of mathematics, come away with anything lower than what you started with if you multiply by a number greater than 1.

Of course, what they should be saying is "less than a fifth of the breakages" . So why don't they do that? A simple error by a spotty marketing copywriter, or did their focus groups tell them that we are a nation of fractionophobics???

Or is it that the marketeers are tapping into the innate stupidity that they assume lurks in all our brains?

To test the hypothesis that they have got underestimated the intelligence of Joe Public, I asked each person in the Institute what they understood by the term '5 times less'. Here is a summary of their replies.

Ravel: Boss, it is easy, yes? 5 times less is more than 5 times more when 5 is more than 1, yes? So we break everything 5 times then....no, wait...I lost it.

Jenny (the cleaner): It's an obvious and wholly transparent marketing ploy Dr McCrumble. Did you not see that yourself? The advertising executives think we respond to something expressed as a multiple of something better than we respond to something expressed as a division. I think it's totally immoral of them to insult people's intelligence like that, but what can we do, eh? Perhaps you could use your influence to change things?'

Dolores: What on earth are you on about?

OK, so the sample size is low, but at least 2 from 4 members of the public (I include myself in this experiment) see the flaw. It's about time advertisers stopped trying to pull the wool over our TV eyes, yes?

J McC

Hedgehog lovin'

2007-03-04T12:12:00.000Z

Can money buy happiness? - this week's competition question.

An interesting question, which I think is best answered by recalling a recent incident. For those of you who don’t know, I have a companion hedgehog named Timothy, whom I rescued from being culled for his parasites when it emerged he was able to communicate effectively in English. Timothy has helped promote my recently published book, and is never far from my side. One day we were taking a stroll in the Institute garden. I thought the walk might cheer him up, as he had been exhibiting signs of sadness since the New Year. I broached the subject, as we passed some wild daffodils, with a simple question. ‘Timothy, my good friend. Are you a happy hedgehog these days?’, I asked, nonchalantly.

Timothy stopped snuffling in the soil, turned his head towards my feet and said, ‘Well, Dr McCrumble. I’ve been feeling a little maudlin, if truth be told.’

‘What’s wrong, exactly?’, I asked, acutely aware that hedgehogs are particularly susceptible to dysthymia – a mood disorder that lasts for up to 2 years in humans (equivalent to 30 hedgehog years!). Once instigated, hedgehogs can become terribly withdrawn and refuse to co-operate. If Timothy were suffering dysthymia, I’d probably have to, er, let him go…

‘Well, I suppose the problem is that I’ve become a bit lonely’, answered Timothy, his deep voice carrying tones of melancholy. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me, but, well, hedgehogs don’t respond very well to isolation. We have needs Dr McCrumble.’

I saw the problem immediately. Spring was fast approaching, and with it, Timothy’s mind had turned to thoughts of hedgehog love. ‘Wait here my friend,’ I said boldly. ‘I have a plan that might just help.’ With that, I took off into one of the neighbouring fields in search of a mate for my lonely insectivore.

I had to turn a few grumpy hedgehogs over to find a female, but eventually I came across one that looked like she might enjoy Timothy’s company. I returned as a triumphant cupid, and carried them both towards a secluded part of the garden, overlooked only by a young silver birch tree. ‘Have fun!’ I said breezily as I left them, snout-to-snout, behind a clump of grass (even hedgehogs value their privacy during intimate moments).

Two hours later I returned to find Timothy alone. His greeting was loaded with despondency, and I figured all had not gone well. Upon enquiring what had happened, Timothy revealed to me that his companion had demanded payment for services rendered, by way of six earth worms and two slugs*. This, he explained, was because he was now an outcast from hedgehog society, and thus no longer eligible for free-love**. He’d paid up and enjoyed his brief dalliance, but was now struck with shame that he’d resorted to such tactics just to find relief. ‘But I was happy for a few minutes at least, Dr McCrumble’ said Timothy, as he snuffled back towards his cage at the Institute.

‘I learnt important lessons today, dear’, I said to Dolores that evening whilst we tucked into our dinner.

‘Well done darling’, said my wife through a mouthful of stew. ‘What nuggets of knowledge did you acquire?’

‘I learnt not only that hedgehogs practice the oldest profession in the world, but also that happiness is a state-change brought on by a transient elevation of mood irrespective of the source. It wasn’t the payment that made Timothy experience feelings of joy, but a consensual act involving the exchange of bodily fluids.’

‘Just like every other bloke then,’ said my wife dryly. ‘A quick sniff and a poke, and happiness is guaranteed. Maybe the payment actually dampened the effect.’

‘Good grief Dolores, I think you’ve just hit the spot!’ I exclaimed. ‘If paying for things makes us less happy, we should perhaps abolish money. I mean, let’s face it, money can’t be a source of happiness when it is, in reality, the root of all evil. QED, I think.’

----

*Standard Hedgehog Currency - equivalent to approx £15 (US$ 28) at 2007 prices.

**Behavioural studies of wild hedgehog communities suggest that rutting is preceded by a brief courtship without gifts or payment.

Denise's adventure

2007-03-03T11:07:00.000Z

Hello all

The week has passed by in a whirl. Dolores is getting ever nearer to depositing No. 3 onto dry land (though she may choose a water birth, apparently). This means that we are now fully engaged in equipping the nursery. Moses basket, cot, pushchair etc either recycled or bought new. My wife can now hardly move, and it is largely up to myself to keep things going. Having succesfully evaded all threats to my liberty, I am taking the responsibility seriously. I'll draw upon my previous experiences of raising toddlers, but 11 years is rather a large gap, and from what I've been reading, much more is now known about how to ensure one's baby has the best early-life chances. So, for example, Dolores has been eating about 10 kgs of sardines each week in order to ensure the foetus's brain develops to its full potential.

You may be wondering what happened after we left the court and headed back up to Scotland. Denise, you will recall, told us that she had posted a note with a complete explanation of the circumstances under which my release from potential conviction had arisen. When we arrived back we did indeed find a rather lenghty note that did indeed explain everything. The journey upon which Denise embarked was indeed remarkable, and it certainly deserves telling, if only to highlight her remarkable loyalty and commitment. But it is rather a long tale, and would take many blog entries to do it justice.

I told Dr Mark Booth, my ever attentive and creative marketing manager, of my dilemma. He suggested that I might like to use the story to create some revenue for the Matangini Project, which he has now incorporated into an existing registered charity called Stand up for Africa (www.standupforafrica.org.uk). 'It's really simple Joseph!', he exclaimed when I asked him ho w I could possibly use Denise's story to make money.

'How?' I asked

'All you have to do is promise to reveal the next installment when the fundraising total reaches... some threshold. Put the first installment up for free, then ask for donations to reveal the next episode.'

'What an excellent idea!', I said. 'How much do you reckon we should go for?'

'£200?' suggested Mark

I fell about laughing. Sometimes my marketing manager can be just a little too optimistic, even by my standards. 'Let's set our sights a bit lower. Much lower in fact. Have you seen the site-stats recently?'

'Not doing too well are you?'

'That about sums it up. Better than this time last year, but I haven't exactly hit the big time. It's my own fault. I haven't been participating enough.'

'Extenuating circumstances my friend!'

'True. Well, I'll see what I can do. But I like your idea. Let's set the first threshold at £50. I'll start a new blog just for the story, put the first episode up there for free and see how things go. It's all for a good cause, so you never know. Perhaps you could drum up a bit of publicity in Cambridge.'

'I'm already on to it..'

So there you have it. I will tell Denise's remarkable tale, and by doing so I'll help Dr Booth raise some money towards his charity. Suddenly I feel good about myself again.

J McC

My day in Court - Part II

2007-02-26T10:40:00.000Z

Hello all
Sorry for the delay in writing this second part of the happenings in Kings Lynn. It was down to a bout of espionage by a disgruntled employee, combined with having to finish a particularly exciting experiment involving Ravel’s tapeworms. For those of you who don’t remember, my no.1 research assistant is host to some tapeworms that appear refractory to every drug to which normal tapeworms are susceptible (Read the original story here). In the present experiment, I was determined to finally remove at least one of their number using an experimental compound from ground dung-beetle carcasses. Ravel should make a full recovery from the side effects of my latest tincture within a week or two.

