Day 60: I Am Guilty Of Plagiarism

I'm afraid I'm terribly busy reading a book about Shackleton, which is so good I can't possibly be disturbed. Luckily, however, my Spies have sent me tidings of a story so good I'm just going run it in its original glory:

"A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.

The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.

They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.

"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.

Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat.

"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".

Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.

"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper."

You can find the original story here, in the unlikely event that you don't believe me. (It's from the BBC, so it must be true.)

I have thoughtfully included the handy map that ran on bbc.co.uk, just in case you want to go and see Mr Tombe and his ladygoat for yourself.

Day 59: I Do Not Understand Fashion

Don't get me wrong. I like a nice frock as much as the next person. I was a model when I was about one, for a blackcurrant drink that was later found to be single-handedly responsible for the fact that all British people over the age of 35 have false teeth. Mary Quant came into a toyshop I worked in when I was 16 and told me not to forget I was pretty, and that I would age well as I had a "strong look". (And yes, her hair really IS like that, and I now look nothing like I did 20 years ago.) I even did some Fat Bird modelling in my younger days, before my face went on holiday to Tunisia and decided to retire there with two twenty-one year old Moroccan boys called Aziz.

As a fat bastard of some years standing, my choice of what to wear has been relatively straightforward, if not a little limited. In the morning, I open my wardrobe, rub my eyes and ask myself a simple question: Shall I wear a wrap dress over trousers: yes, or no? If "yes", I am dressed. If "no", I am sitting on the sofa in grey jersey trousers and a t-shirt with a monkey on.

Nevertheless, I do read a magazine or two, if only to pass time and get myself in training for the day the phone rings and someone asks me to become a cultural commentator, and I'm already dreaming of witty little Vivienne Westwood frocks for my best friend's wedding. Problem is, I have no idea what they're talking about, those magazines. I've got a couple of 'fashion' pals who say things like "pieces", "palette" and "asymmetrical stripe", and I can sort of follow that. But pick up Grazia or Vogue and you will be lost. Unless, that is, you are fashionable.

Now, let's see how fashionable you are with a special Thursday afternoon treat: Non-workingmonkey's Fashion Quiz.

Will an egg shape skirt add interest to your wardrobe?
a. yes
b. no
c. poached

Is a T-shirt an important transitional piece?
a. what?
b. yes, and it's a fun way to buy into the new glossy goth trend
c. I've been a man for twenty years.

How do I energise my winter wardrobe?
a. with a subtle flash or a bold statement
b. with black leather
c. by taking your coat to the dry cleaner and buying some new tights.

Please describe, in no more than 20 words, the difference between the following types of bag:
a. tote
b. clutch
c. bucket.

Please translate ONE of these TWO passages from Fashion to British English:
"The New Smart is everything party girls are not. It is grown-up, pared-down, purposeful, brave and authoritative, and it goes to work - proper work, not pole-dancing."

"The simple but luxurious ideal is a big motivation for the designers of the New Smart. They are aware of the bad rap fashion has for built-in obsolescence - there is an effort to design pieces that have value beyond the flash of a brand name."

What is "a bold quiff"?
a. the ultimate rebellious beauty statement
b. Morrissey's hair
c. a rare bird from Madagascar.

How do I strengthen and tone my body for this season's new* slimline silhouette?
a. eat less and move around more
b. eat cake
c. use Active Isolated Stretching, pioneered by Chris Watts - a technique that combines postural realignment with a series of stretches that boost energy and improve flexibility.

*New?

I've got no idea what the answers are, mind you, but have a pop - it might be fun.

Next Week: "Spot The Pointless Cockmonkey", featuring Anna Wintour's sunglasses, Tony Parsons and the cast of Hollyoaks.

Day 58: I Have A Guest Post

My mother, known to regular readers as Monkeymother, has been travelling of late, and here - as it's funnier than anything I can think of - is an email she sent us this morning, that I will now share with the world. (Well, with the 12 other unemployed people who may stumble across this blog whilst watching This Morning and drinking Harvey's Bristol Cream straight from the bottle.)

The Trip So Far

The Car: Journey to Poitiers via Ruffec not much fun. Convoy of lorries travelling at 40mph between Aigre and Ruffec. A10 in Poitiers ok, but wouldn't want to risk delays in busy periods. Difficult to find parking space, eventually find one a mile away.

The Airport: Having checked website that morning, arrive at airport to discover rules have changed French end and, as have no baggage to check in, have to chuck away all cosmetics, paracetamol, etc ,etc. Computer check-in makes no difference to me. Go through stringent security - French, charming, good-natured, in the face of people who do not understand that toothpaste is in a tube and resembles a gel and that lipsticks are cosmetics and belong in the bin. I have a laugh with two of them and it cheers us all up a bit, although a little hurt that young, good-looking man tells me that Macs are finished and when I cite iPod, he doesn't rate them any better than the competition.

