... a leather waistcoat.

There is nothing worse than a leather waistcoat.

Waistcoat belongs to a group of words like ankle sock, headscarf, ear muffler and eye glass that are strangely appealing - in a vocab sense. However, there can be nothing appealing about a man wearing a leather waistcoat.  British Prime Ministers that came before Harold Wilson often wore a waistcoat, normally under a tweedy kind of jacket, but these usually were also tweedy and matched the jacket. Unless I am mistaken, waiters at the Angus Steak House in London wore a natty tartan design waistcoat some years ago, but definitely not in leather. Imagine my surprise when I saw a man waiting on Union metro platform, on quite a warm day, wearing a black leather waistcoat and no jacket. Why? With those little pockets it's okay for the train ticket, but where did he keep his wallet and mobile phone? What possible benefit could be gained from wearing it? I tried not to let it worry me too much whilst waiting to board the next Green Line train. When the train came in I stood politely to one side to let the passengers off, when suddenly I was pushed aside by the very man in question, who then sat on the only free seat in the carriage. I could have got somewhat annoyed, but then what can you expect from a man wearing a black leather waistcoat.

...having a BBQ on the beach

My wife and I live in a very pleasant location within Sharjah. Sharjah is not the destination of choice for many people, even those that live here, but it does have some nicer areas, one of them being where we rent our apartment. We live on Khalid Lagoon, with Al Khan lagoon on the other side, and, compared to the rest of Sharjah, not so much traffic and human kind. In fact, there is a lot of sand and a large grassy area. However, this relative peace and quiet means that people with only one discernible aim in mind, to burn fresh meat to a cinder, come to the beaches in big numbers in the evening and the weekend. Obviously there are many signs on the beach saying that barbecuing is prohibited, but this is one of those local regulations that is never enforced. We like to walk there, but it is impossible to do so without a full face gas mask and night vision goggles due to the waves of impenetrable choking blue-black smoke and the acrid smell that clings to the atmosphere. I am amazed that barbecuers can even sit amongst it, let alone eat. When we do venture in that direction we are inevitably driven back into our apartment, which thankfully is 35 floors up. The smoke doesn't reach that height, yet.

... making the wrong choice when using singular or plural

Whether or not to make a noun singular or plural is definitely problematic in the English language.  In my previous post, in deference to the Four Tops and for the sake of historical accuracy, the plural of shadow has been used. However, love, as an idea, cannot be counted, so how is it possible for love to have more than one shadow? Similarly, with death. Some people think that we spend our life walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Note that this is only one shadow and we don't know if it is big or small.  Are the roads ahead difficult, or is the road ahead difficult? I am thinking again about love, which can, and frequently does, cast a shadow over everyday existence. One shadow might be bearable, but when it casts many shadows then you are indeed in a very dark place.

... standing in the shadows of love

You will be preparing yourself for the heartaches to come. They might come today or tomorrow. You will want to run away but you know the heartaches will follow you. You need love because without love it is the beginning of the end. You have no reasons for living. All the love you have given has been thrown away. You were there when you were needed, you treated the other person well, but now you find yourself rejected and alone. You are, in fact, destined to be all alone for the rest of your life, with misery your only company. What caused all of this? You really don't know why you have been treated in this way. You are trying not to cry out loud because crying isn't going to help any more. The one thing you are sure about is that from today, or perhaps tomorrow, you've got nothing but loneliness and misery for the rest of your life.

.. a fading memory

There's nothing worse than a fading memory.

I kept hearing a snippet of music on the radio in an advert. I knew I had listened to the complete track in my youth many times. I just couldn't remember where the snippet came from.  Google is great, but one thing it doesn't do is allow you to submit a few notes of music and find the track that it came from, I don't think. Suddenly, as if I had been through one of those back-to-your-childhood hypnotherapy sessions, I remembered it. Well actually I remembered Jeff Love, the band leader. It wasn't him, but then Google somehow got me to Jeff Wayne, via Jeff Beck and then Jeff Lynne. The issue now for me is to decide whether this is a an old memory rediscovered and soon to be discarded or a new memory just put into my brain cells.  If it is old, which is possible, then I need to record it somewhere so that it doesn't become a cob-webbed relic in some unused area of my brain.  The complete track is The Eve of the War, from War of the Worlds, by Jeff Wayne, including the wonderful narration by Richard Burton.