But I digress. Please read Part I before going any further. Here is part 2 of the story…

We were all standing in the gents toilets at Kings Lynn magistrates court, wondering why Denise, my shy but somewhat masculine receptionist, was insisting that we should pay close attention to what happened next, and not to judge the situation until we were aware of all the facts.The door of the cubicle swung open, slowly. Denise motioned to whoever was inside to come out, with firm but gentle words. After a few moments of coaxing, we were presented with the sight of someone, ostensibly male, who looked both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Someone smaller than myself, of stocky build, dressed in black leathers from head to toe, dark aviator-style sunglasses, black cap perched at an angle on the head (those of you familiar with the characters of the late and lamented Kenny Everet may choose to recall the image of Sid Snot at this point) Nothing particularly unusual so far, but then I noticed 1) that the person’s hands were tied in front of the body with a black silk scarf, and 2) that the person was sporting a gag (also made of black silk). <‘Dr McCrumble’, began Denise, in her trademark low-pitched voice that some of you may recall from her video. ‘This is your former accuser, Toby Hancock-Jones. Or, as I prefer to call him, Dog-worm No 3. He responds to that name now, don’t you Worm?’The emotion of astonishment does, I have to admit, visit me on occasion, but never quite with so much of a left hook as this double-whammy. I was momentarily hit by such fierce confusion that I had to look at Dolores to check that I was still standing on terra firma. She too was open mouthed, and from the wide-eyed expression of Ravel, I felt at least sure that I hadn’t misheard anything. ‘Toby, is that you?’, I asked eventually.

Toby nodded, but said nothing.

Denise lent towards me and whispered, ‘I would remove his gag, but I’m not sure he wouldn’t scream yet. He’s almost gained my trust Dr McCrumble, but we’re going to take no chances given the situation. Isn’t that right Worm?’

Toby nodded again.

‘What the…how…where..how..’, I stuttered, unsure of where to begin with the heap of questions that had started to form in my mind.

‘I haven’t got time to explain here Dr McCrumble', said Dolores. 'I’ve written it all down and posted a letter to the Institute. All you need to know right now is that the charge of assault has been dropped. You are free to go home, Dr McCrumble, and you too Mrs McCrumble, and you too Ravel. You can all go home. Toby isn’t going to cause you any more trouble. But you must go now. We have to leave.’

‘Denise…I…’, I tried to say something, but the gravity in her voice (which was pitched even lower than usual) made me unsure that I could say anything that wouldn’t sound stupid. Something profound had happened, and I was immediately filled with a scientist’s curiosity to find the answer, but somehow I recognised it was neither the time nor place to start an interrogation. In any case, Dolores already had hold of my arm and was pulling me towards the door. I could hear my wife muttering something about tampering with the witness as we crossed the threshold. I looked back to see Denise waving at me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could see a tear streaking down her heavily made up face.

We encountered my solicitor in the corridor outside the court. I could tell she was agitated by the way she was shouting at her assistant to ‘eat the bastard’s cock for breakfast.’

I didn’t bother to enquire as to whom she was referring, and chose instead to stand some distance away until she turned round. As my solicitor caught sight of us, she clamped her mobile-phone shut and made in our direction, her tight features betraying an underlying tension.

‘There you are Dr McCrumble. Good news. You may like to know that Mr Hancock-Jones has just instructed his solicitor to tell the court that he no longer wishes to continue with this case, and has withdrawn the allegation of assault. You have no charge to answer, and are free to go home. I have been told that Mr Hancock-Jones has apologised for causing you any previous harm, and wholly accepts what happened was a misunderstanding. Frankly I’m surprised, I have to admit, as until this morning I was convinced….well, never mind.’

I was tempted at this point to return the gents toilet, but Dolores must have read my mind. She grabbed my arm as I began to turn and told me that we were all going to have a nice cup of tea before we headed back to the hotel. Sitting in the small cafeteria, we sipped our tea from polystyrene cups in silence, each of us mulling over the extraordinary sight of Denise and Toby in the gents toilet. It was a bit bemusing and unsettling. What I couldn’t yet understand was how these two complete strangers had met, nor what Denise had done to Toby to make him withdraw the accusation. Then there was the somewhat disturbing use of both a bind and a gag...

‘Kidnap!’ I blurted as the squares of the picture puzzle in my head suddenly fell into place. Several heads, some wearing helmets, swivelled in my direction.

‘Shhh,’ hissed Dolores. ‘Do you actually want to leave here a free man?’

I began dissembling something about Robert Louis Stevenson to divert the helmets' attention away from the idea that a crime had just been committed. But the idea was now firmly rooted in my mind. I became increasingly agitated as we finished our drinks. Part of me wanted to run over to the policemen and confess to what I had just witnessed. But my sense of self preservation was also strong, and I could envision all manner of untoward consequences of reporting this apparent ‘crime’. In the end it was Ravel who drew a line under my philospophical tussle. He said, ‘in my home, this happens all the time. We shrug our shoulders and say thankyou for small mercy. We put past behind our asses and look with our eyes into the future. Let’s go home boss.’

I looked at Dolores as she put her hand on our arm. ‘Lets go dear’, she said gently. ‘You can try and work everything out…silently… in the car on the way home.’

I was forced to accede to their persuasions and gestured that we should depart the magistrate's court. As we were exiting, we passed my solicitor, who once again was shouting into her mobile phone. Outside, the rain was lashing down. I sighed upon realising that I had left my umbrella in the car. Ravel must have read my mind, for he told us to remain standing whilst he brought the umbrella. It occurred to me as we stood there, that I had not one but two of the most loyal employees anyone could wish to have. What was going to become of one of them - Denise - I had no idea. As for Ravel - well I was already planning an experiment to address a long-term problem of his that would offer a substantial improvement in his quality of life. Just before leaving the Institute I had received a box from Ethiopia containing the remains of 200 dung beetles. If my theory was correct, these beetles were going to provide a non-invasive solution to Ravel’s refractory tapeworm infection, and thus remove the need for surgical extrication. A better way to reward loyalty I couldn’t imagine.

*****TO BE CONTINUED*****

Why can't we all just get along?

2007-02-23T14:03:00.000Z

Hello all

Back to writing stuff. Before I finish the story of what really happened in Kings Lynn, I thought I would have another go at the writing competition organised by Toshiba. I've given up on trying to be humorous, at least for this week, and instead offer something more serious. Here, then, is my attempt to answer the question: is hate a stronger emotion than love?

"Hate is a destructive emotion. If hate were a ‘stronger’ emotion, in the sense that it predominates and excludes the emotion of love, we may expect to find that societies the world over prefer anarchy over stability. But the truth is that most communities exist for long periods without imploding. War can sometimes be the result of ‘hatred’ for one belief system over another, but is equally likely to be a calculated attempt to extricate resources (territory, oil etc) from a neighbouring population. In such cases, political and/or religious zealousness takes centre stage, and the protagonists may stir up feelings of hatred amongst their supporters to strengthen their cause.

Love and hate arise from different aetiologies. We derive feelings of love via the genetically controlled production of endocrine products under specific, well defined encounters (boy meets girl, girl meets shoes etc). We are programmed to love things because that is how Mother Nature has determined we exist in stable groups and find a mate. Love is an indigenous and spontaneously expressed emotion that takes various forms - children show unconditional love for their parents, boys love racing cars, etc, whereas hatred is a latent emotion that can be targeted and tends to emerge though either personal experience or indoctrination. We are not programmed to hate anything in particular, but we do hold the ability to hate in our genes.

Now, that’s not to say that expressions of hate cannot match those of love in terms of what we would do as a consequence of experiencing these emotions. People go to similar extremes, irrespective of their feelings. For example, I’ve received death threats from someone who said they hate me, and a girl once threatened to kill herself if I finished with her, because she loved me. I didn’t succumb to either threat. Forunately I am still alive, and the girl in question became my wife (she wasn't the same person who threatened to kill me, though she has threatened emasculation on occasion). The strongest emotion I felt during either episode was guilt - such a strong emotion in some people that it never goes away."

