Not my problem, mate!

D’you know what?

I’ve decided my (current) least favourite word is “tree-hugger”.

I don’t know if it’s made the OED yet, although it is enough of common parlance that it probably has.

So why do I dislike it so much?

Well, it has absolutely nothing to do with any pedantry about grammar or syntax on my part. In fact, the word itself is an excellent example of the versatility of the English language, and how a newly coined word, or in this case word combination, can be used in a new, subtle and imaginative manner to describe a concept previously undescribed.

It does, however, have everything to do with its meaning and usage.

I saw an message on the BBC news website the other day, where the poster, replying in opposition to another point of view, used the phrase “vegetarian, sandal-wearing tree-huggers”.

The opinion that was being opposed was clearly preposterous, but the best argument this poster could come up with was “vegetarian, sandal-wearing tree-huggers”.

Now I’m neither a particularly demonstrative nor reactionary person, but I do consider myself a bit of a tree-hugger.

I think there’s nothing wrong with that, but “tree-hugger” is used as a term of derision and ridicule by many people against any number of others on this Earth who themselves have a greater or lesser concern for the welfare and fate of the planet.

As if such concern is somehow A Bad Thing.

Bang-a-ding-dong-hoopa lah-la-diggy-ley.

It’s that time of year again, when 437 countries from in and around Europe will send the epitome of their music talent to represent them in a spectacle of mutual love, friendship, harmony and unity, before a televised audience (doesn’t that mean the audience is on TV?) of 138 billion in the gala pree-sentation that is, The Eurovision Song Contest.

Overdid the intro a bit, do you think?

OK… point taken.

Well… what can I say? I love Eurovision.

I know we in Blighty are not supposed to admit that, but I’ve loved the contest ever since it was on after my bedtime in 1974, and I was only able to hear about Abba’s Waterloo second hand.

Yes, I know most of the songs are complete crud, but where else can you hear this kind of unique talent? The bad songs are bad in so many different ways.

Yes I know there’s block (or should that be Bloc) voting, but then you wouldn’t get that little frisson of excitement when one of the Scandinavian countries votes with it’s heart and not it’s passport, or when one of the Eastern European states gives douze points to (gasp!) Malta instead of Russia.

Yes I know the presenters are cringingly terrible, without exception, and of course the “half-time” entertainment is – Riverdance aside – pretty abysmal.

But that’s what makes Eurovision so great. It might frequently be the nadir of taste, but it is always the zenith of kitsch – and all the better for it, if you ask me!

So… 2006 has already seen its share of controversy, as Serbia & Montenegro has withdrawn amid an alleged tactical voting scandal when choosing this year’s entry.

No Name, the Montenegrin band which represented the nation in 2005, won again, but voting irregularities were suspected, and a restaging of the event could not be agreed. And so Serbia and Montenegro withdrew, and could face a fine of 35,000 Swiss Francs and a three-year ban from the competition.

Enforcing the ban could be interesting should the Montenegrin referendum on the Declaration of Independence from Serbia (scheduled for May 21^st – the day after the final) result in a “Yes” vote.

This is serious stuff, you know!

Croatia take the, now, spare place in the final, and this year another new nation, Armenia, enters for the first time with one of its best-known singers is representing his country.

Oh yes… and that’s another thing. The small matter of nationality – or even European-ness – doesn’t come into the equation when seeking Eurovision glory.

After all, a Canadian (Celine Dion) has represented Switzerland, an Australian (Johnny Logan) has represented Ireland (twice!), another Aussie (Olivia Neutron-Bomb) has represented the good old U of K...

I could go on.

In fact I will, because this year’s Swiss entry is a six-piece singing group only one of whose members is actually Swiss.

The others are German.

And Swedish.

And Maltese.

Oh… and Israeli.

And indeed Bosnia-Hercegovinanan…anan (?)

What of the musical stylee itself?

Well, Daz Sampson is representing the UK with a rap… cleverly backed by the ever-popular “schoolgirl” vocals.

It’s just odd enough that it might win… except that he’s up against Finnish Death Metal and German Country ‘n’ Western and an Icelandic character from television fiction (with male strippers – apparently!). Not to mention the, doubtless, numerous power-ballads (probably France and Malta for starters) the never-out-of-date Europop (probably France and Malta for starters) and a lot of somethings that sound vaguely Turkish from anyone to the south east of Italy… except the Greeks who will try to follow last year’s victory with something vaguely Greek… but a bit Turkish, or Europoppy, or power-ballady.

But I don’t think we’ve actively fallen out with anyone this year, and Daz has been doing the clubs around Europe, promoting himself and his song to the Eurovoting public… so could this be our year?

Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

So what of those Eurovision highs? What is the best song to come out of Eurovision?

You’re all shouting Waterloo again, aren’t you?

Well I beg to differ!

