What Sort of Toilet Roll Hanger are You?

After last week’s serious rant about English Newspaper reporting, I thought that the readers of Grumpy’s blog, having recovered from last week’s headache, needed something a bit lighter. So here we go.

K-Tipps is a Swiss consumer magazine, something like “Which”, except that it is in German. Recently, they did a four page survey on various brands of toilet rolls. As you might expect, the criteria were determined and prioritised; data immaculately collected and the results laid out. You have all the information that you need. “You pays your money and takes your choice.”

The blog on this worthy topic took its form as Andy Bowen Ashwin and I were walking across the North Downs in October. We were discussing the meaning of life, how good the carrot cake was that we had just devoured and the optimal way to hang a toilet roll. We felt that there were important questions to be answered. I am sure that you would all agree with me when I say that the Leveson Inquiry will just have to wait.

For example, when you get your (optimally purchased) toilet roll home, what do you do with it? Are you a “Drop down the front” person or “Push it down the back” person? Does your toilet roll hang limply above the toilet floor or lie snugly against the wall?

So what sort of Toilet Roll hanger are you? Do you have a favoured way? What determines this? Are these patterns learned and set in early childhood or are they caused genetically? Do you consider the effects on the other “clients” of this facility? Should it be a topic on the national curriculum?

Of course, you might not be consistent in this. Perhaps you change the way you hang your toilet roll depending on the weather, or just on how you are feeling on that day. The day of the week might be a factor. It might be different if you were standing up, when doing a changeover, as opposed to be being in a “seated position”.

Does your partner do this the same way? Is it a point of discussion or heated debate within the household? If you were to appear (heaven help us) on one of those “U.S. Family shows” (apologies to my U.S. subscribers, but you know what I mean), in answer to the question “What habits of your partner really annoy you?” would you answer “He / she always hangs the toilet roll the wrong way”. Well after all, domestic murders have been known to happen for less.

Personally, I am a “Hang it down the Front” person. I don’t think that it will do to go into reasons.

While we are on the subject of toilet roll hanging, does anyone know why cleaning staff in hotels and restaurants in Europe (I am not sure about England) are trained to make the end of the toilet roll into a very nice “V”. Actually it is an upside down “V”, but I can’t do that on my computer. It seems such a shame to spoil it. (To those kind people who put us up on our endless English and Scottish travels – please note the standard expected)

I am on a roll now (no pun intended). Motorway stations have those big enclosed holders. I suppose it is to discourage the toilet paper thieves, who have now moved on to stealing any bits of metal that they can find nailed down. (The stuff not nailed down, has already be pinched.) Anyway, the point is that on most occasions, I can never find the end.  There is no industry standard regarding the direction from which the continuous roll should emerge (There needs to be an EU Directive). You end up rolling it round and round and eventually, if you are lucky, your fingers alight on a loose corner, which you then have to gently tease into the outside world. No wonder the thieves moved on to scrap metal.

A Final tip from Andy.  The Mercure Hotel in Beijung has raised the perforation issue for toilet paper to new heights. The game is to take a piece, pull it and see how many strips come out without tearing – The Record here is claimed to be six. The Lesson is to take your own scissors with you.

Happy Christmas from Grumpy to my supporters. I am signing off now until the New Year. However, I promise that next time, Grumpy will write about something a bit less lavatorial.

Feeding Christians to the Lions

I was on one of my many trips to the U.K. recently, as you possibly already know. When I am there, I make a point of buying two or three newspapers each day, to get the latest stories and the different slants that are used.

One aspect that always comes through is the confrontational nature of English News Reporting. I have already commented on the use of the words “controversy” and “crisis”, as ways that newspapers and TV try to spice up a story, without having to put in any content.

The nature of the reporting of the “poppies on football shirts” certainly lived up to the standard. This was all the more important as it involved “Foreigners” and even worse “FIFA”, against whom England now regard themselves as having a permanent casus bellus (“cause of war”).

The “Poppy War” ended when it was agreed that poppies could be worn on the players’ sleeves. According to at least one commentator, FIFA were forced to “capitulate”. Great cheers from the crowds and general self-congratulations and crowing over a defeated enemy.

I know that I have been in Switzerland for too long. There is a 35 point questionnaire that tests for “Swissness” and my kids say that I would have passed this even before I came here. And in my Swissness, I would have described the “Poppies on the Sleeves” as a sensible compromise.

The problem for the newspapers, of course, is that “FIFA and England Football association shake hands on a sensible compromise” does not make for a good headline, or satisfy the English readers need to feel that they are initially victims and ultimately victors over a continental conspiracy.

---------------------------------------------------

On another of “The Topics of the Day”, the “Eurozone” crisis, Angela Merkel is not always popular and was recently criticised for her “intransigence” (on the point of not allowing the European Central Bank to be the lender of last resort).  

Intransigence. What a great word. You are certainly being told what to think on this issue. She is WRONG. Not just wrong, the woman is a fanatic. She is stubborn beyond belief. How dare she stall the general consensus that has been carefully and painstakingly developed? and don’t even think that there could be another opinion.

The trick for the reader, if he wishes to remain sane, is not to believe all this journalistic gumpf. Let’s try out different words for one moment, which describe the same event, but have a different effect.

Perhaps Angela Merkel was “holding a firm line”, “sticking by her convictions”, “Resolute” (Yes – I like resolute” – I like to think of myself as resolute) “resisting the drift down to the lowest common denominator.”

Never let it be said that the English press doesn’t have an opinion on the issues of the day. But these opinions don’t have to be yours.

-------------------------------------------------------

Lastly for this week’s blog, I was watching parts of the statements being made at the Leveson Inquiry this week (Press hacking and other practices). I could not help feeling that we were hearing of an ancient ritual practiced throughout the ages. The public loves its ounce of sleaze, the photos secretly taken, the latest gossip about some film star or the relevation of some public figure acting in a way that is politically incorrect, the ritual humiliation of some public figure, all in the interest of “Press Freedom” and “Public Interest”. Of course, this is nothing to do with truth or news, but the bringing down of someone who has “got above themselves”.

Such stuff is not new. Hangings were the traditional public events that the ordinary folk were allowed to enjoy, brought to its pinnacle in the French Revolution, where crowds gathered to watch Madame Guillotine wreak her vengeance.

Let me take you back further, to 2,000 years ago. We learn with (fake) horror of the Roman Games. We can picture the cruelty, the carnage, and the Emperor deciding who would live and who would die, while the lions prowl around the half eaten bodies, usually of Christians. All this happens, while the crowd roars for more.

The News of the World and its peers have done little more than supply a 21^st century Roman Games. Denied public hangings and denied the spectacle of seeing Christians being torn apart by the Lions, the English public have to be satisfied with half-truths and lies about the lives of people whom they will never meet, but who have fame and most likely more money than they do.

