» School Projects

Hand axe
I was 11, at the very beginning of the very first term of 'big school' in Mr Creichton's history class. We were warned that he was a cantankerous old cunt and for our very first homework project we were told to make a neolithic hand axe. WTF I thought, how am I going to do that? My mind was so welling up with fear of not being able to complete this task and the inevitable punishment that would ensue that my whole weekend was drowned in complete worry until my dad saw me looking down in the dumps during Sunday lunch.

I poured forth a sorry tale of woe and worry and I confess there may have been some watering of the eyes, but my Dad just told me to cheer up, got the car keys and off we went to the local gravel pits. After about an hour of searching we found a fearsome looking lump of flint that was just the right size. We then found a small branch and hacked it off a tree. With our raw materials in hand we returned home and I was instructed to cross the street to see George the cobbler. Mr Smith was an undiagnosed tourrettes in denial who promptly bombarded me with a stream of vitreol but nonetheless gave me a load of 1/4 inch strips of leather and refused any efforts to pay for said leather.

With the leather soaking in water I set about cutting the branch to the right length. I then split the newly-fashioned axe handle carefully and inserted the flint in to the y-shape. After wrapping the soaked leather around the flint and handle and burring the cut end and charring it over a naked flame for authenticity the axe was ready to dry.

The next morning I ventured in to the garage to see my finished project. It was incredible. the leather had shrunk so tight that the flint was held securely within the axe handle. I imagined roaming the neolithic plains, dispatching anyone and anything foolish to mess with me and my hand axe.

I had to wait until first period after lunch until double history with creichton. I looked around the class and was elated to see that my axe pissed all over the competition. A few had no axe at all and were promptly awarded with black marks. The rest of the class ranged from a sorry looking pebble to a piece of sawn timber with an apologetic stone sellotaped on. Creichton just prowled the classroom picking up the pitiful offerings and disdainfully throwing them back down to the desk. Scores of 3, 5 and 4 were spat out towards the pupils.

My axe was next and I remember it was the only time I ever saw him smile. He was obviously impressed and held the axe for the rest of the class to see and proclaimed it to be very nearly almost authentic, detailing the use of the almost correct materials and methods. My mind was rushing with the spinal-tapesque score I would be awarded, when the smile evaporated, the axe thrown on to the desk and 'seven' uttered from the old bastard's grey old lips.

Seven? Ignoring the fact that it was the best score in the class I could not get round the injustice of it all. What in the name of god would you have to do to get an 8 or a 9? He then picked up my exercise book and drew a red star in the bottom corner. I had done it. I got my first merit mark (first of very few, it would transpire), and was the only one out of the class to receive one. This happily tempered my disappointment at being awarded a stingy seven.

My Dad was (and is) not one for sentimental nice shit and we didn't spend huge amounts of time together when I was young as he doesn't like sports or running around, but this was one of the few times that we did something together and it was great. He didn't do any of the work for me, but gave me some directions, including letting me use his saws and a blowtorch. Thanks dad.

Length? It was 14 inches long, with a head 5 inches wide.
(Tue 18th Aug 2009, 13:51, More)

» Tightwads

This is a good one
I once worked on a 12 month placement at a large agrochemicals plant in Huddersfield. I loved Yorkshire, it was so much more friendly than 'darn sarf' where I hail from, but they had a capacity for tightness up there which would put the Scots to shame. This one is the pick of the lot:

A couple of blokes from two adjoining labs wanted to go to the Top Gear show one year. Thing is, neither of them knew the other one was going. So it was someone's bright idea to bring them both together. They decided they would share a car with bloke A driving and bloke B offering to 'help with petrol'.

Both had a good day at, to my mind the most arse-clenchingly tedious day out ever, and were travelling home when B asked A how much money he thought was reasonable for the journey. 'I'll have a think about it and let you know tomorrow' was the reply.

The next day B comes in to our bay in the lab brandishing an 'invoice' from A whereupon he had broken down all the costs associated with the journey.