Click on this button to vote!

What's been going on?

2007-02-21T11:39:00.000Z

Hello all

Apologies for not continuing my account of what happened in Kings Lynn. I have been having innumberable problems with technology at the Institute. I thought it was an electronic gremlin and had to call in some IT specialists at great expense to fix the problem. Then, lst night, I caught my no.2 research assistant, McCavity, tampering with the wireless network router in my office. I had just awoken from a dream in which Timothy Hedgehog had begun using my computer to email details of my experiments to a group of dissident hedgehogs in Iceland. I was so alarmed that I had to go an make sure everything was OK. On entering my office, I saw McCavity bent over the desk, screwdriver in hand. Needless to say, an altercation occurred, in which McCavity accused me of ruining his relationship with girlfriend Chloe. I told him that was nonsense, but that I was instead going to ruin his career at the Institute by firing him on the spot. McCavity pushed me aside as he exited, promising to make my life hell in the future.

I take no pleasure in telling a staff member that their services are no longer required, but McCavity has serious issues that he needs to resolve before I could consider asking him to return to the fold. I hope that he uses the time now available to him to look inwardly.

J McC

P.S. Now that I am reconnected, and my workload has decreased slightly, I intend to tell you what happend in Kings Lynn in the very near future

My day in court

2007-02-08T06:34:00.000Z

Hello all

When I wrote the other day, I was preparing myself for a court appearance to defend an accusation of assault on Mr Toby Hancock-Jones, a man whom had tormented me as a child and whom I had met some months ago in the Norfolk town of Kings-Lynn. Our encounter at that time has been previously described, and I don't think I need to recount the tale again. The upshot was that I was due to appear in front of a magistrate in Kings Lynn yesterday morning at 11am.

I can tell you now, I did not keep that appointment. The following is an accurate account of what happened. Even outside the court I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth...

Those of you familiar with this blog will know that occasionally I have taken the option to flee my persecutors rather than stand up to them (ref: Mccrumble Incognito). Such occasions have been the result of my desire to protect my family rather than myself, and I must confess that I was tempted in the hours before my scheduled appearance in court to run into the Norfolk countryside. But my constitution held firm, and in fact I slept soundly on Monday evening, after travelling down south to a small motel just outside Kings Lynn itself.

I was awoken by Ravel bringing myself and Dolores a cup of tea at the usual time of 6:15am. He'd insisted on joining us for the trip, aware that I was about to be tried for assault and wishing to show his support. On the one hand I was very grateful for his loyalty, but at the same time I was slightly perturbed by his choice of travelling garments. I don't know about you, but I would never consider travelling long distances in army surplus clothing. When I had asked Ravel about his choice of apparel, all he had said was, 'Boss, the unknown is waiting. It is best always to prepare for eventual exit in hurry with good defence.'

'You aren't planning anything are you Ravel?' I enquired as he delivered the tea to myself and Dolores.

'Good morning Boss', said Ravel, smiling. 'Good morning Mrs McCrumble. Yes, I am planning breakfast. I think it is safer if you eat in your room. I have ordered eggs and toast and coffee for the both of you.'

'I'm not too worried about my safety yet Ravel. You can intervene if they drag me off to the cells if you like...'

Dolores swatted me with her Marie Clare magazine. 'Don't give him ideas you berk.'

Ravel left us alone to drink our tea. Dolores was showing signs of nervousness already, so I tried to comfort her. She has been feeling a bit unwell lately, and has been worried that the stress of the forthcoming trial will affect the development of our unborn child. To counter the effects of her increased levels of cortisol, I have adopted a method of talking in a soft and gentle manner to the foetus whilst massaging the bump, in the hope that Dolores's endorphin/serotonin levels will rise and the foetus itself will a) learn to recognise my voice and 2) realise that the world outside is welcoming and relatively peaceful. 'Foetus, oh foetus, wakey-wakey', I said, as gently as possible, my face pressed slightly onto Dolores's belly. 'This is your soon-to-be father speaking. Are you there, oh unborn one?'

There was a sharp kick from within, a sign that the foetus was responding to my greeting. 'Good morning foetus', I continued, 'now today is a very special day and I want you to know that you might hear some things that sound unusual. That's because we've traveled a long way to a new place where the people talk a bit different. If you hear a sound you don't recognise then don't worry. It's just someone saying something nice about you...'

'Will you stop that?', cut in Dolores. 'You're going to make it think the world outside is one big happy love-fest or something. The sooner it learns that its father is a criminal, the sooner we can steer it off the path to self destruction. Why not tell it the truth? I thought that was your thing?

Her acidic comments usettled me, and I was unable to respond to the allegation. My obsession with telling the truth and nothing but the truth has enabled me, in the past, to live through a number of misadventures with a clear conscience, yet here I was, telling a bare-faced lie to my unborn child merely to massage its impression of the world, which would, in truth, be nothing like the picture I was trying to paint.

My conundrum, fortuitously perhaps, was not allowed to persist. Ravel appeared moments later carrying a tray with our breakfasts. He had, he told us, persuaded the kitchen to move our breakfast preparation to the head of the queue by telling the cook that we were 'Important VIPs with very short tempers'

We ate in silence. I could sense Dolores becoming more tense as we prepared ourselves for the day's ordeal. I tried to be cheerful, but my efforts were unrewarded. By the time we left the motel, I felt like I had already been condemned, and was on my way to the cells rather than the court.

It was only a short drive into Kings Lynn. The morning rush hour (such as it is in this part of Norfolk) had receded, and we arrived earlier than I had estimated. We parked up close to the magistrate's court and waited in the car until I saw my solicitor arrive. We exchanged solemn greeting before moving indoors.

Kings Lynn Magistrates court

Once inside we were told that we were briefed on the procedure and then told that we would have to wait a while until our case was called. There was nothing to do but hang around fidgeting and trying to make small talk. Dolores needed to sit down, but I felt that I could not relax and instead started to pace up and down. Eventually I found myself opposite a vending machine, and it struck me that my predicament had come to resemble that of a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps trapped at the back of the machine. Unable to free itself, kept in place by physical restraints, inching painfully towards freedom but always scarred with the stigma of having been a vending machine item.

I spoke to the crisps, as if only they could understand my torment. I went over the events of previous months, trying to come to terms with the things I have done, the consequences of my actions, the mistakes I have made. Was everything finally about to come crashing down?, I asked. Was I, Dr Joseph McCrumble, scientist-artist in residence at the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology, proud father of twin boys, faithful husband to my beautiful wife, some-time lecturer at various universities, explorer of distant lands, part-time celebrity, and all round good-egg, about to face the prospect of being tarred and feathered by a mob of vigilantes? And all because I dared to take a stand against a man who had ruined several years of my childhood with his mental and physical bullying. Had it all come to nothing?

I was welling up with pathos and self pity. I'm not proud of my emotional outburst, but under the circumstances I think it was justified. The small crowd were wide eyed with bemusement as they watched me thumping at the vending machine, my cries becoming ever more pathetic. Eventually someone came over and told me in a deep but feminine voice that I needed to put in 50p if wanted the crisps. The same person patted me firmly on the shoulder as they spoke. It was a large hand, and as it pressed onto my shoulderbone I was reminded of a time some weeks ago when a similarly large hand had been pressed on my shoulder in a very similar fashion. That time it had been my former receptionist, Denise, just as she told me she was resigning her post at the Institute for the 3rd new-year in a row with the words 'don't worry about me Dr McCrumble, I'll do what's right.'

This time it was -

'DENISE!' I cried as I put the voice and firm grip together. I spun round to see my receptionist standing there, resplendent in a dark purple knee length dress, a big smile on her broad face, her trademark sunglasses resting atop her golden hair. 'What the..how, where?', I spluttered.

Denise removed her hand from my shoulder and told me to follow her. We moved through the small crowd, collecting Dolores and Ravel en route to somewhere beyond the waiting area. Everyone was surprised to see my recently departed receptionist and kept trying to ask her what was going on. To each answer, though, she would only say that everything was about to be made clear.