Jeff Wayne - The Eve of the War .mp3 Found at bee mp3 search engine

It seems, in the past few months, that War of the Worlds has become a media and entertainment industry talking point again, perhaps due to the anticipated catastrophe in December that didn't happen.  Living in Sharjah, these things often pass by unnoticed, which might have benefits - there's no danger of remembering and forgetting it. 

Technology note:  The link to War of the Worlds by Jeff Wayne doesn't work on Ipad or Iphone.  I thought I could fix it, but it has to use a flash player, so no go.

... being in the wrong idiom.

The other day I was more than a little disoriented. I could have been in the soup or perhaps I was in hot water. My wife suggested that I might be up the creek without a paddle, whereas my friend was sure I was in a spot of bother, although I didn't agree with him. When I checked on Bing maps it suggested I was up ship (polite p=t) street. I was pretty sure that I wasn't riding a horse with no name or had my head in the clouds. I don't think, either, that I was on my last legs and was definitely nowhere near the last knockings and was not out for the count. Perhaps I was just under the weather. Was I close to something - perhaps the edge, the bone, the wire or even the call? No definitely not. I was in something. If this feeling comes back I might find myself jumping ship and heading towards the murky depths.

..finding a thrupenny bit in your Christmas pudding

There's nothing worse than finding a thrupenny bit in your Christmas pudding.

Pronunciation note. Thr- oo - penny. Say the u like the oo in book or look.

Some people might say there's nothing worse than Christmas pudding, other that there's nothing worse than the complete Christmas dinner. Finding a thrupenny bit in your mouth in the middle of eating that great British delicacy on Christmas day, having already consumed enough calories for the next five days, can never be regarded as a good thing. So this is what has happened. Mum has put a thrupenny bit in the pudding during the mixing stage and cooked the pudding with it inside. Where did she get it from? It hasn't been legal tender in the UK since 1971. Did she have a collection of old coins she had kept from childhood? Probably. Did she properly sterilise the thrupenny bit before putting it in the pudding mix? Probably not. After being the chosen one who found the coin, it must, of course, be given back to Mum for use again next year. The thrupenny bit in question, I'm sure, had an interesting tale to tell, up to that point in time. All the pockets and purses it had been in doesn't bear thinking about. The places where it had changed hands are even more intriguing. Perhaps the young soon-to-be Queen Elizabeth used it to buy a bag of boiled sweets from her local corner shop. Maybe Bobby Moore used it to buy three penny-worth of chips after coming out of Upton Park on a cold Saturday evening having just played a blinder against Liverpool. However, this year, it ended up being swilled around in someone's mouth, and next year - same thing. Tradition is a wonderful thing.

.....not having in-carriage announcements

Today I was in a bit of a dream, standing, as always, in the Dubai Metro Green Line train on the way from Union Station (Al Etihad) to Stadium Station (Al Stad). In fact, if I had imagined myself to be in a seat I would have been in an actual dream. Where was I? What day was it? Was it winter or spring? I didn't know, but it didn't matter because there would be a more than helpful in-carriage announcement bringing me back to reality.    I spent the first 30 years of my life travelling the London Underground when they only had announcements on the platform. Now, I think that there is nothing worse than not having the friendly Metro announcer telling me in Arabic and English when it's my time to get off.

..red underpants

There's nothing worse than red underpants.

When I was a child in East London, no boy, as far as I could determine, wore underpants bought from a shop. There was always a woman – maybe a relative, mother's friend or someone from mother's job - who came round to your house at about 7 o'clock midweek with two large carrier bags containing underpants, vests and socks. The origin of the underwear was never discussed, although it was understood that there were many different ways that clothing could walk out of a warehouse or jump out of the back of a truck. It was assumed that they were never seconds – although the elastic in some pairs did tend to get a little limp after a few months in the wash. Accordingly, prices were always considered to be better than in a shop, as in the title song for the British TV series "Only Fools and Horses" - no income tax, no VAT, no money back, no guarantee. Colour, for underpants and vests, was never an issue – it was always white. The material looked as if it was cotton. This experience determined my concept of the underpant. Later in life, I discovered that you could buy a mixed pack of underpants for a reasonable price, made out of something synthetic. Typically, you would get two white, two blue and two red, but never six white. You had moved out from home, and never saw the underwear woman again, so you bought the coloured collection. Wearing the red, however, was always a very reluctant choice – you wore them because you had no other colour available. While you are out on the street in red you always have to worry about having an accident or falling ill. After all, there's nothing worse than being taken to hospital in an ambulance wearing red underpants.  