It must be admitted that true quality has been thin on the ground but I have four favourites that I wish to share – three of which give away my traditional-folksy leanings, it must be said, and one of which even I admit is more kitsch than class.

So in reverse order, let’s start kitsch.

Yes the 2004 winner, Wild Dances by Ukraine’s Ruslana. I think I would’ve liked the song even without the leather, but it was easily the best song of the year, and a “deserving” winner.

Next the runner-up in 2003, Sanomi by Belgium’s Urban Trad. Again, decidedly folky, and sung in a made-up language. (Before you groan, especially if you are into Enya or Sigur Rós, the former frequently sings in Loxian, the latter in Hopelandic!)

My runner-up… well I couldn’t not give two-thumbs-up to Waterloo now, could I? It is, after all, a top song by the best band ever to appear in the contest. Yes, I’m also a big Abba fan.

But I do think there has been a better song.

In my humble opinion, the 1995 winner, and representing the country of Norway no less, was the best song ever to come from Eurovisionland. It can only barely have stayed within the rules of the game, and indeed the rules may have been changed since then, to insist on more words, as the “song” was almost instrumental.

I give you Nocturne by Secret Garden.

Treat yourself, find it somewhere on the web and have a listen.

As for this year, well it’s the semi-final tomorrow (18^th) and the Grand Final on Saturday (20^th).

Don’t Miss It!!!

So you think you can’t read Russian?

Try this, my (hardly) tried and (barely) tested Russian Learning Tool.

Here follows twenty words / names / places in Russian. They are all genuine. They will help you learn to read and pronounce the letters of the Russian Alphabet.

OK, it’s a bit unfair to plunge you straight in at the deep end if you have never tried Russian before, so as a buoyancy aid, the first four I will give you... and you will almost certainly have come across them before.

The first is pronounced “DA” and means “YES”, the second is “NYET” and means “NO”, the third is the (reasonably) well known Russian beetroot soup called “BORSHCH” and the fourth is “ROSSIYA” which means “RUSSIA”.

Note carefully the transliterations!

The rest I’ll leave up to you.

They are all easy, so don’t confuse yourself! The letters in brackets are the new ones you are learning for each word.

At the end is a three part task.

ДА (да)
НЕТ (нет)
БОРЩ (борщ)
РОССИЯ (сия)
КОКА КОЛА (кл)
ПЕПСИ КОЛА (п)
ТЕННИС
СТУДЕНТ (у)
ЖУРНАЛИСТ (ж)
ФУТБОЛ (ф)
БЕЙСБОЛ (й)
ХОККЕЙ (х)
ЮГОСЛАВИЯ (югв)
ПРЕЗИДЕНТ БУШ (зш)
ВЛАДИМИР ПУТИН (м)
НЬЮ-ЙОРК (ь)
ВАШИНГТОН
БОРИС ЕЛЬЦИН (ц)
МИХАИЛ ГОРБАЧЁВ (чё)
ЭЛЬФ (э)

That’s 31 of the 33 letters you have learnt (?).

The last two are Ъ and Ы.

You should have figured something out about Ь from the list above. The same thing applies to Ъ. (You will notice they are similar looking – but entirely different – letters.)

The remaining one, Ы, is generally transliterated into English as either “i” or “y”, and is pronounced a bit like the “i” in “bit”, but down in the throat somewhere. It’s not a sound we make in English.

Right… the task.

This is not so easy – but be brave, and use your intuition.

1. What is the trait that is common to Ь and Ъ?
2. What is the English word (not transliteration) for the Russian ШАХМАТЫ?
3. Write your name (or if you prefer your username) in Russian text.

Go on… have a go… you know you want to.

No cheating, by the way!!!

I hate cars!

I have enough pet peeves for a whole series of Room 101, but perennially close to the top of the list are cars!

Maybe it’s genetic, as neither of my parents were drivers.

My father was somewhat disabled, and so as far as I know, never learnt to drive.

My mother, on the other hand, did learn apparently, but on what became her final lesson, she stalled at the Gaumont traffic lights, caused “Doncaster’s longest traffic-jam”, got out and never sat in the driver’s seat again.

So we were a no car family – which even in my youth was fairly unusual.

Consequently, and thanks to a subsidised bus service, we (I) didn’t develop a reliance on the personal motor vehicle that maybe in others evolved “naturally”.

A weekly visit to my family on the other side on town would take two bus-rides each way, for the princely sum total of 36p – for me and me dad.

Then, as I took my first job, I could walk to work “the short way” and there was no benefit in taking the bus, unless it was raining… two buses, 30p.

Marriage was not far in the future, and even though, as a then husband, my new wife had learnt to drive at 17, we lived even closer to my work, and so I never felt the urge to acquire this skill, not least as the thought now terrified me.