Upon reaching the men's toilets, Denise ushered us all inside. Dolores initially refused, but Denise insisted and essentially pushed us all over the threshold. One of the cubicles was occupied, but only until Denise knocked on the door. We all heard the toilet flush and watched with baited breath as slowly the door opened.

What greeted us was a sight I did not expect, but which was about to change the course of events in dramatic fashion.....

**********TO BE CONTINUED!!!!************

Fearing the worst

2007-02-06T21:36:00.000Z

Dear all

Not for the first time in the last few months, I am feeling the heat. Tomorrow I face my accuser in the court-room. For those of you who have only begun to read this blog, I should tell you that I'm up on a charge of assault on my childhood nemesis, Toby Hancock-Jones. The story of how we came to blows is in my book, and can also be found by following the appropriate label at the bottom of this post. Whether I will be allowed to blog again, I do not know, for I am also up against a lawyer well known for his ability to persuade juries in his clients favour, even if the client has the words 'Don't believe me' tattooed on his forehead.

Toby is able to afford the services of such a man because his father is doing rather well in the carpet business, and is determined to see me go down. Rumour has it that Toby has been suffering epileptic fits since I pushed him over in Kings Lynn, and that he is going to produce medical evidence to support the accusation that I am to blame.

I have contemplated many bad things in my life, but this is the first time I have come face to face with the prospect of losing my freedom. No doubt Dolores will tell you how it goes, if I am otherwise indisposed.

Stay well, my blogging friends. To quote the late, great Freddy, If I'm not back tomorrow, carry on, carry on.

yours

J McC

P.S. As if reality was not harsh enough, Kim Ayres has cast me in the mold of uber-gangster over at bluntcogs Will the torment never end?

Designer babies

2007-02-02T07:00:00.000Z

Hello all

I've been away lecturing most of the week, hence my absence from the blog. It hasn't gone too badly overall. After one lengthy session I even received a spontaneous round of applause! Very tiring though, with up to 6 hours contact time per day. I've got some more to do next week, then it's all over for another year.

The computer company Toshiba are still running their competition, despite a number of upsets. This week, they've set the question "Should prospective parents be able to determine their child’s gender?"

I was mulling over this very important question, one that society has a duty to address, and the answer to which has potentially far-reaching consequences, when my unborn foetus child interrupted with an early morning call for attention. Our conversation, somewhat coincidentally, ended up delving into the very subject posed by Mr Toshiba....

Joseph: Good morning No3

Foetus: Why do keep calling me no 3?

Joseph: Because you will be our third child.

Foetus: You mean I’m not the only one?

Joseph: Indeed not. You will be the sibling of twin boys. You’ll be the youngest of…

Foetus: Hold on there. Back up a little. First of all, tell me: what is a sibling, then what is a twin, then what is a boy.

Joseph: Oh dear, this could take a while…

Foetus: Try the executive summary. My attention span is somewhat bereft of longevity.

Joseph: Ok, well I think we should work in reverse order for ease of explanation.

Foetus: As you wish, but make it snappy. I’m beginning to curl up in the foetal position in preparation for a long sleep.

Joseph: Right. Well, essentially it is like this: you could either be a “boy”, or a “girl”. If you are boy, you will grow up big and strong. If you are girl you’ll be bit smaller overall but develop a larger bosom. These differences will determine your role in society.

Foetus: Blimey. So basically you’re saying that my life-chances depend on whether I am a boy or a girl. I had no idea. How can I tell which way my bread is buttered, to use a well worn metaphor?

Joseph: Well, there is a reasonably foolproof test. Even in utero, a boy will have something dangling between his legs, whereas a girl won’t.

Foetus: What, you mean this long thing sticking out of my stomach?

Joseph: Lower down.

Foetus: Hang on….humph, haa, no, wait, nearly there. No, I can’t reach. Damn. This space is just too damn small these days. Either it’s shrinking or I’m growing. So what am I, a boy or a girl?

Joseph: I don’t know. We didn’t bother to check.

Foetus: WHAT?

Joseph: It doesn’t matter. And calm down. In utero stress is bad for your development.

Foetus: Of course it matters! I need to be prepared. What if I don’t like being a boy or a girl? Why wasn’t I allowed to choose for myself after being given all the salient information? Why did you wait until 30 weeks to bring up this crucial issue?

Joseph: It was out of my hands I’m afraid. And anyway, I’m firmly of the opinion that we should not be allowed to choose whether anyone is boy or a girl.

Foetus: This isn’t about you.

Joseph: There’s a wider issue at stake here. You see, it’s very important that we allow Nature to strike its own balance between the number of girls and boys. If not, we risk putting the rights of the individual against the rights of society on an issue that is fundamental to population stability. It already happens though - In some places, especially where people are poor, boys are preferred because girls are considered an economic liability. Sometimes, girl foetuses are, er, not allowed to be born.

Foetus: Huh? So if I’m a girl I have to stay in utero forever? It’s getting so cramped in here I can barely move already!

Joseph: It's not quite like that I'm afraid. I think you’re a still bit too young to understand fully. You’ll be coming out of there whether you are a girl or a boy, don’t worry.

Foetus: Phew. Thank goodness. You had me worried there for a moment. The last thing I need right now is a gender identity crisis. I’ll see if I can work it out myself later on. You can leave now. I need to compose myself and gestate for a while. Wake me up for the Archers will you, there’s a good Voice-in-my Head.

If you enjoyed the above conversation, and agree with its argument, you might like to click on the button below. If you leave your email address (this is not obligatory!) then you will be entered into a prize draw for a laptop computer.

J McC

Are people born Evil?

2007-01-26T16:59:00.000Z

Another crack at the laptop cherry. They keep changing the procedures, I notice, in response to people's comments. The last laptop was won by someone with a blog far more popular than mine. The only consolation I have is that when someone wins, they get taken out of the competition. Given that the last winner had a technorati ranking og about 4500, and mine is something like 333000, there isn't much hope

But I do love a challenge, so here goes...

Are people born Evil?

I was a young lad, full of joy and optimism, no more than 8 years old, when I first encountered the boot of Toby Hancock Jones. He'd joined our school after being excluded elsewhere for tying a lop-eared rabbit by its ears to a fence post and firing carrot sticks from an air rifle at a target painted on its belly. The rabbit survived this incident, and was rehoused with a married couple who doted on it. Two years later the 93 year old husband slipped on the lop-eared rabbits ears, fell over and split his head open on the stone floor of the couple's cottage. His 25 year old wife of just three years seemed initially distraught, until Police discovered the rabbits ears had been glued to the floor and greased on top to make them extra slippery. It was a near perfect crime. The papers asked the very same question about the nature of evil when she was sent down for life.

But I digress.

Toby walked in to our school as if he was eyeing up the place for an armed robbery. He was of average height and build, and kept his jumper sleeves rolled up to display biro-tatoos of a skull and crossbones. The teacher asked him to roll down his sleeves only once. He gave her such a lairy stare that the poor woman (on supply after 3 years off with stress) never spoke to him again in the four months she remained with as our form teacher.

He seemed to take an instant dislike to me, despite my attempts at friendship. My mother was keen for me to make friends, as I was lagging behind my peers on a number of fronts at the time. So I offered him some of my lunch on his first day. He took the banana sandwhich with a smile. But just seconds after he started chewing, he spat the whole lot back at me.

'What was that, you four-eyed moron?' he cried, wiping bits of banana off his face.

I could taste something on my lips. It was a bit of chewed up banana. I gingerly stuck out my tongue to taste it - eager, on the one hand to make amends and avoid losing my new friend to a misunderstanding, but, at the same time, slighty apprehensive about the coldsore on Toby's lips.

'Er, I think it's just banana, Toby' I said, my unbroken voice warbling slightly.

'Yeah Crumble. You know what happened to the last person who tried to feed me bananas?'

'Er, no.'

'They got mashed up, see'

'Er....'

'You thick or something Crumble? I said mashed, as in mashed banana'

'I've got some crisps', I said, trying to smile even as the tears welled up behind my eyes.

Toby stood up, rolling up his sleeves so I could get a good view of his skull-and-crossbones. 'Gimme the rest of your lunch money, Breadcrumb, or I'll tell the teacher you tried to poison me.'

