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My investigation into the most closely-kept secrets in the world of ballet began with a statement from Dr Glycol. We were taking a coffee at a location I have agreed not to reveal.
The good Doctor was looking even more morose than usual. Our casual discussion about mutual ailments was petering out, with a marginal edge for Dr Gycol for his badly sprained wrist. Sustained, he explained, as he was conducting one of his cooking experiments on the optimum stirring time for emulsifying gravy powder.
I offered my sympathy, adding that he should visit Physio Lindsey, who was a particular whiz at sporting injuries. 
Every physical activity risks sprains to vulnerable body parts, he retorted. Reaching for a bottle on a high shelf … stretching out to buckle up your safety belt.
Physio Lindsey deals with sporting and non-sporting injuries, I said. She’s even treating someone from her daughter’s ballet-class,
I was surprised at Glycol’s reaction to my remark.
Ballet! He spat the word out with venom. Ballet, no more than disgusting exhibitions of of of. His voice had changed into a stutter.
He was so upset I allowed him to change the subject to the emulsifying properties of hydrocolloids and starches in making mayonnaise... 

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I report on a near-fatal incident on the notorious Urmston Roundabout recently.

My journey began outside the East Cheshire Chess Club headquarters on Church Road, Cheadle Hulme. Our team was led by Captain Steve (Also known as Steve the Gardener, to distinguish him from all the other Steves  in the club). The weather conditions were bad, with icy roads and subzero temperatures. 
We were pitted against the might of Urmston at the Sports club off Moorside Road.
Steve had selected his Lumberwagon to deal with the icy conditions. It had been chosen in preference to his wife’s car, on the grounds that it warmed up more quickly, and gave us added protection from smaller vehicles we might encounter. 
This arrangement meant that his two passengers clambered up into the front of the van with the driver. 

Note these arrangements as you visualise the scene of the drama that was about to unfold ...

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Jacinda Ardern, Prime Minister of New Zealand announces her retirement, giving her party time to select a new leader for the upcoming election.

In 2020, Leaders We Deserve nominated her as Leader of the Month.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacinda_Ardern

In 2019, she was shortlisted for Times Person of the year and was spoken of as a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize for her leadership in the aftermath of the Christchurch shootings.

As her citation states, she gained widespread approval for her leadership following the massacre in a Christchurch mosque. Her empathy was matched with her firm actions.

Since then she took control of a draconic approach to Covid which made New Zealand on of the most successful countries in combatting the pandemic. 

This post reports her subsequent efforts and the vituperation she receives from demonstrations to death threats.

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It was with some concern I received a message recently from Tennis William, an indispensable member of our social tennis group, and incidentally the person who came up with the name Tudorama.

William, for all his undoubted creative skills, including his undercut forehand shot, can at times get carried away with a new idea. This seems to be happening at present.

I quote his message as received:

I have been asked by my GP to take part in an 18 month project conducted by five universities Including Manchester. The aim to to see if assisted and monitored exercise can improve the mobility and general health of the over 65s. 

But his message suggests he may already have reduced  his selection chances severely ...

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I received my replacement machine today. I thought the deliverers would set it up for me.
They did.
I thought they would demonstrate the controls. They did. It’s easy they said. It isn’t.
With some assertiveness, I asked them to ‘get it working’ They said they could.
I watched as the machine sprung into life.  Purring like a well maintained Rolls Royce. 
This is the test run, they explained. It’s going to take a bit over an hour. Then the machine is set for a load.
I got it. But you can’t wait an hour for that I suppose.
They agreed amicably.
I’m hoping it will indeed be able to signal it is ready in an hour. Meanwhile, I open the instruction manual …

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What to do after a pothole accident

Welcome to our programme Pothole Peril being streamed around the world. In the Studio, we have Mrs Amanda Trigg from Little Chalfont who is a typical pothole sufferer, MP Felicity Blythe, her MP, and special guest Albert Pestle, also known as Mr Pothole, of the Flatten the Potholes campaign.

I’m going to ask Amanda to kick us off. Amanda, you are recovering from your Pothole injuries. What exactly happened to you.

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Millions of fans of the Monty Python gang will recognise the film Life of Brian, which reminded me of the antics of Andrew Tate, currently under police custody in Romania, for charges related the child trafficking. 

In the Film, the eponymous Brian is mistaken for the Messiah. As his fame and number of followers grew, his exasperated mother declaimed the famous words which became a piece of cultural folklore: ‘He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy’.