I was cajoled and coerced in fairly equal measure – I think wifey was fed up of ferrying me everywhere! – to begin lessons at the age of 24 (ish), and for about a month (or two, or six) I took my weekly lesson, without ever actually showing any particular aptitude.

Then, a stroke of luck, I got an opportunity to change jobs at work, which meant we needed to relocate, but more importantly meant I could quit the lessons, and get back to using the buses.

And for about 18 months or so that was fine.

OK, what I mean is it took another 18 months of cajoling and coercing from my ever-determined missus before I took the plunge again.

I still hated it – I was still terrified! – but over the following year or so, an extremely patient instructor honed me from a gibbering wreck with no idea, to a gibbering wreck who should be able to pass a driving test.

Or maybe not!

My first test was an unmitigated disaster.

Maybe it was pre-test nerves, maybe it was the fact that my examiner was himself being examined, and I had a back-seat passenger in the guise of Flight Lieutenant Brigadier General Sir Torquil Farquhar-Smythe DSO retd. or maybe it was just the fact that I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA KILL SOMEBODY!!!!!!

I didn’t quite knock the cyclist over at the crossroads, but I did stall, blocking all four lanes of traffic and felt the steady drip, drip, drip of perspiration as it began its freefall from the end of my nose.

Oh mother dear, I think I know how you must have felt!

Well I didn’t get out, and I didn’t crash, but I seem to recall the examiner saying something along the lines of “Well better get back to the testing station”. Let’s just say I failed.

Test 2 was not such a complete catastrophe. I managed to keep the perspiration under control, although I evidently didn’t keep the car under control, as I once again… erm… deferred my success.

But test 3 was a different matter. I was much more accomplished, controlled and calm, and I don’t think I frightened any passers by with unpredictable steering.

So SUCCESS!!!

Er… well no actually.

You were allowed 2 minor incidents in those days, and I chalked up three. Something to do with the handbrake (wrong colour, I think), being too hesitant at a T-junction, and pulling out too quickly at a T-junction… er… hang on, we only went through one T-junction didn’t we?

My instructor said something about quotas, and it was the last week of the month. Harrumph, that means more lessons, and I’m still terrified!

So anyway, a fourth test was arranged, which duly fell on July 1^st 1991*.

We-e-e-ell, I didn’t think things went quite as well as in test 3.

I seem to recall a session of kangarooing, and I certainly recall getting stranded mid-crossroads again, this time though due to the fallibilities of another driver.

They’d even changed the test from “reversing round a corner and reverse parking” to “two reversing manoeuvres from any five” which I had basically spent the last six lessons practicing. You know… reversing up a tree, that kind of thing.

Anyway, we got all the way to the end, to the Highway Code bit.

I just KNEW the examiner was going to ask me stopping distances. I knew all the signs back-to-front and inside-out, even the trick ones like “Beware of low-flying cows or sudden cow noise”, but the stopping distances I was just a bit shaky on.

“So, Mr. Birdman, what’s the stopping distance at 70 miles per hour?”

“315 feet.” In those days we still used this arcane measuring system – God knows how we coped! But anyway, it sounded about right.

Then the killer…

“And how far’s that?”

I KNEW it! I just KNEW he’d say that the £*$&*%… calm down now… don’t, whatever you do, say anything too near.

With this gem of personal advice in mind, I pointed to a bright yellow vehicle parked just on the horizon, “There!”

OK, slight exaggeration, but the car was a good half a mile away – and after returning his telescope to its case, the examiner seemed to mark a tick.

Phew!

A couple more road signs… 30mph limit (tick), level crossing without gates (ooh clever knickers, tick), and then chevrons…

“Err…,” I know what chevrons mean, “err…,” but putting it into words, “err… YOUGETTHEMATROUNDABOUTSYOUHAVETOGOLEFT!” I blurted.

“Sharp Deviation to the Left,” says the examiner.

“That’s it!”

“I’m pleased to tell you, Mr. Birdman, you have passed your driving test.”

Worse performance than test 3, I’m sure, but 1^st of July, you see… quota not yet filled!

And that was it… suddenly, at the grand old age of 27, I’m allowed on the road unaccompanied, and suddenly… I LOVE IT!!!!

And that’s the thing.

I LOVE driving… but boy, do I HATE cars!!!

Er… which, if you’re still with me, is why we’re here.

Well, strictly speaking, it’s not the cars themselves I hate, but the incessant draining expense that they impose upon us all.

The financial cost of actually keeping the on the road is bad enough… but then things go wrong!!!

Arrghh! Give me strength!!!

Last year I was driving a P-reg Fiat Brava. Nice little (ish) car, providing you don’t want to listen to MW radio, decent looker, nice colour… all the important things are right.

Well, you see, that’s the point. I know absolutely zippedidoodah about cars. I can put the fuel in (providing it’s not got anything tricksy like a locking petrol cap) and I can point it the right way most of the time. I know where the people and the luggage go. And that’s it.