I was utterly confused. No one had ever bullied me before, and I wasn't sure what was going on. I had no idea that I had poisoned him, and could only think that the young boy had a rare banana allergy. I didn't quite understand why he was so angry, but then remembered my grandmother getting very angry once when I did actually poison her (Accidentally of course,and she did make a near-full recovery in due time. Was it my fault that she'd decanted some brass-cleaning fluid into a brown-sauce bottle?).

'Are you sick?' I asked him, fumbling in my pocket for some loose change.

Toby pulled me right up to his face, paused for dramatic effect, then snarled 'What you mean, Breadhead?'

'I...I...just thought...'

'Don't think Crumb. Don't do anything to upset me or I'll mash you so hard you'll be worse off than a banana under bulldozer. Got it?'

'Er, ok. Here's 50p. I think you should use to get some medi...'

THWACK

I spun round as he let his punch go, half propelling myself away, half pushed by the force of his fist in my eye-socket. The grass on which we had been sitting offered at least soft ground for me to crumple on as he repeatedly kicked me in the shins and told me that he'd string me up by my flappy ears and shoot me with an airgun loaded with nuclear bombs if I told the teacher.

That night I cried when my grandmother asked me what had happened. She tried to comfort me, but I couldn't be consoled. My illusion of childhood had been shattered in a matter of minutes by someone I wanted to call my friend. 'Oh poor, naive young boy, ' she cooed, then after a moments pause raised her voice and in dramatic tones said 'Some people are just born evil, Joseph. Spawn of the Devil, if you ask me. He's out there Joseph, he's out there!'

I thought about what she said for a minute, but couldn't work it out. You see, population genetics was a subject in which I was most interested, even as a child. I had been working my way through a paper on the subject, which laid out very strict laws governing how traits were passed on through different generations. The paper told the story of a monk who drank beer and grew peas, and how he worked out a set of laws about inheritance and the such like.

'Wait here granny!' I said, my energy suddenly renewed. 'If I can work it out, I'll know what to do!' And with that I skipped off to my bedroom to do some calculations.

The next day Toby turned up late to school. He made sure that I caught him looking at me with narrowed eyes when he entered the classroom. I said nothing, of course, and waited until lunchtime before I spoke to him.

'Toby!' I cried, bounding up to him as he was menacing some younger children. He spun round on his heels, squaring up to me as if I wanted to fight.

'Where's my lunchmoney, Breadhead?' he asked.

'Yeah, yeah Toby. Listen. I've got some good news. I did some sums last night and worked something out. You see, my grandma said you are the son of the devil and born evil. But I worked it out, right?.' I looked up at Toby as I finished speaking. His eyes were so narrowed I could barely see his pupils, and his upper lip was starting to curl in what I later learned was his trademark indicator that violence was forthcoming.

'You see...it's like this. If you were born evil then Mendel says either your mother or father was born evil. But your father can't be the devil or he would have horns and a red cape and stuff. So your mother must have passed her evil to you which means she is to blame. See? It's not your fault you're evil, Toby. There's evil in your genes!'

THWACK

His head connected with mine just on the bridge of my nose and I fell back onto the hard playing-ground surface. My assailant was just about to start kicking me in the shins for the second time in two days, when one of the younger children, presumably startled and bemused by my homophonic statement, started laughing and pointing at Toby's pants. I looked to where the child was pointing and was astonished to see a small banana poking out of Toby's school trousers. Even Toby seemed surprised, and hesitated just long enough for me to pick myself up and move away. A teacher was there moments later, and had hold of the fruit-sporting bully even as he was trying to pull the banana out.

We were both taken to the headmaster's office and forced to explain things. I started talking about a monk who grew peas but the headmaster didn't seem interested. All he really wanted to know was why Toby had been dangling a banana out of the front of his pants. It turned out that the unfortunate boy had stolen said banana from a corner shop that morning on his way to school, and had stuffed it down his pants so he could turn out his pockets if asked. The zip on the pants had needed repairing for some time, and had just given way at the wrong moment.

Toby was sentenced to lines and made to apologise. I took it with good grace. Such good grace, in fact, that the headmaster commented on it.

'Granny told me some people were born evil sir. So he can't help it really.', I responded.

'It's not that people are born evil, Joseph.', said the headmaster. 'It's just that they are born stupid.'

'Is that better than evil?'

'Of course. Now run along and make some friends Joseph.'

I skipped off into the playground, my cares forgotten. Not only had I gained an apology from my tormentor, but I had also learned a new fact. A very important piece of knowledge that I just couldn't keep isolated in my 8 year old brain. And it was good news, which meant that it had to be told. You see, Granny had instilled in me that everyone likes to hear good news. And now I knew that if Toby wasn't born evil, that we could be good friends. Everything's going to be alright, I thought, as I jogged merrily towards my new classmate once again.

Third time lucky? It's up to you my good, good friends!

J McC

J McC

In court

2007-01-23T21:56:00.000Z

Hello all

has my recent absence been noted? I doubt it, but never mind. I was called away to appear as a witness in the trial of a head of department of a university where I used to go and mark exam papers under mysterious circumstances (you can read the original post here). I have been advised not to say anything about what went on, so I won't. I'm more worried about my own court case for assault on Toby Hancock-Jones. Dolores has been trying to offer sympathy, but it isn't getting through. I'm feeling decidedly maudlin at the moment.

Denise still hasn't returned. She rang up the other day to say she is in Derby visiting an old school friend. The Institute is quiet at the moment, so I'm not in too much of a hurry to replace her. I was in the village on Saturday and someone asked about her whereabouts. When I said that she had handed in her notice, I was simply told that 'the storm clouds are gathering, aye' before being shooed away. I wouldn't have minded, but I was trying to withdraw money at the time, and to have a bank clerk speak like that was slightly unsettling.

Dolores is reading an awful lot of books about breastfeeding and raising babies to maximise their development. I had assumed that rearing another child would simply revive skills gained during the early years of the twins, but my ever-astute wife was quick to remind me that much progress had been made in the last ten years, and she didn't want to make the same mistakes again. She followed up this surprisingly frank admission of guilt with news that Twin Y had broken his nose fighting with a girl whose bag he snatched. When interrogated about the incident, he eventually admitted that he had dropped a pack of playing cards in the bag earlier to avoid confiscation. When retrieved, the backs of the cards had instructions on various real-life hustles. He claimed that he had found the cards on the street, though wasn't clear where.

I really love the twins, but I have to admit, Dolores is doing the right thing.

J McC

An insectivore speaks out.

2007-01-19T14:47:00.000Z

Dear all

Another chance to win a new laptop. The last competition was won by someone who promised to give the computer away to someone who voted for them. Now here's a thought on how a similar scam could work for everyone else.

1) Find someone with a very popular blog.
2) Offer to give them some cash if they host an article for you and get all their readers to vote, several times each.
3) Write something, anything as long as it sort of answers the question. Seeing as the answer can always be 'yes' or 'no' then you don't have to spend too much time thinking about it.
4) Wait
5) Collect your prize
6) Hand over the cash

Result!

Now that I've told you how to do it (other scams are available, but you'll have to pay me to reveal them), read my attempt at answering this week's question and VOTE FOR ME!

'If we could hold conversations with animals, would we all be vegetarians?'

I don't know about you, but I hold conversations with animals already. Cats are particularly good at replying, especially when hungry or in need of a place by the fire. And who hasn't seen reports of Parrots or Bonobo apes talking about their preference for Becket over Dante? Even dogs can respond to your voice in a rudimentary fashion, and did not Arthur Dent (the last human, no less) have a chat with a pig in the Restaurant at the end of the Universe about how tasty said pig's rump was when slowly roasted over an open fire?

My blogging chum, Gorilla Bananas) is well know for his ability to hold an intelligent conversation on just about any topic. Anybody familiar with this blog will already know about Timothy Hedgehog. If you don't, I suggest you watch his video. Amazing stuff huh? Timothy has become so adept at conversation that I decided to ask him the question. He made me promise, before answering, that I wouldn't eat him after he had finished answering. Here is a transcript of our conversation

Timothy: Mmmmm, so let me get this straight. You are asking me whether holding conversations with humans is a prerequisite for eating vegetabales?