I was reminded of Brian when I learned about the recent interview of Andrew Tate by Piers Morgan, an English TV performer, and now available on U-tube.
In the interview, Piers Morgan introduces Tate as an international celebrity who, like himself was a very good chess player, with whom he would go Mano a Mano in the show.
Andrew, we learn the slight advantage of being the son of an American chess grandmaster, but as Piers himself had been school champion he had no doubt he would be match for his ultra competitive guest.  
The game was the finale of their show, a five minute match, a time popular among chess players at all levels, for which there are closely followed championships starring the game’s greatest grandmasters,
As I watched, it became quickly clear it was not so much blitz-chess as it is called, as a trash-talking game reminding me of a bigger boy annihilating a smaller boy.
It brought back other memories memories of noisy games in the class room, and the cries of hustlers I’ve seen in New York’s parks. 
The game was so one-sided it permitted the humiliation of Morgan who lost piece after piece. In five minutes any strong player would not need to wipe out the entire fighting force of his opponent but win more quickly and comfortably.  Unless, however, you get your kicks from humiliating people. I understand Tate has a philosophy in which this affirms the existence of the superman, a kind of pound-shop Nietzsche meets Jordon Peterson on Speed. 
Perhaps it’s all showbiz, folks. A set-up to convey a message.

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In which the Pelicans arrive at Urmston’s ground to find themselves locked out and drenched, as part of Clogger’s dirty tricks.


Billy Bobble stands outside the locked door of the Outlaw’s changing room, getting wetter than a duck in a thunderstorm. Beside him, Martin is inside his Pelican outfit which gives him a little more protection. 
Billy is doing his mental rehearsal for the tough fight he knows he will soon be facing. He remembers the last match when they fought bravely but lost three players from reckless tackles by the outlaws, and another left the field, ran out of the ground and never returned to the club.
But his mental rehearsal was interrupted by then memory a particularly violent scene from the Game of Thrones which he had watched recently, and which was still giving him nightmares.
In it, Daenerys had to deal with her old foes, the Slave masters of Slaver’s Bay. She needed the powerful help of dragons before she was able to overcome her enemies. ‘Trouble is’ Billy thought ‘we haven’t got any dragons, only Martin dressed up as a Pelican’
He dragged his thoughts back to what he knew he had to do. Watch carefully to see what particular form of violence was being meted out to the Pelicans by Clogger and his thugs. Then find some way to counter it... 

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Dr Glycol’s Chemical Cooking. Boneless Lamb Leg Joint

I learn from Dr Glycol about his latest chemical cooking experiment.
‘I’ve been cornered’ he said, ‘I agreed to try out an upmarket product. Marks and Spencer actually’.
It seemed our mutual friend Cordon Bleu Judy had decided Glycol would change his ways, if only he would try food cooked with what he called unnecessary ingredients, and what  the rest of the world consider to be flavourings and cooking enhancers.
‘What happened?’ I asked him.
‘I first established essential absences in the product. I am particularly averse to garlic, onions, and most sauces. At least Judy knows  that. The product was acceptable in that respect. Of course, there were additional chemicals you always find in processed food'.
He opened his iPad to show me the notes of what he called his experiment. He kindly supplied me the page from his cookbook-cum-laboratory-notebook ...

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According to an Instagram post authenticated with an image, a Swedish delivery driver left a large parcel of fresh fruit and veg jammed into a pram occupied by a sleeping baby. I had found yet another example of everyday creativity through which the routine is elevated into a memorable event.

The mother rang the company to complain and the driver, apparently stricken with remorse, turned up with flowers and sweets to apologise, and a modest cheque from the company.
Other examples of unexpected deliveries make news briefly from time to time. There’s the parcel cunningly concealed in a bush. And on bin day, left in a refuse collection bin.
One was reported as having materialised in the purchaser’s living room, presumably via an open window, rather than through one of Santa’s secret helpers.
Another was wedged behind a car’s windscreen wipers.
A less successful drop sailed over a fence, landing in a swimming pool.

Fake news?

I’m not saying these and other stories all happened. This is the possibility of urban myths springing up to enliven social gatherings.
But my guess is the hundred or more drop-offs required every day forces the driver (no assistant, for this type of work) to discover out-of-the-ordinary responses.
Excellent examples of everyday creativity, don’t you think.

[Acknowledgement: I am grateful to two anonymous journalists for the examples I borrowed here, from the Guardian column Pass Notes No 4,501, Delivery Disasters, 5 January 2023. 
TR]

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