Food for Thought

Margaret Thatcher once observed that the facts of life usually turn out to be conservative. Perhaps, then, we should not be surprised to learn that charitable impulses do to.

Puts me in mind of one of my favourite jokes:

One day a florist goes to a barber for a haircut. After the cut he asked about his bill and the barber replies: “I’m sorry, I cannot accept money from you; I’m doing community service this week”. The florist is pleased and leaves the shop. Next morning when the barber goes to open there is a thank you card and a dozen roses waiting for him at his door.

Later, a cop comes in for a haircut, and when he goes to pay his bill the barber again replies: “I’m sorry, I cannot accept money from you; I’m doing community service this week.” The cop is happy and leaves the shop. Next morning when the barber goes to open up there is a thank you card and a dozen donuts waiting for him at his door.

Later a Republican comes in for a haircut, and when he goes to pay his bill the barber again replies: “I’m sorry, I cannot accept money from you; I’m doing community service this week.” The Republican is very happy and leaves the shop. Next morning when the barber goes to open, there is a thank you card and a dozen different books such as “How to Improve Your Business” and “Becoming More Successful.”

Then a Democrat comes in for a haircut, and when he goes to pay his bill the barber again replies: “I’m sorry, I cannot accept money from you; I’m doing community service this week.” The Democrat is very happy and leaves the shop.

The next morning when the barber goes to open up, there are a dozen Democrats lined up waiting for a free haircut.

It’s practically libellous, of course. Who ever heard of a Democrat offering to pay their bill?


Charity in action, yesterday. Obviously not as caring as taxing everyone else and then hiring a huge well-paid staff to hand out the few remaining crumbs. I mean, where’re the votes in that?

Ivan’s Site of the Week

This week’s winner is the gentle humour of the P G Wodehouse quote generator. A must for all eggs, beans, and crumpets.

All human life is there:

My Boss:

The words, delivered at a distance of two feet in the man's immediate rear, were spoken in the sharp, resonant voice of one who Gets Things Done - which, in its essentials, is rather like the note of a seal barking for fish.

Myself:

He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consomme, and the dinner-gong due any moment.
Carry On, Jeeves (1925) `Clustering round Young Bingo'

My kids:

`I remember years ago, Bertie,' said Aunt Dahlia, `when you nearly swallowed your rubber comforter and started turning purple. And I, ass that I was, took it out and saved your life. Let me tell you, it will go very hard with you if you ever swallow a rubber comforter again when only I am by to aid.’
Right Ho, Jeeves (1934)

And of course, my hobbies:

Boko Bagshott we called him. Took a girl to supper once at the Gardenia. Supper scarcely concluded when an angry old gentleman plunges into the room and starts shaking his fist in Boko's face. Boko rises with chivalrous gesture. ``Have no fear, sir. I am a man of honour. I will marry your daughter.'' ``Daughter?'' says the old gentleman, foaming a little at the mouth. ``Damn it, that's my wife.'' Took all Boko's tact to pass it off, I believe.

Those were happier times…

What’s your favourite Wodehouse quote?


Bertie Wooster, yesterday. A role model for us all. Fortunately we still have David Cameron.

Flag Day

I’ve been reading Amartya Sen’s latest on how people define themselves. He makes some excellent points on the surprising degree to which individuals choose their identity, up to and including their religion and even ethnicity.

This is something I’ve had quite a bit of experience with myself, both through my own early flirtations with Irishness, and through having had the word gypsy flung at me more than once as a kid. I’ve also seen it in Americans. Blacks construct painful fantasy-lands of apartheid culture like Kwanzaa, while many whites will grasp at any straw to deny their Caucasoid status. I’ve lost count of the number of 1/64th Cherokees and Utes I’ve had to humour as they drone on about their native heritage and customs. To my mind, you’re not an Indian if you don’t have a casino, but I accept that these entirely fictional ethnic fig leaves give many an oppressed white an excuse to whine right back at chippy minorities at parties, not to mention to tick one of the “unsackable” ethnicity boxes on the HR forms at work.

Even I was blindsided, however, by a practical demonstration of this phenomenon with my boys, as a side-effect of our recent trip to Yorktown in Virginia.

Both were born in France, to an Anglo-Irish-Hungarian union. The elder (who is 6) thinks of himself as an American and gets very upset at any suggestion to the contrary. I always assumed the younger (who is 4) would follow suit, if and when he came to think about such things at all. But while we were watching the mini-documentary in the Yorktown visitors’ centre he abruptly decided that he wanted the British to win, and went into a massive sulk when Lord Cornwallis was marched out in humiliation. As far as I can tell, the root cause of this was that the British were wearing red, which is his favourite colour.

Argument was raging before we even left the museum, ending abruptly in the parking lot when the younger laid the elder out with a right hook. A pattern that has been faithfully repeated on every subsequent engagement.

Any hope that this was a flash in the pan were dashed when we reached the souvenir shop, where the boys almost literally nailed their colours to the mast…



Just as well the little monster wasn’t around in the 1780s, or America might still be British today. And then I’d have to move again…

There’s a good review of the book here if you’re interested. Meanwhile, a very happy Fourth of July to you all!

Gold envelope time at the Bookies™

Never ones to concede the limelight to Hollywood’s Academy Awards, the readers of The Bookseller magazine have been indulging themselves with their annual vote for “oddest book title of the year”.

This year’s #1 is “People Who Don't Know They're Dead: How They Attach Themselves to Unsuspecting Bystanders and What to Do About It” – surely a deserving winner, even if it is also a strong contender for “Premise most transparently ripped off from a movie”. It is after all quite possible that the unworldly souls who spend their lives breathing the dry dust of the nation’s bookshelves have never even heard of M Night Shyamalan.

In victory this tome joins such timeless classics as “How to Bombproof Your Horse” and “How to Avoid Huge Ships” - a pair that neatly summates all we need to know about the common sense and intelligence of their target audiences.

Michael Karber, president of its American publisher, Red Wheel, said yesterday: "With the notoriety that comes with this award we're now considering making this book part of a series.

"Future titles under consideration include “People Who Don't Know They're Stupid”, “People Who Don't Know They're Fat” and “People Who Don't Know They Don't Know How to Read”.

Unfortunately, “People who Don’t Know that they’re Shameless Embarrassments to the Publishing Profession” does not appear to be under consideration.

What’s your choice for oddest book title?


“How to Avoid Huge Ships”, yesterday. “Lacks criteria for discerning between huge ships and merely really big ships… Some well-designed lists, charts or colorful pop-up sections would have been nice for readers who were unsure what size of ship they were avoiding” says Terry of Wisconsin. You can’t please some people…