..being caught in a traffic jam in Sharjah

There's nothing worse than being caught in a traffic jam in Sharjah.   People, in Sharjah, are in their cars. There's no metro or effective bus service. They need to go somewhere. They can't – they are caught in a solid wall of slow-moving or stationary traffic. No car dare leave more than a 10 cm gap between itself and the car in front. Three lanes go to four then back to three. Is there a possibility of turning into a side street and taking another route? Yes, but then the traffic on that route will also be at a stand still. Will a bit of multiple lane-swapping help? Many are not good at it, so don't do it, but some, particularly the smart dark blue BMW's and white Mercedes are – but then they only manage to move up a few places. Perhaps now is the time to listen to the news broadcast on the radio. Okay, you've done that, now what? Listen to a CD, but then you've heard it 50 times before. Make a phone call – illegal, but all the Landcruisers do it, now what? Contemplate life, but don't go into a dream and take your eyes off the fender of the car in front or you will certainly bump into him. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? If you are heading towards Dubai, yes, because there the traffic moves along at an acceptable pace.

..speaking in cockney rhyming slang.

There's nothing worse than speaking in cockney rhyming slang.

So, I was in a bit of two and eight this morning as I couldn't get into work. The trouble and strife had already left for the smoke in her jam jar and mine was under the weather.  I had fallen down the apples and pears last night and hurt my Harper Lee a little, so I wasn't happy about taking Shank's pony to the station to get the train.  I decided to get on the dog and bone to the John Moss.  When I told him I was really Jack and Jill I had the feeling that he knew I was telling a pork pie, well I couldn't tell him I didn't have a set of wheels. Anyway, with nothing better to do, I decided to have a Jimmy Riddle and go back to Uncle Ned.

.. being caught on the street in the monsoon in Mumbai

There's nothing worse than being caught on the street in the monsoon in Mumbai.  Some cities, like London and Hong Kong, function as normal in heavy rain, but not Mumbai. When the rains (monsoon) come in India it is, of course, a good thing. The temperature drops. The air freshens up. Farmers are happy. The reservoirs get filled. The PM's office makes an eagerly awaited statement about the state of the monsoon. At Bandstand in Bandra young people have fun in the rain. Families splash about and take pictures of themselves on Worli seafront.  So why should it be so awful being caught out in the heavy rains in Mumbai? Instant mini-floods and maxi-floods are more than inconvenient, every taxi and auto being full puts you into a feeling of despair, buses staying in the depot is disconcerting, flooded railway tracks don't bode well for the immediate future, getting into a train or bus packed with wet people is to be avoided, being infected with the dengue virus is as bad as it sounds, dead rats floating by can spoil your day, falling into a hidden hole in the road will have consequences. Anyway, in Mumbai, more than anywhere else in the world, life goes on, so why does anything need to change.

.. missing the last bus home.

There's nothing worse than missing the last bus home.  As you are approaching the bus stop you see it disappearing off into the night sky. Frantic waving is useless, the driver has no inclination to stop and wait for you, even if she/he is sure you aren't a terrorist, drunk or a troublemaker. You know it is the last bus, and curse yourself for ordering the tiramisu instead of taking a piece of Black Forest gateau from the dessert tray. Your first act is to stand at the bus stop and look as if you are expecting another bus to come, as a way of denying the truth. This waiting period is usually about fifteen minutes, and passes surprisingly quickly. There is no need to do or think of anything constructive during this period of time. Then comes a period of contemplation about your place in the world. If you were John Paul Getty (junior) or Oprah Winfrey you would not be in this predicament. Why you, what have you done to deserve this? Is this conclusive proof that you are, in fact, the worthless, dysfunctional individual that everyone thinks you are?  

