World Cup Glory?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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