If such stories cannot be found easily then they must be created or invented. Go out and find it. After all, it was the job of the Roman Army to bring back the defeated armies, some of whom would find new careers as Lion food. And if you can’t get a job as soldier in the Roman Army, become a journalist with the News of the World. Oh dear – that option, at least, is no longer available.

By the way, you will notice that I have once again avoided taking any sides on the issues / crises / controversies described. Just an innocent observer, that’s me.

4000 Swiss Francs Fine for Playing Truant

Here is an English translation of an article from the beginning of this October in the “Tages Anzeiger”, a reputable Swiss Newspapers, translated by yours truly.

I thought that you might be interested to see how the Swiss do things and the matter-of-fact way in which Swiss Newspapers report these matters, without comment. Make up your own headlines from an English Newspaper.

------------------------------

A mother from the winegrowing town of Waltalingen has to pay expensively for the premature start to her holiday. The woman wanted to take her daughter out of school one day early, in order to fly to Egypt on holiday. As she had already used up her “Joker Days” [days allowed off per year during term time], the school leaders and administrators did not approve the additional days off. However, the mother departed with her daughter anyway. She said to the “Schaffhauser News” that she had thought that a possible fine would be cheaper than the postponement of the flights.

 Now she has received a letter from the district attorney. She and her husband, from whom she is separated, must each pay a fine of Chf 1,500, as well as Chf 500 each by way of administrative costs. [Total of about just under £3,000]

The district attorney wants to use this to clamp down on the bad habit that parents have of switching to cheaper pre-holiday flights with their children. “The fine should be high enough to cancel out the financial advantage”, said the Adelfingen Governor, Peter Weih to the newspaper. Urs Meier, representative of the School Body, is surprised about the amount, but said that this is in the jurisdiction of the Governor. The upper limit is Chf 5,000, but for that, a great deal must happen or a particularly serious offence committed. The parents have lodged an appeal.  The mother says that if the fine is upheld, she will pay, rather than go to prison.

---------------------------------------

Now make up the story as the English Newspapers might have reported it.

I am Returning Your Call

Do you check your missed calls, either on your mobile phone or landline? It is always interesting and perhaps important to see who was calling. What do you do if you do not recognise the number?  Are you compelled to call the number back in order to find out? Does it nag away at the back of your mind?

It might be important. Perhaps a member of the family with a new number, or even a headhunter with a job for you. Yes – you have to do the redial and find out.

What about the person on the receiving end of such a redial? Plenty of room for mischief here.

You – “Dial back the number”

They – “Hello”

You – “I am returning your call”

They – “Who’s that?”

You – “Who’s that?”

They – “I asked “Who’s that?””

You – “Did you call me earlier?”

They – “I don’t know – who are you?”

You – “You called me. You must know”

They – “I call lots of people”

You – “So did you call this number?”

They – “I don’t know. It depends who you are.”

You – “I’m the person you called earlier, but I wasn’t in”

They – “Do you have a name?”

You – “This is George Bloggs” (Grumpy - Now we are getting somewhere)

They – “I don’t know a George Bloggs”

You – “Well, you called this number”

They – “It might have been a wrong number?”

You – “Was it a wrong number?”

They – “It depends on who was using the phone”

You – “How many people use this phone?”
They – “Is that important?”  

You – “Well. Please don’t waste my time or money again”

They – “You called me. You didn’t have to.”

You – “It might have been important”

They – “Why did you think this if you didn’t recognise the number? Do you often receive important calls from people you do not know?”

You – “But what would happen if the call was important”

They – “In that case, I would have called you back.”

You – “Anyway, who are you?”

BACK TO THE BEGINNING

Etc.

…

Please feel free to add to this immature dialogue. I am sure that it can be improved.

The aim here for the “They” is to keep the call going as long as possible, while being patronising and annoying.

I do enjoy answering these calls. And “No”, I do not call back unrecognised numbers, except to landlines via Skype, which are free for us and can fill an idle moments without cost.

It‘a Crisis - but for how long?

I see that the Euro Crisis is still continuing. Steps are being taken to resolve this, as they have been for the past umpteen months.

How long can a crisis last? I always imagined (i.e. “in my day, a crisis……) that a crisis was a point in time; a point when a decision was made; a point in time, when history might go one way or might go another way.

The Free online dictionary tells me that a crisis is:

- A crucial or decisive point or situation; a turning point or.

- An unstable condition, as in political, social, or economic affairs, involving an impending abrupt or decisive change

Perhaps then, contrary to my initial prejudice, this really is a crisis. It is certainly unstable, although whether there is to be an abrupt or decisive change is another question. In this case, I guess that it is a crisis, because it is expected that there will be an abrupt or decisive change.

But what happens if “Euro Crisis” eventually ends, not abruptly or decisively, but slides steadily and gradually into chaos, bankruptcy of various countries, a gradual drift into recession, and / or the continuous drip feed of German (and French) money to pay for the running expenses of its neighbours (with something left over for me, I hope).  Does this mean that someone will admit that it was all a big mistake and that there wasn’t a crisis after all?

José Barroso might announce “Sorry folks – it wasn’t a crisis at all. It was just a continuous unsolvable problem. There was no abrupt or decisive ending. We have just slipped remorsely into bankruptcy / civil war / been taken over by Saudia Arabia /oblivion” (please delete as required), while trying to look statesmanlike and in control.

Another way of putting the question is how many summits does it take before a crisis becomes something…well …more boring and routine?  I mean to say, that apart from David Cameron’s recent appearance on the “Euro Crisis” platform, not a lot has changed in the headlines on “Euro Crisis”. Actually, I think that the newspapers are now just recycling old headlines.

I have decided to take different tacks on this question, by asking what it would take to end the crisis, whether it is necessary to end a crisis or whether a crisis can carry on indefinitely (Perhaps these two questions are actually the same).

After all, the modern meaning (as used by the newspapers and newscasts) of a “Crisis” is really just an unsatisfactory or undesired state of affairs. This is what most people refer to as a problem. “Greece is Bankrupt” / “The problems of the NHS in England are unsolvable / inflation is increasing / unemployment is rising / education system is failing”. These are actually just statements of fact. In themselves, they are not crises.

The consequences are unpleasant, and if one had previously believed something different, then the recognition of the truth is something of a jolt. In political terms, this leads to hyperactivity (e.g. summits), in an attempt to deny the inevitable.

For this sorry state of affairs, we (voters) only have ourselves to blame. After all, what politician was ever re-elected on the banner “It is hopeless. The best thing is to do nothing and see what happens”. Besides which it makes for pretty boring news, and the English don’t like their news to be boring, but stirring for the emotions.

What if they are not “Crises”? The moment of crisis was over, probably when no one was watching, when we were all tucked up in bed, fast asleep, believing that all was well with the world. At the point at which we recognise that there is a problem, the crisis is long past. The point for decision is miles behind us, and all political leaders can do is to thrash around, while looking statesmanlike, and spend billions of whatever currency we choose, of other people’s money, to help us look statesmanlike.