McCrumble: Not quite Timothy. I want to know if talking with animals would mean all humans would become vegetarian

Timothy: It's a difficult question to answer Dr McCrumble, mainly because it is impossible to deconstruct without offering an alternative answer that you might find difficult to swallow.

McCrumble: Have a go Timothy. I need that laptop.

Timothy: Very well, Dr McCrumble. I shall speak slowly and use short words.

McCrumble: Thanks Timothy. I appreciate your patience.

Timothy: So here is how I see it. On the one hand, you think that, philosopically speaking, the human race would not eat animals if they could converse with them'

McCrumble: That is the essence of my conundrum, yes.

Timothy (scratches his ears): But you have told me on a number of occasions that humans are merely animals with bigger brains.

McCrumble: Well, not necessarily bigger, but more grey matter per unit volume of brain. Dolphins for example....

Timothy: Yes I know about them. So anyway, if humans are merely over-acheiving primates, does it not stand to reason that the question is a nonsensical and potentially inflammatory attempt at pushing the animalist agenda?

McCrumble: Animalist?

Timothy: Yes, you know, like ageist, racist, sexist etc.

McCrumble: Oh I see. Well I'm sure that isn't the point at all...

Timothy: Clearly you don't see much at all Dr McCrumble. Hedgehogs, you may not realise, make no distinction between ourselves and the rest of the animal kingdom. Not because our brains are the size of a baked bean, but because we are not suffering from arrogance. Shame on you, Dr McCrumble, for labouring on about how humans are special when, in fact, the truth is far less glamorous. Do you think you can handle the truth, Dr McCrumble?

McCrumble: I'll try to keep it together. So what is the truth, Timothy?

Timothy: Write this down so you don't forget. Ready. Right. Now, every living creature needs to feed, yes? The choice of food is determined by one's niche, yes? Animals in neighbouring niches are the most likely victims of each other, simply because they are closer to hand. Think of the lion and the zebra, the snow leopard and the mountain goat, dolphin and the mackerel, the crocodile and wilderbeast, the speed camera and the motorist. All classic predator-prey models, I think you'll find. To put it simply, in conversing with animals, you would bring them into your own niche-space. You see that Dr McCrumble? Now, as we can see from our examples, as niches overlap, so the potential for conflict grows. If you think about it this way, Dr McCrumble, then talking to the animals would not turn humans into vegetarians. It would, in fact, turn you into....

McCrumble: Yes, Timothy?

Timothy (pauses, licks his fur): Animals, Dr McCrumble.

McCrumble: But I'm talking with you Timothy...

Timothy: Quod erat demonsratum, Dr McCrumble. Now leave my cage before I bite you.

I left Timothy, head bowed, but sure that I had met my intellectual match. I have no option, really, after such an intellectual trouncing, to answer anything but 'NO'.

I thank you for reading

J McC

You don't have to leave your email address, but if you do, it will be entered into a prize draw for a new laptop.

The truth is out there...

2007-01-09T22:29:00.000Z

My blogging chum Kim Ayres has thrown down a challenge. Write something on the topic of 'Will the human race ever populate another planet'. I couldn't resist, especially as I need the prize (a Toshiba laptop). Here is my entry. A link to vote for me is at the bottom...

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'Will the human Race Ever populate another planet'

It's time I came clean. There has been too much speculation already about whether humans will ever reach beyond the stars, boldly go to Jupiter and Mars, take a walk along the Milky Way etc etc etc. The truth is...well, it's all moot. Sit down, dear reader, and brace yourself. The fact is, we passed this particular milestone a long, long time ago. I know the truth, because it was my father who was dispatched from Planet Alpha Romeo 5 (in the Mondeo system, for all you armchair astronomers out there), about fifty years ago, with instructions to gather up-to-date information on life on the Mother Planet (ie, EARTH!)

His voyage wasn't easy. He had to leave behind his family and friends with no guarantee that he would ever return. Solar winds kept blowing him off course, and the asteroid belts were particularly thick that year. On a number of occasions his vessel capsized after being struck by space debris, and he was only saved by the fact that in space, there is neither an up, nor a down.

Approaching Earth was the most hazardous part of the journey. It was a period of intense paranoia concerning UFO's. As he flew around the globe to find a landing spot, my father was subjected to missile attack over no less than 14 different territories (including, he alleged, the Vatican!). It was possibly just sheer luck that he managed to land on earth, somewhere in Scotland, without a scratch on his body or his craft.

Once in Scotland he set about his mission, moving from glen to community with his pen and pad, making notes on everything he saw, tasting the local food and chatting to the locals. The various Scottish accents and dialects proved troublesome for a while, but he got the hang of things and it wasn't long before he became well known for his willingness to listen and learn. There was nothing he wouldn't do, although some of his efforts at engaging in sex were a bit peculiar for earthlings (this has never been revealed before, but my father apparently invented an activity now known as 'dogging'). It was during this part of his exploration that he met my mother (who introduced him to something called 'seagulling', whatever that is).

My father eventually had to leave Earth and return to Planet Alpha Romeo 5. It was a very hard thing to do, for he had fallen in love with the planet Earth, and faced the prospect of another hazardous journey through 15 solar systems and a digitizing Nebula. His child (oui, c'est moi) was called into his study one evening and told the dreadful news.

'Son', he said, his eyes welling up, 'there is something you don't know about me.'

'If it's about the dogging...', I said, trying to soften the incoming blow.

'No son.' , he said firmly. 'The truth is that I am not of this world. I come from a land...

'Down under?' I asked, filled with dread that I might have antipodean blood in my veins.

'No son. My world lies beyond the stars. I am what you might call, an alien.'

'Sure dad. Can I go now?'

Try as he might, he just couldn't convince me. I was fifteen years old and fully versed in the limits of our space exploration. I mean, we'd only just got to the moon. How could he be from another planet?

Mother was shocked, and told Dad to desist with these silly notions. They argued about it until one day Mum walked out. Dad was distraught, but couldn't back down. He told me he was going to prove to me that he was telling me the truth. So, one night, we drove to a secluded spot somewhere in Scotland. It was a field full of heather. He told me to wait and walked into the middle of the field. A few moments later, the earth began to shake. A small, black, cigar shaped vessel emerged from the ground with my father standing on top. He motioned for me to come close. My heart racing, I approached the vessel. It's doors opened with a faint 'whoosh'. A ramp slid down from the belly of the craft. My father jumped to the ground, held his arms open. 'Come with me son. Come with me to Alpha Romeo 5', he pleaded.

I pondered the idea for a few minutes. Sure, on the one hand I was looking at the trip of a lifetime. I'd see things that no-one else had ever seen. I'd have adventures beyond my wildest dreams. But, on the other hand, who could I tell when I got back?

It may surprise you to learn that I decided against the idea. Not because I was scared of interplanetary flight, nor because I would become an outcaston my return, with my wild tales of alien planets . No, the truth, and I am no longer embarrassed to admit it, is that Emily McTavistock had promised to show me what 'dogging' meant the next day, and my fifteen-year old's hormones were the iron filings to the magnet in her lewd brain. 'It's OK dad, your secrets safe with me. I'll no tell anyone, ever', I shouted, my fingers crossed behind my back.

It's taken more than fifteen years for anyone to persuade me to tell the truth of what happened that night. But now, dear reader, the time has come to let you know the truth. I feel unburdened, and hope that you will understand why I chose this particular moment to tell you my amazing tale. You see...it's the prize on offer...well, I know it wouldn't have impressed my intergalactic, star-hopping father, but the cash value of the laptop is easily going to cover my court fines for public indecency when I sell it on Ebay.

- Press the button to vote! You don't have to enter your email address, but if you do you will be entered into a draw for a computer. You can check out the competition at Love to Lead

from within the womb

2007-01-07T19:24:00.000Z

Hello all

I'm not sure how this happened, but one night I placed my ear to the pregnant belly of Dolores. I thought I heard the sound of a baby complaining about a 'lack of space'. I placed a microphone next to the belly and lo! my unborn child was talking. Next thing you know, I'm conversing with a 20-something week old foetus. Is this a world's first? Possibly.