The Departure Lounge: Go through to departure lounge. No aircon, not enough seats, two ineffectual fans, drinks machine out of action for security purposes (understood), but no water dispenser and people dying around me. Flight called. Obviously the plane will go without us if we do not push, trampling children and the disabled in the process. Ryanair personnel decide not to bother with last security checks of passports and boarding cards (as carried out in every airport in the World, I believe), open doors wide and people run for that plane as if they believe is taxiing down the runway without them.

The Plane: Dirty, full, bearable but no tea?! Several screaming children, the majority of whom are old enough to know better, as are their parents (just).

The Arrival: Walk miles and miles, elderly gent walking behind says: "Travelling isn't fun anymore, is it?". Find queues for passport control as long as I have ever seen anywhere in the World - understandable but awful. I am asked where I have come from, why, and for how long. No, I was not tempted to make a facetious reply - for once, but have bonded with nice man, whom I will never see again, in the queue.

The Train: Filthy beyond imagination. The seats, the floor, the walls, the windows (inside and out). Then it stops, for quite a long time.

The Tube: Excellent, arrives immediately, they apologise for the delay. Then we stop in a tunnel, for quite a long time. It is very hot.

Vauxhall Station: No ticket-buying facility, of any sort, available. Wait for train. Cancelled. Next train comes into wrong platform. But it is beautiful, and spotless, and air-conditioned. Perhaps it is like this as it is the Weybridge service - maybe we should consider moving to the burbs after all?

Barnes Bridge: Stagger home.

This journey has taken me 7 horrible hours door-to-door. There will be a train strike on Monday. Maybe I shall stay here for ever.

But I love you all.

Day 57: I Am Not Devastated, But May Be A Bit Pissed Off

It was different in the olden days, you know. In the war, you might have turned to someone in an air-raid shelter and said: "my house has been devastated by a doodlebug", or "I am devastated, for my new husband is in a POW camp in Japan". (And I'd have said, had I been alive in 1944, "fair enough", and offered you a go on my ration book in order to take your mind off things.) In 1666, you would have been well within your rights to stand on the South Bank, observe the smouldering ruins of London and say: "London has been devastated by a fire that, by all accounts, started in Pudding Lane".

Since then, it seems that a great and overwhelming emotional spasticity has swept across the country, rendering people unable to cope with the smallest of setbacks. Interestingly, it is afflicting people of all ages, gender and social class.

I will, as ever, illustrate by example:

1. "I am devastated that I have failed to make it through to X-Factor Boot Camp."

2. ."I am devastated that little Matilda has failed to get a place at the only decent primary school in the locale, regardless of the fact that it is a Catholic school and we are Satanists."

3. "I came second in the egg-and-spoon race at Biffy's sports day. I am devastated."

4. "I was devastated to find, upon arriving at Top Shop, that they had sold out of blue shoes."

5. "I was devastated when Take That split up."

6. "Mrs Colonel Bufty-Tuftington's jam has beaten mine at the local Church Fete, and I am devastated"

7. "I have run out of crack and White Lighting, and am devastated."

I suggest that, much in the way that we should campaign for the replacement of social kissing with a firm hand-shake, we campaign for the blanket ban of "devastation" (unless used to describe real catastrophes, like floods, famine, earthquakes, random wars and terminal illnesses), and replace it instead with the excellent Anglo-Saxon expression, "I am a bit pissed off". You never know. Might cheer people up a bit.

Coming soon: 'Tragic tot", "I am bi-polar", "I have low blood-sugar" and using "infer" when you mean "imply". I'm not going to have a pop about apostrophes, simply because there is nothing funnier than a greengrocer's sign that says 'Banana's, 75p/lb'.

Day 57: I Am Confused By Bridges And An American Chanteuse

See this bridge? This is the London Bridge that a bloke from Arizona called Robert McCulloch bought for $2.4m in 1968. He had it transported over the sea and everything, then rebuilt it. A splendid endeavour, I'm sure you'll agree. Here it is in situ:












Unfortunately for Robert McCulloch, but not for the English tourist industry, he thought he was buying this one:











Now then, pay attention at the back. We're getting there. The bridge in the previous photograph is Tower Bridge. The current London Bridge - i.e., the re-built one - looks not unlike the original London Bridge that Robert McCulloch bought, except it's in London. Here it is in situ:














But look! What is this I see? It's a publicity shot for the popular singer Fergie (of Black Eyed Peas fame), publicising her new single, um, London Bridge. (The video is worth a watch, by the way, as it features Tower Bridge in all its glory and young Fergie miming the administration of oral love on some Guardsmen with unfeasibly large bearskin hats. I like it, as it goes; I have a fondness for songs with content of a sexual nature.)





















And finally, here is a picture of the Empire State Building: