Ronnie By The Sea

We are not supposed to tell jokes about ethnically-grouped people, people of faith (any faith), persons of other gender or sexual orientation etc etc etc. A comedian asked the audience if there were any Irish in the audience. Hands went up, and he said he wouldn’t tell any Irish jokes.  He asked if there were any Jews in the audience and hands went up again, so no Jewish jokes.  Similarly, no Polish jokes, Catholic jokes, Canadian jokes, blonde jokes, trans-sexual jokes etc, etc, etc, and so on ... Finally, when no further hands were raised, the comedian was able to say, “Two Etruscans walked into a bar ....!” … and so, a blonde joke which, I’m sure you will agree is acceptable: A blonde walks into a big city bank and asks for the loans officer. She says she’s going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000. The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for the loan, so the blonde hands over the keys to a brand new, hot-red Porsche Boxster.

Marjie and I have twice seen “We Will Rock You”, the musical based on the songs of the British rock band Queen, with a book by Ben Elton.  The musical tells the story of a group of Bohemians who struggle to restore the free exchange of thoughts, fashion, and live music in a distant future where everyone dresses, thinks and acts the same.  Musical instruments are forbidden, and rock music is all but unknown. Similar themes are explored in “The Hunger Games”, where the citizens of Panem are ruled by a totalitarian regime in The Capitol. Creativity, at its core, is the productive activity of the human mind that cannot be completely formalised. The piece which follows reminds me how creativity can be subtly stifled, and soon become conformity. Once a little boy went to school. He was quite a little boy, and it was quite a big school, but the little boy found that he could go to his room by walking right in from the door outside. He was happy, and school did not seem

I am attached to words. I especially dote on witticism, conundrums (conundra?) double meanings, aphorisms (aphora?), word play, quips and puns. I heard this story when I was about 13 … Chairs in the Ceiling There once was a King of a tribe in Africa. He lived in a huge, round house made of grass, typical of all the others in the village, except that his was the largest. By day he sat on the stump of a tree, which had been brought into his hut, and covered with animal skins. Everyone else sat on the floor, some on skins, some on the dirt. No one sat on anything which raised them higher than the King. One day, an English explorer chanced upon the village. The explorer was carried aloft by a group of bearers. He sat on a small bentwood chair, which sat upon a light platform which the bearers carried on poles on their shoulders. This enabled the explorer to see across the landscape, above the tall grass. As the group entered the village, there was much consternation. Who was th

How many times in a day do you hold a pen or pencil in your hand? Despite all the technology at our disposal, we still need to write, even if it’s just a jot, or a note, or a quick list or a phone number.  In our home, I guess we have hundreds of pens and pencils.  Some we have bought, like the beautiful set of Derwent coloured pencils with the initials “MnR” inscribed in gold.  Some we have picked up in hotels, or banks, or doctors’ surgeries, or have received, unsolicited, in the mail from fundraisers.  From time to time we will rummage in the various containers – small bins, pots, pen holders, pencil cases – and try out every pen, and chuck out the ones which have dried out, and put aside the pencils for sharpening.  I am handwriting this at Yealand Conyers in England – Mary will type it – with a Columbia Exam clutch pencil.  The leads are a nice soft 2B, and are rectangular, 1.2mm x .6mm.  They are marketed as “exam” pencils, for marking multiple-ch

Big Ben struck the first stroke of eleven o’clock. A cannon boomed somewhere behind Horse Guards Parade. A bugler commenced the mournful Last Post.  Traffic stopped.  A great silence came over Whitehall in London.  Heads bowed.  We joined some thousands of people in an act of remembrance.  The seconds ticked silently by.  The jackhammers just up the road were quiet.  Pedestrians stopped.  People in cafes stood silently in their places.  Two minutes passed.  The cannon boomed again.  The bugler played The Rouse.  Movement started once again ... except where we were, at the London Cenotaph.  A dozen or so wreaths were laid, a couple placed by small children.  Some elderly folk laid flowers on the stones steps.  Some service people placed wreaths, and saluted.  A chap in a wheelchair was wheeled forward to toss his wreath on the stair.  It was straightened by a Sergeant Major from the Marines.  The “remember