Anyway, I decided to read the book to the little child as a way of stimulating its developing brain. The video below is the response I received when I asked for an endorsement. I leave you to decide whether I should have bothered...

Calling all celebrities

2007-01-05T12:16:00.000Z

Dear fellow celebs

You may have seen, yesterday, that a warning has been issued by Sense about Science (www.senseaboutscience.org.uk), namely that celebrities should take care when endorsing charitable or other campaigns. You are encouraged to check all the facts before risking your hard won reputation for making intelligent decisions. Many celebrities have come to regret making hastily assembled statements on issues with which they are unfamiliar. The result: they appear as fools in front of the fans and are mercilessly mocked by the media.

As one of the country's very few Celebrity Scientists, I am well aware of the issues and how they affect both parties. Should you, dear celebrity, need any advice on how to approach science and scientists in a rational and intelligently plausible manner, please do not hestitate to contact me. I provide a first-class service, and guarantee that you will never again jump in with two left feet.

Take this short test to see if you might benefit from my service:

A friend of a friend you met at an A list party sends you an email. They claim that they know someone who has found a cure for obesity. It involves ingesting a sweetened mixture of ground almonds soaked in tortoise vomit, and works by alleviating hunger pangs for up to 12 hours. It could stamp out the obesity epidemic. Clinical trials aren't necessary as the mixture is a foodstuff rather than a drug, but your friend can produce more than a hundred people who lost weight after taking it. The name of the mixture is 'Altortvom'

Upon hearing this pitch do you:
1) Sign up immediately and pledge to spread the word
2) Laugh it off and remove the friend's number from your mobile
3) Phone the police and report your friend for cruelty to tortoises
4) Ask to see the data, the people, the tortoises, the production line, the almond grove and the testing labs.

If you answer is 1,2 or 3 then I may be able to help. I'll sort out which campaigns are bona fide requests for your celebrity pulling power, and which are cynical attempts cash in on your fame.

Give me a call today and open an account!

yours

Dr Joseph McCrumble

New Year, New Hope

2007-01-02T17:22:00.000Z

Hello all

Happy New Year to everyone. I am sincerely hoping that this year turns out better than the last. I'm not sure I can endure the same level of antagonism and unsettling events. Some people (especially Dolores) reckon that my optimism is a sign that I am unprepared for the rigours of modern life. Maybe, but try as I might, I just can't become cynical about the world, even though I seem to upset the balance of things more often than I would like. The pending court case (my alleged assault on my former childhood nemesis, Toby Hancock-Jones whilst on holiday in Kings Lynn) has sobered me up a bit, as I'm really not sure which way things are going to go. I've been advised that a custodial sentence is a possibility. Not something I relish in the slightest. Can you imagine me in prison? I can't.

Denise handed in her notice yesterday. She's done this a few times before, citing a need to 'broaden her horizon'. Each time I question how resigning from a steady job with good rate of pay and undemanding workload could be better than entering a hostile labour market, and she goes away to think about things. I expect her to ask for her job back in the next day or two.

I realise as I write this that I have never completed the story of my flight to the forest. This is not entirely due to forgetfulness. You see, when I started writing this blog, I swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. The final installment of my temporary absence from civilisation contains events and dialogue that are potentially, er, incriminating. If I am to blog the truth of what happened, I must first make safeguards that my concerns are ill founded.

Oh dear, I do sense, in a purely rational analysis of the extant circumstances, and without a hint of unreasonable pessimism, that this year is becoming somewhat unsettling already.

J McC

Christmas Party Pooper (Part IV)

2006-12-24T15:26:00.000Z

The final section of my staff Christmas Party report is given below. I'm writing this with brutal honesty as a warning to all other employers. Be very careful when allowing your employees to bring guests. You may wish, after reading my example, to draw up some guidelines with respect to vetting procedures.

Part III is here

Part II is here

Part I is here

---

Having made up my mind to leave I almost immediately doubled back on my own thoughts and decided to remain crouched under the desk in my studio. This reluctance to move forced me to listen to the sounds of McCavity and his girlfriend having an especially good time. It wasn't a pleasant experience, for neither of them bothered to be discrete or even euphemistic with instructions on what they wanted and how they wanted it. I covered my ears to block out the sound whilst I tried to work out what to do. All thoughts of finishing the Pictionary game had evaporated, along with any idea that this Christmas party was going to help with my rehabilitation into village life.

Try as I might, I couldn't think of an easy way out of my predicament. To disturb the rutting duo would lead to substantial embarrassment. But to retreat back to the main building ran the risk of something far more unedifying - the wrath of Dolores. You see, the camera that I saw turning in my direction had to have been operated manually, because the licence for the software that normally controls the camera expired last week, and Denise hadn't got round to renewing it. Whoever was controlling the camera had seen all. I could only pray it wasn't Dolores.

How much longer I stayed there, my mind swimming with dead-ended attempts at a solution, I do not know. Perhaps it was just a few minutes, perhaps longer. I cursed myself for not being stronger, but at the same time I couldn't but help feeling sorry for myself. It was as if all the unsettling events of the last nine months had come together to haunt me one last time before the year's end, with one final stab at demolishing my self-esteem.

'WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?'. The scream pierced my melancholoy like a cross-bow arrow, forcing me into a state of instant alert, heart pounding, mouth dry. It was the unmistakable voice of Dolores, my normally calm and fragrant wife, screaming like a banshee. Her pointed question was followed almost immediately by a reply from McCavity. It was the reply of someone taken completely by surprise whilst up to no good.

'Nothing!', he cried. A blatant lie.

'Get dressed and Get out!' shouted my wife. I couldn't see her from my position under the desk, but I knew she would be standing with her arms folded, legs together, head held high, eyes wide open. I knew this because it is her standard approach to scaring me into doing what she wants.

I didnb't hang around to listen to the rest of the conversation. If Dolores was here, it meant that she wasn't in the main building. I had the opportunity to return and confiscate/destroy the tape. If Dolores had been operating the camera, I would at least be able to deny everything and claim the tape had been stolen by a guest. Or something like that. No time to think clearly now. Must run!

I opened the back door to my studio as quietly as possible before legging it back towards the main building. I don't think I've ever run so fast in my life. The emergency door was still open, and I sprinted inside, only slowing down once I was sure that I was no longer visible to anyone looking outwards. Having forgotten to breathe during my fifty metre dash, I was immediately forced to gulp down air and site down on a pile of boxes to re-cuperate. But the image of Dolores forgmarching Chloe and McCavity back towards the living area was enough to make me forget my lack of fitness and push on through the lactic-acid towards my goal.

I jogged as quickly and silently as possible back through labs1 and 2, keeping low in case I was visible through the windows. Looking through the window in the lab door, I could just make out that the guests were milling around in the living area. They were all wearing coats, and were clearly on the verge of leaving. Ravel was standing by the monitor. I sighed with relief, for it was now likely that he, not Dolores, had been controlling the camera.

I had not a moment to lose. After briefly composing myself and taking several gulps of formaldehyde-tainted air, I stepped out into the living area. Ravel was the first to notice me. He pointed up at the monitor, drawing my attention to the camera image. It showed Chloe struggling to pull on her left boot, whilst McCavity shielded the girl from the piercing stare of my wife. I initially thought I must have been gifted with super-human speed in my dash to the institute, until I saw Chloe topple over and realised that she was probably trying to dress herself under the influence of quite a lot of alchohol.

The vet was the first person to see me. 'Ahh, there you are. We thought you must have fallen down a ditch or something. I was just about to send out a search party.' He motioned to the small crowd of people in their coats to press home the point.

'Aaah, 'I said, my brain racing to find a suitably anodyne response. 'I was, taken, I mean, I thought I heard someone crying, in the next field, but it turned out to be a, a, fox. They sound, er remarkably human sometimes, don't they?'

I could tell from the raised eyebrow of the vet that he wasn't convinced. 'Well, never mind' he said after a slightly awkward pause. 'I think I'll be off anyway. Thank Dolores for the dinner. Bye.' A few seconds later the whole crowd was walking towards the door. They all muttered some form of thanks to Dolores. Most of them were shaking their heads as they left.