Therefore I propose a new category in the Guinness Book of Records. “The Record Length for an Unresolved Crisis”.

Why do Cows all Point the Same Way?

Those of you who have braved the Swiss hills and mountains cannot have failed to notice that there are hundreds, if not thousands, of cows in the meadows. You will also have noticed that they are there in the summer, but in the winter they disappear. Magic.

If you have been hiking and have not noticed the cows, or thought that they were pigs or big cats or hamsters, then get down to SpecSavers.

Those of you who are truly observant and do not need to get down to SpecSavers will have noticed that when they are grazing, they frequently all point in the same direction.

hen they lie down, the position is somewhat random, although they do tend to sit along the horizontal, rather than up or down the slope. This is so they can play rolly polly.

However, when they are standing up, there is definitely a pattern.

Of course, there are exceptions and my conclusions have not been subject to strict observational techniques, and are almost certainly the victim of selective memory, but this way makes for far a more interesting blog. “Cows Stand at Random” is not so catching.

What do you make of these cows all pointing in the same direction? Here is a nice picture that proves the point. I know that they are not exactly cows (and what they were doing in the mountain meadow, we are not quite sure. Perhaps the farmer needed to go to SpecSavers.)

The fact that they are being bribed by some tasty grass has nothing to do with their pointing in the same direction.


Here is a better picture. It has the advantage of having cows as the subject matter, and there is no obvious bribery or “Direction Fixing” (as in “Match Fixing).

The most obvious explanation, other than the whole thing being a lot of nonsense, is the direction of the wind. If this is the case, they must have sensitive wind detectors (perhaps that is what their ears do), as most times I cannot feel any wind, but I am not a cow, am I. (No comments please)

If this is the case, do cows face downwind or upwind or cross wind? More data needed here.

Alternatively, they might just be a lot of sheep and do the same as the cow in front, just to be the same, to be one of the crowd, one of the herd. No one wants to stand out, do they. “Look at her, all snooty, pointing at 54 degrees different from the rest of us”.

I wanted to include a picture of a lot of sheep here, just in case, you were getting confused as to which animal is which. Sheep get a bad press, being said to behave like a lot of sheep, when in fact they often behave like a lot of cows. Unfortunately and amazingly, my picture collection contains no such pictures. A clear case of cow prejudice.

Another theory is that they are guided by the position of the earth’s magnetic field. It could be something to do with the metal bells that the farmers put on them, to help them sense the movement in the core. They will warn us when the earth’s magnetic field is going to change, and we are about to be destroyed by cosmic rays. At this point, the cows become the masters of the planet and the sheep and the lamas will do the milking.

My theory is that they have a secret leader, to keep order and discipline. “Here are the Directions of the day. Pass it on”. Here is a picture showing the leader passing on the instruction.

Being Chased by an Advert.

I was sitting on my balcony in the mountains, generally minding my own business and reading a news article on the internet www.tagesanzeiger.ch. If you are interested, the article was about the German Government’s change of mind on a tax agreement with the Swiss, when suddenly, this advert started to move about. I was trying not to pay the advert any particular attention, but it kept catching the corner of my eye.

It’s distracting enough for me to have to translate a tricky German subjunctive, and trying to work out such basics as “Have they agreed it?” or “Haven’t they agreed it?”  This can be difficult in a foreign language, which only goes to show you (as my Ali said at the age of 5) that there should only be English.

Anyway, I digress as usual. I was trying to concentrate on the article. No worries, I was scrolling down the page, so was soon out of sight of the advert. No. Wrong. It came after me, sliding down the right hand side of the screen, like the honey oozing off a spoon, not too fast, but with an inevitability that was only too depressing.

The fight was on. It was an IKEA advert and was chasing me down the page. It started its sequence with the unveiling of a curtain. I tried to escape, going up and down with the scroll bar, only to see a bouncing ball announcing 20% off all Kommodes (chest of drawers; what did you think it meant?) up until 15 October (Can’t wait for the 15 October).

Is there no escape from the Advert? It was  no good. I had to abandon the quest for the truth about the German – Swiss Tax Agreement; Will they agree? Won’t they agree?

I feel oppressed, my civil liberties infringed, my personal movements being tracked, the secrets of my mind being extracted by unknown forces..

This is all too reminiscent of the sinister TV series, “The Prisoner”, where our hero was trapped by giant balloons. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Prisoner in case you are unfamiliar with this classic 1960’s cult sci fi TV series.

I’ll have to buy a newspaper tomorrow morning to “Read All About It”. Perhaps that is the strategy. Let’s make the online offering so irritating and unreadable that people will just have to buy the subscription.

Well, I am one step ahead of them here. I have just taken out an annual subscription, so that I can agonise over not knowing whether the Germans and Swiss did or did not reach a tax agreement, at 05.00 am in the morning, and without the distraction of a bouncing Kommode advert, and the sliding curtain.

Mark you, if the Harry Potter films are any predictor of the future (and you never know), we could have moving adverts and pictures on our newspapers. Now that would be something to drive us all completely mad.

-------------------------------
With apologies to REM’s, “Bad Day”, with the opening line “A public service announcement followed me home the other day” and who have just announced their break up after 31 years.

No Contact At All to be Made

Have you ever thought how much energy we use in having useless conversations with people we don’t know? Bus conductors, library assistants, the postman or the post office staff, waiters or waitresses, the paper boy. The list is endless*. Saying “Hello”, “Goodbye”, “How are you?”, “Nice weather we’re having”, “Have a nice day” are all so pointless.

All this tittle tattle is so inefficient and energy wasting. Let’s just get on with it (whatever it is we are doing) and save our energy for something more useful. Better still, let’s have not contact at all and be able to carry on some other task at the same time.

But it is so difficult. How many of us say to ourselves “I really am going to say nothing to this person, but use my energy to write my next blog / compose a symphony / try to remember the teams in the Premier League / prepare my next Powerpoint presentation”. And what happens?  Every time we fail. We say something. Up until now, to the best of my knowledge, no one has succeeded. The Guinness Book of Records includes no such event.

I have been on the look-out for this event for some time and until now the “Real Thing” has evaded me. But now, at last, I have seen it.

A mid 20s lady (we shall call her “Our Lady in Red”) has become living proof that it is possible to check-out one’s shopping, while avoiding all eye contact and verbal communication of any kind.

The place, as you may have already guessed, is a local Thalwil supermarket. I will now set out the commentary, as recorded live, by Grumpy, your daring blogger.

“So, we are here. The tension is mounting. Will she manage it?

The omens are good. She is already deeply engaged in an absorbing telephone conversation. There are no clues as to the nature of the phone call or the other participant, as Our Lady in Red is now “Going round the first bend”. She has managed to unload her shopping on to the conveyor belt, and has not looked up. Well done. This is a promising start.