..listening to another Middle East conspiracy theory

There's nothing worse than listening to another Middle East conspiracy theory.

Personally, I like to think that in the Middle East everything, politically, is what it seems, I have no reason to be cynical, but some outside commentators are. 

The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990 was encouraged by the US government to.... well, something to do with oil and control of the Middle East. The US invasion of Iraq was something to do with WMI, and oil and gas supply from the Middle East. Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood won the election due to a US government plot to put an authoritarian leader in place, because of ….... something to do with oil and/or control of the Middle East. The continuing tragedy of Syria was engineered by US oil baron-funded right-wing groups as a way of destroying the power of Iran, Hezbollah and Hamas, because of..... something to do with Israel, oil and control of the Middle East. Better men and women than me subscribe to these views. I do not.

..being late for an interview.

There's nothing worse than being late for an interview.

Yesterday I was travelling in the Dubai Metro from Union Station to GGICO (pronounced jajeeko) Station. The metro is punctual, modern, quiet, clean and civilised, however it's very difficult to get a seat. So I was standing holding the central support rail along with two other people and couldn't help but overhear the conversation between these smart young things.

- Did you get the job?

- No, I was late for the interview - they only asked me a few questions then told me they would notify me by email.

It was my inclination, at this point, to interject with the observation that there's nothing worse than being late for an interview. I didn't, I think they wouldn't have liked me joining in - they didn't seem the type. What if this bright young man had all the attributes required for this job and he didn't get it because of time-keeping? That would be a tragedy. How late was he? Ten minutes, an hour? Did he phone in to say he would be late? Was there a good reason why he was late? Unfortunately, my questions remained unanswered - the doors opened for GGICO and I left the train.

..eyebrows that meet in the middle.

There's nothing worse than eyebrows that meet in the middle. In my youth, in East London, it was a well-known fact that adolescent boys that had eyebrows that met in the middle would grow up to be criminals. Mothers would tell you "stay away from the boy in the corner house - his eyebrows meet." As a thirteen year-old, any sign of the eyebrows being joined by adolescent hair had to be dealt with using dad's razor, and then it became a twice weekly lifelong job keeping it away. I suppose tweezers would have been better, but that was a bit of a girls thing - boys don't really have the skill set to use a pair of tweezers.  If you need proof of the eyebrows theory for men, just look at old Bill Sykes. Obviously, and this doesn't really need saying, girls with joined eyebrows will never get married.

..wet socks

There's nothing worse than wet socks.  You are in town when suddenly you step into a deep puddle. The water splashes up your leg and funnels down into your socks. What can you do? Taking off your shoes and socks and wringing out your socks in the middle of the pavement is simply not possible. Even if you could hide in an alleyway and do it, you would not be able to dry then sufficiently. If you are out with company, saying that you have to go home to change your socks is on the plus side of pathetic. If you are out alone, the time wasted going home and returning doesn't seem to equate with putting up with wet socks.  However, be warned, my grandmother was quite definitive on the health dangers of wearing wet socks - chillblains, athlete's foot, bunions, corns, hard skin, in-growing toenails - at least one would afflict you for the foreseeable future. 

..burnt potatoes.

This is the first entry in my blog devoted to the ironical use of "There's nothing worse than....." Of course, you can only use it when there are at least one million things in the world that are actually worse. Comments and suggestions are mandatory.  There's nothing worse than people who read a blog and don't make a comment.

There's nothing worse than burnt potatoes.  Burnt potatoes happen when you are boiling them and the water in the saucepan evaporates away. Is it because you have boiled them for too long or was it that you did not put enough water in at the start? However, once the potatoes are burnt the time for reflection has passed.  Now is the time to try and elimate the awful smell, then, if possible, to salvage the saucepan. The smell, okay that is possible, but making the saucepan usable - is usually not. Various housekeeping gurus have suggested using a range of home solutions, including vinegar, lemon, salt and bicarbonate of soda, but in my experience it is waste of time. If you were lucky, you were using an old saucepan that you kept meaning to throw away, but that's not normally the case. So that favorite pan that cooked the most amazing pasta sauce only the week before has to make the long journey down the garbage chute (no - we don't recycle in Sharjah).