It was all there, starting and finishing mileage and estimate of cost of fuel -halved of course. Then half of 1/366th of car tax, insurance, MOT, estimated wear and tear and of course half of 1/366th of AA membership. Some wag said 'give him some credit, at least he accounted for the leap year'.

I shit you not...
(Fri 24th Oct 2008, 13:19, More)

» I don't understand the attraction

harry potter
Sister bought me the first book for christmas (I was ~28). Hauled myself through most of it and gave up. With two pages left. Dreadful.

On the flip side I applaud JKR for singlehandedly igniting serious interest in reading for a generation of children, but that is what her books are: child literature. America has Dan Brown (his books are shit an' all), we have JKR.
(Thu 15th Oct 2009, 15:19, More)

» Call Centres

Pronto!
Went Inter-railing with the girlfiend in the early nineties. (To the unaware you basically bought a ticket which allowed you unlimited use of Europe's railways for a month.) Great holiday with many a story, but the one relevant to this QOTW is my encounter with the National Italian Phone Service.

The missus wanted to phone home just to let them know we weren't dead or anything, but she was too scared of using the phone, so it fell on me to try to get through. Before you read on, you need to know that the gf's parents live near Bedford. The phone call went something like this:

it: pronto
me: do you speak english?
it: yes
me: I need to make a call to England please
it: ok, which town?
me: Bedford
it: Bed--ford?
me: yes bedford please
it: bed--ffford? (Lots of Italian chat in background)
me: yes bedford please
it: no bedford
me: what do you mean no bedford, its there,
it: no bedford
me: (irate) what do you mean no bedford? I need to call someone please put me through.
**click**

Its hot in Italy in July. This was a particularly hot day during the hot season and I had just had the misfortune of having to use an Italian public toilet, I was bloody hungry from lack of food and I still had my rucksack and half the gf's stuff still on my back, I was not really in the mood for mindgames. Nonetheless I was persuaded to call again:

it: pronto (it's the same guy, what are the chances?)
me: do you speak english?
it: yes
me: I need to make a call to England please
it: ok, which town?
me: Bedford
it: no bedford
me: what do you mean no bedford, please, I need to make an urgent call.
it: no bedford
**click**

By this time I was looking for ways to end it all. Surely this was some elaborate wind up or something? I was persuaded to try one last time:

it: pronto (AGAIN it's the same guy, so I grit my teeth and ask again)
me: do you speak english?
it: No.
**click**

A heated debate with the gf ensued and we walked the final two miles up a steep hill to our campsite (in Bologna I think) in near silence.

On returning to blighty a few weeks later we met up with the gf's parents and my mum and dad turned up as well. On recounting this story my Dad started laughing hysterically. After a few moments he promptly informed us that in Italy (I don't know if they have changed the system since) you had to give the number of the phonebox you were calling from so the operator could call you back and then proceed with your call.
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 13:32, More)

» Hypocrisy

coppers
Inspired by spankyhanky to remember one of my (few) run-ins with the police.

We used to play football every evening on the playing field of our old primary school. When I was 18, my parents bought me a car. This was ridiculous as I didn't need a car, but dammit my sister (7 years older than I) got one when she was 18, so the grabbing-get in me wanted a piece of that action.

So I drive to the field, it would probably have taken me less time to run there than drive there, the shame of it. The school had recently changed the entrance from a road at the front of the school to a road at the back. At the same time, the old entrance was given a low kerb to signify that it probably shouldn't be driven over, but had a dipped portion such that if someone really wanted to drive up to the front gates and park their car on a piece of grass that did not block anyone's throughfare or endanger anyone, they could.

So that was what I did, had a couple of hours of footy and returned to find a copper giving me a ticket, accompanied by a gang of young children. 'There he is' they all shout and I was presented with my ticket. A heated debate with said copper ensued where I suggested I wasn't endangering anybody or inconveniencing anybody. Copper wasn't having it though and as far as he was concerned that was the end of it.

Where is the hypocrisy, you all ask...

His fucking panda car was parked next to my car.

Additional: not hypocrital but deliciously ironic: The police station in my home town of St Ives (pronounced snives) is on PIG LANE.
(Mon 23rd Feb 2009, 13:01, More)