The shopping is now moving down and is being scanned in. The check-out assistant is trying to spoil everything by saying “Gruezi” (Hi, or hello, in the local lingo), but our magnificent Lady in Red is cruising down the Back Straight, on the way to her target. She looks in the other direction and continues remorselessly with her telephone conversation.

The Shopping is nearly through. The tension is rising. Packing is tricky, with the phone tucked underneath her right ear and with her head down. Careful with the eggs.

And now she is on the home straight. Will she do it? Out with the wallet. Yes – it’s a bank debit card. How is she going to put in her PIN code, without looking up at the assistant? Will she do it?

YES – she has done it. Mobile phone conversation is going strong. Whatever you do, don’t say “Goodbye” or “Thank you” or “Have a nice day”, as you walk away. Debit card away. Shopping bag picked up and YES, she has done it. She is this Year’s winner of Grumpy’s “Let’s not have any Contact with strange people” award.”

Do readers know of any other competitions going on in the “Rude” category?

* “The List is Endless” - Actually the list is not endless. It is definitely finite. The literary device of saying “The List is Endless” is a method that writers use to brush away the fact that they cannot think of any more, but there must be some, and you, the reader, must fill in the gaps.

These footnotes are a further device used by Grumpy to get to his target number of words, while appearing to have something useful to say.

The Spiders are Taking us over

How many spiders, do you suppose, does it take to make a colony? I don’t know either, but I am guessing that the Hawkers are getting very close.

I am slowly but surely becoming obsessive about spiders. I am not afraid of them. Rather the opposite, as I study them remorselessly, every evening on our balcony, talk about them, and sometimes even talk to them.

It is important to realise that our balcony is nearly a complete eco-system. Mosquitoes come up from Zurich Lake, are eaten by the spiders and the spiders, if they are unlucky are eaten by the sparrow or sparrows. I assume that there must be more than one sparrow, but they all look the same to me.

The discovery of the importance of the Balcony Spiders was made by chance. We moved in here in November 2006 and allowed them to live as they pleased. After 18 months, we decided to have a clean-up. The whole mess of old webs, half eaten flies, and general debris caused by our multi-legged friends was too great for a tidy Thalwil apartment.

So out came the broom and swept way the spiders. And, guess what. Within two days, we were bitten to pieces by the mosquitoes, the first species in this now spiderless Ecosystem. We were distraught. How could we have done this to the spiders? What sort of mistake have we made? Was it the end of Balcony life as we knew it?

But it does not take long for these hardy arachnids to make a comeback. They are feted, welcomed and talked to. However, they are not yet named. Ali (my oldest daughter) asked if they had names. We have not yet got round to that.

Matters have moved on. Two nights ago, we found seven spiders, complete with webs, in the corner of the lounge. The balmy and warm August nights have allowed us to eat on the balcony, with a light shining by the door. The rest you might be able to work out. Mosquitos come into the lounge; spiders follow, take up residence and have a feast.

Some humane cleaning in the lounge was required yesterday morning. Those of you who are squeamish about such things will be pleased to know that the offending spiders were evicted with the use of a small glass and a “Happy Birthday” card, sent to me, some time ago, by Ed (my youngest). (“Help, Help, there is a spider in the bath. Get it out. BUT DON’T KILL IT” – Heard that one before?)

This morning, two more spiders were located, as having breached the border into the lounge, and were likewise humanely ejected, using aforesaid Happy Birthday card.

Here is a picture of the “Humane Spider Catcher”. 

The Sparrow has not been back, which proves either that they are getting too much food elsewhere or they are pretty stupid. At the last count, there were 59 spiders on our balcony. Talk about Fast Food.

Weather Forecasters Strike Again

Weather forecasters really have gone too far this time. I think that they do it deliberately. They wait until Ali (our oldest daughter) comes over to see us, fresh from her triumphant ten month tour of Nepal and India and then, unleash a torrent of meteorological nonsense.

I know – it’s my own fault. I have done this before, but the forecast was so consistently clear and we really wanted to do it.  “Let’s do that two day hike over the Glaspass and the Tomülpass, especially now that Ali’s here.”  

“30% chance of light rain” from the various weather forecasts was all the excuse that we needed to book the hotel at Safien Platz, and book the bus, train and another bus to our starting point on day 1.  Booking buses and trains online in Switzerland, means non-refundable – yes – you don’t get your money back, even if there is an earthquake.

Saturday morning started its “30% chance of light rain” at 7 o’clock with a 100% thunderstorm, directly overhead and 7 degrees on the balcony. This state of affairs continued for 5 hours and when our apartment eventually emerged from the clouds, the mountains revealed snow down to 1,400 metres. For those of you that don’t do metres and snowlines, take it from me, this is pretty low.

Needless to say, the non-refundable tickets were not used.

We are not easily disheartened. New plans were forged. A long awaited blog was written and published, in between claps of thunder. Learned articles from some of my friends from New College were read and various other overdue and useful tasks performed, as the August Mountains received the snow. (Where was the fresh snow in February and March, when we needed it?)

At 3.00 pm, we set out (now in the sunshine) to Safien Platz (our intended overnight stop) via two buses (what else).

Now Grumpy’s blogs are not famous for their happy endings. Actually, they are not famous at all. So I am sorry to disappoint you, when I say that our evening in Safien Platz and next day’s hike over the Tömül Pass had an ending that Danielle Steel would be proud of.

You too can enjoy some of the sights on this web link to a show of some of the photographs, as our intrepid explorer boldly went where tens of thousands have been before.

https://picasaweb.google.com/103404285149801869665/TomulPass28August2011

When you get to the site, click on the top left hand corner for a slide show – where it says “Slide Show” in fact.

There was some internal discussion on the favourite photograph. Most votes go to the two mad cyclists at the top, and the cow coming out of the bushes.

Of course, some statistics are necessary.

Height of the Tömül Pass – 2,400 metres

Vertical Climb to the Tömül Pass from our Starting Points – 750 metres
Time taken – 6 hours
Time predicted by yours truly – 6 hours

Time predicted per the signs – 5 hours

Number of coffee pauses – None (can you believe it!!)

Number of cyclists met on the way – 4

Number of stiff legs the next day - 6

Educate the Rest of the World

Nigel Rogers, my friend from Edinburgh, and I have spent many happy hours discussing the state of the world, the meaning of life, and whether Battersea Power Station should be a listed building or the first officially designated and preserved eyesore. But our favourite topic is of course, what it means to be English. He is therefore partially responsible for this week’s piece of nonsense.

However, he is not solely responsible. The second villain in this week’s ridiculous episode is Andreas Hejj, a colleague of mine from Credit Suisse, who took us on a 12 hour tour of Budapest on foot.