I was, in fact, glad to see them go. It meant that I could now deal with Dolores, Chloe and McCavity in private. The trio entered the living area just a minute after the last guest had filed out. Dolores was clearly fuming, whilst the youngsters simply looked drunk and shamefaced.

'Deal with them' said Dolores, arms folded.

'Huh?' I said, feigning ignorance.

Dolores recounted what she had seen happening, right down to the extraction of a test-tube from an intimate area of Chloe's body. Concerned for our extended absences, Dolores had instructed Ravel to use the camera system. We do, in fact, have several cameras dotted around the place to detect intruders. It was Ravel who alerted Dolores to the activities of Chloe and McCavity in the Art studio. 'But he couldn't find you, Joseph.' said Dolores. 'Funny that'

I shrugged and ran through my story about mistaking a fox's bark for the cries of a hapless maiden. It was clear from her stony expression that she didn't believe me, but what could I do under the circumstances (I had to confess the truth in the end to be given permission to write this blog entry. Conjugal rights have been suspended until further notice)?

Chloe and McCavity took their telling off with reasonably good grace. At one point the young lady complained about 'invasion of privacy', but was brought up short by Dolores pointing out that she had been fornicating in a public exhibition area. The argument went no further. McCavity remained silent throughout, presumably aware that, under the terms of his contract, he was strictly still on duty at the time of the indecent act. 'You will be aware', I said solemnly, 'that misuse of test-tubes is a potentially sackable offence?' McCavity nodded solemnly. I continued in the same tone, less anyone present think that I was joking: 'it falls upon me, as director of this Institute, to check the statutes on this matter. Report to me in the morning.'

With this order ringing in his ears, McCavity was allowed to take his girlfriend back to his flat, where I have no doubt they continued where they left - minus the test tube. Their leaving marked the end of the Christmas party. Ravel and Denise helped clear up the detritus, and I was told to go and do 'something in the office' by Dolores. I used my time in solitary confinement to check the statutes, just in case. After all, I could hardly be seen to make empty threats against a staff member, could I? There was no mention of test-tubes, which, to be honest, I wasn't surprised about. So McCavity got the girl and kept his job.

Lucky sod.

J McC

Christmas Party Pooper (Part III)

2006-12-23T07:29:00.000Z

Here is the third section of my report on the staff Christmas party at the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology. Please do not judge me harshly. I deal only in facts.

Part I is here

Part II is here

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I waited on the periphery of the living area in anticipation that both Chloe and McCavity would re-join the group. Five minutes later they were still absent, and the remaining guests were showing signs of restlessness. Dolores was still doing the washing up in the kitchen. 'Ladies and gents', I eventually announced. 'I'm afraid that we are missing two members of our troupe. The rules of Pictionary clearly state that the teams must remain intact all the way through the game, otherwise the outcome is ruled null and void. If you'll just entertain yourselves for a couple of minutes, I'll go and find them.'

I made this up of course, as I've read the rules of the popular drawing game many times. But as I've already mentioned, I hate to break a game up part-way through. My determination to find the missing team members had caused me to form a white lie, but, as I set of in search of the missing couple, I immediately regretted what I had said. What would happen, for example, if the vet checked the rules himself, and found out that I had been lying? It's not like I have a solid reputation within the village after the events of previous months. All my guests had only shown up at the insistence and persuasion of Dolores, who said she was trying to 'rehabilitate me into village life'. Another unsettling episode, so close to Christmas, was not something I relished.

I first of all turned right out of the living area, in the direction of the bedrooms. For those of you who don't know (which is the vast majority, I suspect), the Institute consists of series of linked pre-fabricated rooms, each of which can be dissasembled and transported at short notice to another location. The living area occupies the central portion of the construction, with the laboratories and offices in modules to one side, and bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen down the other side. Here, for the first time, I reveal the layout of the Institute in sketch format (not to scale).
Please note 1) that not all rooms and partitions are shown, and that 2) the art studio and exhibition centre lies in a separate building. This is where I produce and exhibit the art work that can be previewed on the McCrumble Art Gallery pages

You can use the diagram to help you visualise my search. First, as mentioned, I proceeded towards the bedrooms. There was no-one in either bedroom 1, 2 or 3. The ensuite bathroom was clear, as was the spare room and the second bathroom. Satisfied that the domestic quarters were unoccupied by the missing couple, I then proceeded back along the main axis of the Institute. The guests watched as I moved past the living area and towards the meeting room. I smiled and waved at them, but they didn't respond. Two guests, I noticed, were wearing coats.

I quickened my pace.

The meeting room was empty. The doors to lab 1 were locked and the lights were off, but I knew that McCavity had a key, so I couldn't exclude the possibility that they were inside. A quick sweep of the lab confirmed it was empty, so I proceeded into lab2. Clear. Office - clear. This just left the store cupboard. Pressing my ear to the door, I could hear nothing. But light was spilling out from underneath the door, which meant someone had been inside. For a moment I wondered whether to simply barge in as if I was looking for something and had not an inkling that someone was inside. But there was nothing in the store cupboard that I needed, so I decided to knock instead.

Knock knock.

No reply.

Knock Knock.

Still no reply.

No sound either. All that was left for me to do was open the door. If they were hiding inside, it would be pretty obvious what they were doing, and the embarrassment would be on them. But, when I opened the door and peeked inside, the cupboard was empty. In fact, the only sign that anything had been disturbed recently was a open pack of of test-tubes on the floor (on seeing these I made a mental note to admonish my technician for not replacing them in their designated shelf.)

I was now thoroughly confused. I had been looking out the Institute windows as I moved around, and hadn't seen either Chloe or McCavity anywhere outside. My thorough search of the Institute had drawn a blank. There was only one place left to search - The Art Studio and Exhibition centre.

Rather than risking the staring eyes of my guests in the living area, I took a short cut through the emergency exit next to the store cupboard. It was getting dark by now, so I knew that I wouldn't be seen as I trotted towards the art studio. When I reached the building a minute later, I first noticed that the entrance door was slightly ajar. I then noticed from shadows of the window frames on the grass that there was a weak light source somewhere inside. I pressed my face to the glass, but could see nothing.

Rather than risking a potentially embarrassing entrance through the front door, I walked round the the door to my studio. It was locked, but I always carry my keys so gaining access was no problem. Once inside, I moved quickly to the internal door and opened it just enough that I could see inside the studio.

There was someone there!

It was McCavity!

He was standing in the middle of the exhibition area holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. I couldn't see past him, so I moved out of the office and stood a little further inside the exhibition area. Display boards partly obscured my view, but I could see what appeared to be the form of a woman, reclining on the couch in the centre of the exhibition space. She was making a sound, not unlike the braying of a new-born calf.

My curiostity piqued, I moved further forward. There was just one more display board to navigate. What greeted my eyes as I leant round the edge was something quite unexpected.

Chloe, the tight-jean wearing, hair tossing, sloppy kissing brunette, who thought I was a ghost hunter of some repute, was lying on the couch wearing nothing but a red santa-hat. In her right hand was one of the test-tubes missing from the box in the store room. What she was doing with the test-tube was...well, I'll leave that to your imagination.

McCavity, for his part in this bizarre spectacle, was painting her as she lay, er, panting. His brush flew over the canvas, and I guessed from the wild strokes that he was less interested in the quality of his artwork than the behaviour of his model.

I must have watched them for no more than a few...er, seconds, trying to work out what to do for the best and to avoid any embarassment, when I heard the familiar whirring noise of the security camera. I had the camera installed when the Art Studio was constructed, as it is often left unattended. Any movement within the studio is captured on film and images are transmitted back to some monitors in the....

Oh no. The sudden realisation of what was happening hit me like a sidewinder slamming into a wall of jelly. I staggered backwards as I saw the camera turning in my direction. All I could do was cover my face with my arms and retreat into the studio. I must have stayed there for five minutes, hiding under a desk, before I plucked up enough strength to evacuate myself from the building.

My only hope was that the guests were still in the living area. Any of them leaving whilst I was in the studio would have walked right past the monitor. I had to think fast....

**********TO BE CONTINUED!***********