Unless there is a big sign with an arrow on it pointing to, say, the hydroponic argonator, containing the legend “THIS IS ABOUT TO BREAK, DUMMY!!!”, I’ve got no chance.

And in my experience, car-dealers don’t use as many of those signs as they could.

Anyhew, after 3 years of iffy motoring, things start going wrong with the Fiat on a seemingly weekly basis.

Now I’ve got a pretty decent garage-man, and he could probably keep a piece of string roadworthy, which is a good thing all in all. Not least when I’m travelling along the A18 past Althorpe, and in my rear-view mirror I see my exhaust failing to take the bend I’m currently negotiating.

Ouch… that’s gonna hurt in the wallet. That much I do know.

So get the exhaust replaced, and within a couple of months the engine starts doing really strange things… like not actually going.

Or going… and then stopping.

Now this car has cost me an arm and a leg already this year, and I’m starting to get a bit sniffy with it. Plus it’s now ten years old, and needs “a new engine”.

I’m tearing my hair out (still got plenty to go at!) and grinding my teeth to the gums. I HATE CARS! But I can see nothing else for it.

Then, guess what, instead of replacing the engine on a clapped-out jalopy with an exhaust worth twice the rest of the car, my girlfriend has a plan.

Bless her complete heart, my lovelight performs some sort of financial jiggery-pokery, and with the help of the Alliance and Leicester, she gets me a car for Christmas!!!!!!!!! (I mean really loads of !!!s)

And I’m really happy… I LOVE my little car… it does everything I want it to, it’s actually smaller than the bag of spanners it dethroned, slightly miffed that it hasn’t got a sunroof (which I discover I previously used as a nifty bird-watching accessory at 60mph… now I have to keep my eyes on the road, I guess!), but we ain’t got all the dough in the world, so forgo the sunroof. And besides, it’s a great colour, and a funky little thing to be sure.

I give it the once over. OK, it hasn’t got one of those “DUMMY!” signs but I can check the number of wheels… 4… oh yes, and that one inside, I can just about tell that the front half is not a Ford Fiesta and the back half not a caravan, and I can count the number of keys. “IT’S GOT A CD PLAYER??? LOOK, PETAL A CD PLAYER!!!”

Petal looks resignedly as she pushed my eyes-on-stalks back into their sockets, whilst I throw wads of cash that I don’t have at the car “sales” person, and leave with a big grin. Actually, we do all the necessary just in time for me to pick it up on the 23^rd of December.

Then it snows, and it’s cold, and it barely gets above 30mph for a three weeks.

No problem, gotta get used to the new car.

Winter starts to thaw, the roads get clearer, and I can go at 60… hang on, what’s that rattle?

No worries, it’s just the parcel shelf… you ain’t go a Roller, so it’s gonna rattle a bit.

Right, used to that.

Now, what’s that squeak?

It’s under the gear lever somewhere. What’s under there? I dunno, but it’s squeaking.

Hang on, what’s that creak? Ooh… that doesn’t sound right.

What’s that funny sound when I turn the engine on?

OK… back to the garage.

Turns out the last funny sound is a problem with the starter motor.

The garage needs to order the part, so a fortnight later, it’s changed. £233!!!

“Ahhh!”, says I, “under warranty, so there!”, or something like that.

So I get that for free… except the creaks and squeaks haven’t gone away.

Another visit.

Dry bushes apparently!?!?!?

Fixed just in time to leave my new wheels behind as we take the other vehicle on holiday… where the exhaust goes.

Fortunately, it doesn’t spoil our break, but garage-man reckons it’s the catalytic converter playing up.

Oh God.

If there’s one thing I have learnt about cars, it’s that when they’re being fixed you pay by the syllable!

Garage-man is absolutely stacked up so we book in to get fixed a month hence, using the car as little and as gingerly as possible in the meantime, now relying on my Xmas box.

Anyway, catalytic converter day came round this week… Wednesday just gone.

I had to get a cash advance off my credit card to cover it, and we picked the newly healed steed with trepidation.

Turns out it wasn’t the cat… but a wheel bearing.

Cost us £180 less than expected.

HOORAY!!!! One of life’s little victories!

So next day (Thursday) on my way to work… what’s that rattle????

Oh no… not the exhaust, ple-e-e-e-e-ease!!!!

It sounds like I’m driving around in a 30-year-old tractor!

Ring garage-man… sounds liked a cracked manifold (cracked manifold… four syllables… expensive!!!)

Bless him, he squeezes me in today, and by tea-time he’s fixed it…

Not a cracked manifold. It took him some while to figure it out.

Apparently this fell out… and needed replacing.

Seventy-five Quid.

Oh I HATE cars…!!!

(But I do still love my new little ‘un)

*might’ve got the year wrong… doesn’t quite seem to add up, but what the hey!