As we walked around Budapest with Andreas for 12 hours, there was plenty of time to ponder various subjects, although I don’t think that Battersea Power station came up. It is never possible to reconstruct the route by which the subject arose, or who initiated it. However, at some point, the conversation moved to the old and ancient forms of English measurement. It might have arisen as a result of a question, such as “How many miles do you think we have walked?” Miles? Kilometres?

From here, it was only a short step in the attempt to educate Andreas in the superior methods of Imperial Measurement. The general thesis is that metric is too banal, and that constant ratios of 10:1 make us intellectually sloppy (similar to using a calculator, instead of knowing your “Times Table”).

It is clear that the lack of intellectual challenge in the use of metric system is partly, if not completely, responsible for the recent financial crisis. I recognise that I may not have many supporters for this statement.

It is at this point that Nigel Rogers, with whom I have spent many a happy hour discussing the question of national identity and “It wasn’t like that in my day”, springs to mind. I am not sure whether the question of the importance the old English Imperial measurement system ever came up, but if it didn’t, it certainly should have done.

Let us return to the theme of the further education of Andreas Hejj. Andreas failed to appreciate the superiority of pounds, shillings and pence. It is perfectly logical to the English mind that 12 pence make one shilling and 20 shillings make one pound? (Question for those of you falling asleep: How many pennies in a pound?). A Mars bar (in my day) cost 6d, “d” being the way you denoted pence. Hence £sd. Gottit?

Coming back to how far we had walked in Budapest, there are 1,760 yards in a mile, each yard being made up of three feet, and each foot having twelve inches. This has a certain elegance to it (although I am not sure what sort of elegance). This is one measurement (the only one, I think) that is still used. However, I suppose that it is only a question of time before the English motorways show kilometres and all cars will need to have their speedometer calibrated in Kph. (It does make you think that you are driving faster).

How many Kilometres from London to Ipswich, you will soon be asking.

As to temperature, I tried to explain to Andreas, that it is obvious that freezing point should be 32 degrees (2⁵, some of you will say). Zero degrees? What a thought. As for 100 degrees being the boiling point, this is clearly inferior to 212 degrees (which as far as I know has no particular mathematical significance). The most important centigrade temperatures that you need to know are those of the water of Lake Zurich. When it is 18 degrees, it is cold to swim, and at 22 degrees, it is pleasant. So there you are.

I was surprised to remember that even the weather forecast in England (or weather lottery, as it will soon be named) shows temperature in Centigrade. Such treachery and betrayal.

Then there are weights. How many times have you been accosted in a supermarket by a helpless man, who has been sent out by his wife with a shopping list, which includes ½ pound of tomatoes and has to ask “How many grams is that?  They’ve only got grams on the label”. Shocking.

(For my non-English Blog fans, I should explain that there are 16 ounces in a pound; 14 pounds in a stone, and quite a lot of stone in a hundredweight. I weigh eleven and half stone, in case you are interested, although I have to tell my doctor that I am 75 kg)

At least you can still buy a pint of milk and a pint of beer (but only just), although usually not at the same time. However petrol is sold by the litre, so some confusion here.

So Good Blog Readers, who have reached this point. Congratulations and please remember all this, as I will test you on it, when I see you.

My Thanks to the Indian Embassy Visa Department

But before I pour out my gratitude to the Indian Embassy, here is the third and final update on the Red Bicycle…and yes, you have guessed. It is over. One day, it was there and the next one, it wasn’t. But not so quickly. As we passed by, mourning our loss, Hazel suddenly saw our bicycle over the fence.

So there it was. But the story does not end. Two days later, it had been removed completely. Alas, the Gemeinde (Local Council) must have decided that you could have too much of a good thing. All good things come to an end. Sorry folks.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back to the main story of the day.

As you have guessed from the title, I am indebted to the Visa Department of the Indian Embassy. Firstly, they processed our visa applications for our September trip to India in four days. That would be sufficient for thanks, but probably insufficient for a mention in my blog.

The second and blogworthy reason is to do with the method of returning our passports. They put the passports in separate envelopes, sent them registered post and put CHF 5 stamps (about £3) on each envelope (The Swiss post office also deserves a mention here for placing a delicate postmark on them).

You may be puzzled at this point, but I can still feel my sense of surprise and pleasure at seeing a high value stamp, neatly franked, arriving at our apartment, ready to be soaked off, dried and placed with other Swiss stamps, which have followed this philatelic route.

I do not remember the last time this happened. The need for commercial efficiency has reduced the high value stamp to something of a philatelic rarity, and certainly not to be used for its original postal purpose. The franking machines, both in the post rooms of companies and at the post office itself have seen an end to this.

In England, the Post Office itself goes one stage further in its battle against stamp collectors, by ensuring that any stamp, foolishly affixed to an envelope for the purposes of sending a letter, is completely obliterated with a black or blue chalk mark, that looks as if it has been applied by a two year child.

My two CHF 5 used Swiss stamps bear the image of a Catillac pear, which, according to the Guardian Life and Style section, is a great cooker (if you are interested in this sort of thing).

I will now place my Catillac pear-imaged stamps in my very poor and neglected stamp collection, with the hope that only the Indian Embassy will use these stamps and thus my philatelic gems will form an important and valuable part of my pension plan.

What a Clever Gadget

Before I launch into another burst of indignation about the difficulties of negotiating modern life, a quick update on the “Red bike”, also known as “The Red Bike”.

http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/06/red-bicycle.html

I have had many concerned emails about this Bike. David Gray has thanked me for finding it for him, after he got lost on the way home in Derbyshire one day, and couldn’t remember where he had parked it. Others have made similar sightings which add to the theory that they are planted by aliens.

More recently, an empty tin of Red Bull was neatly placed in its shopping basket, adding to the sense of modern art. Should it now be relabelled “The Red Bicycle with Red Bull Can”, thereby adding to the sense of surrealism? (Louise – How am I doing?)

----------------------------------------------------

However, “The Red Bicycle with Red Bull Can” was not intended as today’s main story. I am beginning to fight a losing battle with today’s technology. Last week, I was moving the cursor on my Laptop, when the screen size changed. Everything became bigger. The cursor did not move, but as I gave it a little wiggle, the main title moved in and out. I don’t know how I did it, but it was very impressive. Actually, I did not want my screen size changed, but you don’t always get a choice in these things. The most interesting thing is that this happens randomly, but fairly frequently.

Two weeks ago, the screen decided to go sideways, so I had to stand the laptop on its side. I then had to move the mouse on the pad to the right, and to move the cursor downwards on the screen. And if that has given you a headache just reading it, then you can imagine what it did to me, as I tried to read my junk mail, with the latest offers from French websites for unlikely pharmaceutical products and people asking me for my bank details.

And it gets worse. Earlier this year, when I was England, my outlook calendar decided to change the time zone of my PC (I am not sure how it knew this), but didn’t change back when I returned to Zurich. It obviously doesn’t like Switzerland. Perhaps that’s why it keeps switching on the Google translator.

Now the automatic Google translator could be really useful, if you needed an English translation of a German Website. The time that it is not useful is when you are looking at an online German-English translator. Can you imagine a Dictionary that translates English words into (Yes) English words (and not always correctly)?

Then there the websites that assume, because I am in Switzerland, I want the German version of the website. Google still doesn’t believe that I prefer English, and keeps reverting to German. Google is not doing well this week, is it?

But it is not only the computer conspiring against me. Our oven is in league with Google. I was wondering why a pastie would not cook, when I realised the oven was off. Now this is not as stupid as it sounds. The “off” switch for the timer is the same as the “off” switch for the oven. So if you get too excited when switching the timer off, you get underdone pasties. Perhaps it could be developed into a feature. 
But not all problems are insoluble. My Dad says that there is an easy solution to the changing clocks problem - http://colinhawker.blogspot.com/2011/04/how-did-you-spend-27th-march.html - This is to leave the clocks on British Summer time. That way you don’t have to take any action, and you are always early for everything during the winter.

Sounds like the best advice that I have received in years.

I took Nineteen Shirts with me

We have just returned from twelve days in Hungary, Slovenia and Austria. Budapest, would you believe it, is only slightly further from Zurich than Calais, although when you take into account the Munich by-pass / building site, you can add on the equivalent of another 200 kms.

Are you one of those people who find packing straightforward? You take a few things, throw them into a case at the last minute and off you go. Or do you bring the suitcases up from the cellar one week before departure date, and start agonising and assembling the assorted belongings during the following days?

I compile lists. I love lists. Lists of things to be packed at the last minute; lists of things to do just before we leave; lists of things to do, preferably several days before we leave….and so on. Then of course, I compare these lists with a master list that I made up about 15 years ago, when we used to go camping. I am even working on a List of Lists.

Then there is the obsessive watching of the weather forecasts of the target holiday region. What sort of clothes should we take? How many umbrellas will we need? Will we need dry clothes or wet clothes? How many pairs of shorts should I take? (Why are they “pairs” of shorts?)

This June has been a particular problem as most weather forecasters have managed to be consistently incorrect. I don’t mean being incorrect one week out, but incorrect 12 hours out. Perhaps they have been unlucky. Perhaps the weather has been too volatile, with English cricket weather taking over the whole of Europe - a kind of metrological imperialism. Perhaps they are all taking their information from the same incorrect source, or even (and this has my son-in-law, Kevin’s, vote), they are all just plain incompetent.

Their incompetence has led to one day’s cycling being cancelled at the last minute and an earlier than planned return from the mountains, when our intended walk in the sunshine, would have been entirely in the clouds and rain.

Whatever the reason, the end result is the same. It is not possible to work out, with any precision, how many of anything you are going to need. For men, socks and handkerchiefs are not too hard; one for each day. Underpants, still not too hard, as most men can get away with slightly less than one per day. No sweepstake is being run here. (Does anyone own up to needing only one pair?) One pair of trousers is enough, although three will always be taken in case the statement / question, “You are not going to wear those the whole time, are you?” is raised.

Shirts are always a problem. After much agonizing, for this central European voyage, I settled on two sports shirts, six tee shirts, four round neck shirts, two casual long sleeved shirts, two smart ones (although I have no idea why, as I never wear them on holiday) and two smart short sleeved shirts, plus the one I wear the day we travelled. I think that this all adds up to nineteen shirts for twelve days.

Do you think that this was a bit over the top? (Anyway, it is all the weather forecasters’ fault, as Kevin might say).

Cribbage (men only need read this)

I had forgotten what a bad loser I was. As a teenager, tantrums having lost at table tennis to my Dad were a fairly regular occurrence. Both the losing and the tantrums were a regular occurrence, at least until I went to university, where two hours a day with table tennis bat, reversed my fortunes.

I can rationalise this as a determination to improve, an unwillingness to give up, the striving necessary to make it to the next stage, and of course, all these were part of my genetic make-up, for which my Dad is 50% responsible.

My Dad will testify to numerous examples of Junior Hawker throwing things around, on being given out lbw at cricket, at being dealt a bad set of cards at bridge, or even worse, being dealt a fantastic hand of cards, and then not getting the chance to play it.

A number of broken squash rackets, not all of them mine, testified to the poor character of the now “Swiss Based and Totally Rational” Colin Hawker. A missed shot, followed by racket abuse, not on the soft grass of Wimbledon centre court, but the unforgiving concrete of the walls of Walton-on-Thames squash court, and another squash racket bites the dust.

And who would not sulk on being beaten at monopoly 12 times in a row, especially when you have Park Lane and Mayfair and the opposition only has old Kent Road, but manages to skip merrily over every danger, for at least 672 rounds, collecting £200 each time?

But all that is past me now. I am calmness personified. Serenity rules. The assembling of IKEA furniture is allowed as the only exception, as this is not a sport, but a military campaign. The screwdriver-marks in the plaster will testify to this. Apart from that, I can take defeat “like a man”.

Furthermore, I now consider myself sufficiently mature to regard winning and defeat with equal indifference. Indeed, the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, is my own personal mantra in this respect.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94

But then in May, Cribbage came along……..

Kevin, my son-in-law, has a great deal to answer for. I am sure that it was his idea to play. After all the Cribbage board had been sitting there for months, just asking to be used. “How about a game of Cribbage?” “Oh yes”, I foolishly and innocently replied, not realizing what demons were about to be released.

I thought I knew the rules of Cribbage, and regarded myself as an adequately good player. One hour later, all illusions were shattered. You have to understand that it was not my lack of skill, but that I had really bad cards and everyone else must have been cheating

I was not content with one night of ritual humiliation, Hazel and I continued playing for the following week. How do you cope with managing only 2 points with your own hand and the box, which in bridge terms is the equivalent of being dealt a hand with one Jack and nothing else higher than an 8? And how is it, that I never got 15 in the play (for “2” points). This conspiracy is a throw-back to my table tennis. Nights of humiliation at the Cribbage table continued, until Hazel took pity on me, and let me win.

“Don’t do it”, says my Dad to Hazel. Don’t take any prisoners. It’s good for his character.

No mercy there.

The Red Bicycle

This is a photo of a Red Bicycle. We shall call it “The Red Bicycle”. The Red Bicycle is chained up to a metal fence in a main road, near to the Station in Thalwil, where we live. I say “main road”, but traffic density here can probably be favourably compared with a country lane, I walked down recently in Liphook in Hampshire, as my son will testify.

Back to “The Red Bicycle”. We think that it has been chained there for about three months now. It is 300 yards from the station entrance, and there are other bike stands nearer. There are no other chained bikes nearby. It is not exactly a meeting point for chained up bikes, where chained up bikes can have a quiet chat over a coffee. No – this is a very lonely Red Bicycle, at least when it is chained up here.

This raises a number of important social and philosophical questions.

Firstly, why hasn’t it been stolen? It is a very nice Red Bicycle. It clearly doesn’t belong to anyone. It might be lonely and anyone stealing it, would be doing The Red Bicycle a favour, as well as adding back into the economy a valuable resource, which, at the moment, is lying idle.

Why has no one reported it to the police? There is no notice on it saying “Reported”. Perhaps someone has, but the police have better things to do, and anyway, it is not doing anyone any harm.

Perhaps, it is a work of Art. Some sculptor may have laid out 100 life sized bronze statues over the Austrian mountains; so perhaps, this is one in a series of Red Bicycles, chained to various fences, near to stations in Switzerland. It could be part of the modern art exhibition that is taking place in Basel.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/jul/30/antony-gormley-austrian-mountains-statues

It is always possible that it is a Swiss version of candid camera. Someone has chained it there and now lurks in the nearby undergrowth (not much of that here), and takes films and photos of passers-by, as they look and ponder. All that is missing is for the Red Bike to be able to say “So, wot u ….. looking at then?”

But I think that the real question is whether The Red Bicycle exists when no one is watching it. How do you know it is there? Perhaps it is our act of looking at it that brings it into existence.

At this point, I think that I have exhausted the limits of absurdity and will quit while I am ahead.

Why am I being ignored?

I have been waiting for the lawyers of the News of the World to contact me. I feel that it is only a matter of time. As an important person, never far from the news (although never actually in it), I must have been a target of phone hacking by the super sleuths from all sections of the English Press. The only question remaining is what level of compensation shall I accept?

But who can blame them? The English public want to know what Grumpy is about to publish in the forthcoming week. Who is he going to attack next? What stimulating insights into day to day life will he reveal? What Grumpiness will he shortly unveil? Who is inviting him to coffee? Are there gossip-worthy goings-on behind the lace curtains of Wannenstrasse. (Actually, nobody has curtains here, so we can all have a jolly good peek at what the neighbours are having for dinner or what they are watching on television.)

It is self-evident that there are no depths to which these hacks will not stoop, in their quest for Grumpy-gossip.

My indignation is running out of steam. There are several objections with this outburst. Not that Grumpy isn’t newsworthy (He just hasn’t been discovered yet), but if he cannot access his own voicemails (with his £2 mobile phone, with its £5 of talk time remaining), how will the sozzled members of Fleet Street be able to do this.

But if my phone is not being hacked, I am seriously worried. Why has no one been listening to my messages? I demand compensation for being ignored. The British Public demand an answer from the valiant defenders of our English Freedoms. If Grumpy is being ignored today, whose turn will it be tomorrow? Madonna; Prince William; Wayne Rooney; Liz Hurley?

The English Press have a duty to pry where no man has pried (or is it “pryed?”) before. It is their duty to provide the British Public with a daily dose of meaningless celebrity drivel. Fashion houses are relying on the Press to report what nail varnish Kate Middleton is wearing (or going to wear, if her voice-mail is to be believed).

Actually, I don’t believe that the English Press have hacked into anyone’s telephone. Why would they need to, when most of it is made up?

How Did You Spend the 27th March?

On Sunday 27th March, as decreed by the authorities across Europe, we all had to put our clocks forward…..or rather we didn’t …. or at least not all of them.

This very confusing state of affairs was demonstrated by my computer, which complied with this directive, of its own accord, by the time I rose to make my first cup of coffee.

My iPod had also decided to march on one hour, so I went on an exploration to see if the microwave and oven had reset themselves. No, in these cases, it was necessary, once again, to reach for the instruction manual and refresh my brain on how to do this manually.

My mobile phone did not know of this change, but what do you expect from a phone that cost 3 Swiss Francs (£2) and only has 9 Swiss Francs of credit on it, at any one time.

The car was more of a problem. The clock moves ahead of its own volition, so after six months, it has just about reached the new correct time. In September, I will need to set it back two hours. Not only does it fail to keep good time, but is barely readable anyway, suffering from old age and general bloody mindedness.

What about the battery operated clock on the lounge bookcase? (I am not sure why we have one here, but we do.) This one too had to be manipulated by one of those little screws at the back. You know the ones, which you have to pull out and then turn, by which time you have forgotten the time, and have to go to the kitchen to check the time on the microwave.

Naturally, microwaves are the proper point of reference on matters to do with time keeping. “What’s the time?” “I am not sure. I’ll just check the microwave”. (Why not check with the battery clock in the lounge?)

I also have two of clocks that are synchronised by satellite. I have no idea how this works. Actually it doesn’t any more, at least not for the one that I brought with me from England 9 years ago. I think that the firm that sold these must have forgotten to pay their satellite fee, because I even have to correct this one myself. The Swiss one still seems to be OK for the time being….or is it the other way around?

As for the DVD player and recorder, this is even more confusing, as we used to keep this on English time, but now keep this on Swiss time, or is it on English time for 6 months of the year, and Swiss time for the other 6 months.

So there we have it. Have I forgotten any time pieces? As you can tell, I spent the whole day hunting down clocks and related user manuals, to restore chronological harmony back into the Hawker Household.

How did you spend your 27th March?

Comments from Grumpy’s Followers

It’s about time that the faithful followers of this blog had a mention. The regular comments of encouragement keep me going. They also provide ideas for future new blogs, as well as additional material that I could and should have included first time around. Here is a sample:

My favourite was received after one of my humour failure periods.

“You have obviously run out of pep pills or illegal tobacco, as your blog hasn't appeared since the 5th April. I can let you have some aspirins as well as other assorted pills associated with old age. It doesn't mention on the leaflets in each packet that it helps blogs but you never know - maybe we've found something and can be rich and famous like the chaps who founded Google and the computer software company who everyone knows but I can't remember.” From My Dad

“The boy’s a genius. He must have got his talent from his Dad.” - From My Dad

“Many thanks for the blogs. Is it necessary to be completely crazy to enjoy your blogs? Even if not, it certainly helps. Once I thought I was mad and now I know that I am just crazy” – John Appleton, who has known me since I was 9 years old. Yes, it certainly helps you to enjoy my ramblings, if you are just a little bit loopy.

By the way, he was the only person to know that “Boots and Rags” were two dogs that we had when I was a boy. (Remember? New BROOM Methodology – oh well, never mind).

My most vocal supporter (if you can be vocal by email) is David Gray from Bakewell. Privately, he is known as Grumpy’s cousin. A recent contribution may strike some chords: “How about a blog slot on why the Netherlands are so good at cricket, but Kenya still haven't worked out which end of the bat to hold.”

He also added: “Which brings me on to petrol and diesel........ Why are they now selling petrol and diesel through the same coloured pipes? It used to be green for petrol and black for diesel; but now they are increasingly both black! Why? ......... Do they want people to get confused? Have they run out of green pipe in the world? Perhaps they got a good deal on the black pipe. Answers to all major supermarkets please“

Oh yes – he is really getting into the mood.

Bill Hall, previously of the Financial Times, gave much needed encouragement and technical support in the formative stages of this Blog. He has asked for a blog on “What's wrong with Scottish football?” and added the following suggestions

1) The Scottish referees strike. Why could they not import a few strike breakers from South of the Border? Instead they have been looking all over the place for foreign referees, just so long as they are not English.

2) There are only two teams that matter in Scotland - Celtic and Rangers, and at least one of them, if not both, ought to be in the Premiership. Manchester and Liverpool both have two teams in the premiership and they are not much different from Glasgow. Just think what it would do to Glasgow's international reputation if they had a premiership club. They might have to rename themselves as Glasgow Rangers or Glasgow Celtic to get maximum effect.

After all Cardiff City and Swansea are second and third in the Championship and at least one of them could be promoted to the Premier League next season.

One of my old Oxford friends commented on the use of the Harvard Business Review as a cure for insomnia. “But if you want a real cure for insomnia, try Keynes' General Theory. I have proved beyond all doubt that three pages are at least as good as a couple of temazepam tablets. I suspect it is also more obtainable and portable than HBR.” So insomniacs of the world – there’s your answer.

Marilyn Sadler of Shenfield, Essex fame suggested that you could count how many Eddy Stobart lorries you see whilst travelling and keep a log of all of the lorry names which are located on the driver door – apparently each Eddy lorry has a different registered name. Now there’s a thought.

That’s all there’s time for on this blog. Sorry to those of you who have sent me comments, but which are not published. It could be your turn soon.

Please keep the comments coming in.

Important (and serious) notice: No comment or email to me is published without the writer’s permission, so your secrets are safe with me.

Queuing

I like to think that the Swiss admire the English in many regards. Wishful thinking, you might say, but in one respect, we stand head and shoulders above the rest. Queuing. Very drole, you might think, but true. “You’re English. You like queuing.” No. There is a misunderstanding here. We don’t like queuing. We are just good at it.

The Swiss, by contrast, don’t really like queuing at all. I am on very dodgy territory here, handing out potential insults to my hosts, but it is my observation that in a queue, one minute a person is behind you and the next minute, without any fuss or jostling, they are in front of you. Nothing physical, you understand. Just the knack of spotting the moment. A sort of friendly competition.

Queuing at the ski-lift brings out the same sort of qualities. The English glare has no effect here, so it is necessary to remain vigilant, alert, and with elbows pointing outwards.

Ed, my son, as an experienced economist is obsessed about efficiency. He has made some professional observations on this.

Here is a picture of him being obsessive and making professional observations.

He contrasts this with other types of socially competitive activities – sorry, if this is getting a bit technical. He pointed out, as we stuck our poles out sideways, to stop a flanking movement at a ski chair lift, that in these scenarios, one person’s gain is another person’s loss. “DO YOU ACTUALLY TEACH YOUR KIDS TO SNEAK THROUGH LIKE THAT?”

Ed compared it with the behaviour of motorists at road works on motorways. Motorists see the sign that says that the motorway will narrow to one lane in one mile. 90% will immediately move over to the appropriate lane and the other 10% will scream down the outside and sneak in at the end. “WELL, IF YOU HAD BROUGHT THE LITTLE BRAT UP PROPERLY, I WOULDN’T HAVE NEEDED TO PULL HIM BACK BY HIS COLLAR.”

Of that 10%, half will feel a little bit guilty, and the other half will think that the rest of us (Did I really include myself in this?) are just dumb. If we all went to the end of the lanes, and then pulled in, we could all be happy. It would also avoid those ridiculous occasions when there is actually no lane closure, the construction company having failed to remove the sign, and we all sit in a queue for 30 minutes, before realising that it is the equivalent of a road repair April Fool’s joke. Ed says that this is to do with Zero Sum Games. “CAREFUL ED, SKIER IN THE RED IS PLAYING THE ZERO SUM GAME AND IS ABOUT TO TAKE THE OUTSIDE SEAT.”

Ed points out that there is a difference between these examples and fighting for a place at lunchtime at the Parsenhutte Self Service Restaurant on the Davos ski slopes. Here, the strategy is to find the places, reserve them with your ski helmets or gloves and then spend 20 minutes queuing for your food, before taking your seats. A quick survey of the tables shows that one third of the places are taken by people eating, one-third by people, who have finished, and are talking, playing cards, reading a book, or just dozing. The other third, (you’ve guessed it) are occupied by Ski-helmets, or gloves, which are neither eating, reading, talking, nor playing cards. They could, just about, be said to be dozing.

Ed says that in economic speak, this is a wasted resource. You know that line. “If all those people waited until they had their food before sitting down, there would be more space for everyone.” Everyone knows it, but everyone has to follow the obvious rule. It’s a mug’s game to be the only person who doesn’t grab the table while it is there. He says that this is the "Prisoner’s Dilemma", which is a technical expression. “OK ED. I’LL WAIT HERE, WHILE YOU GET THE FOOD – AND WATCH OUT FOR THE LADY IN THE PURPLE SKI SUIT.” (The lady in the purple ski suit could have had her own blog entry – suffice to say, she did not like queuing, was in a dilemma and therefore should go to prison).

Stamp or Throw

I am working at Credit Suisse again. There are many benefits in being back, but one unexpected pleasure is being able once again to join the throngs of commuters. This commute takes me, every morning and evening, through the great halls of Bahnhof Enge (Enge Station, to you Brits).

It is not sufficient in Switzerland to simply build a functional station. Any proper station would have a draughty station waiting room, out-of-action toilets, a buffet that is closed at peak periods, and a ticket attendant who, when asked why the ticket machine won’t print out a ticket previously ordered on Trainline, says that “It is nothing to do with us and anyway, British Rail hasn’t existed for years, so you’ll just have to buy another ticket.”

I have been wanting to get this last point into print for years – two years to be precise – and, in case you were wondering, Walton-on Thames Station (or Bahnhof Walton auf der Themse, because the “Thames” is feminine in German) was the offending station.

Anyway, having got that bit of Grumpiness off my chest, I shall proceed to the main plot of the day.

Recently, when walking through the hallowed halls of Bahnhof Enge, there in front of me, was a decaying cigarette stub, laying on the ground. Notice “decaying”. It was still alight and, perfectly formed, as far as I could tell, and no doubt would continue to smoulder for its allotted time of a further 45 seconds.

In my day (whenever that was, but probably about 40 years ago), it was alright, if not mandatory to smoke. When you wished to discard the cigarette, you would stamp on the cigarette stub. This would not be just any old stamp, in order to gently extinguish the dying embers, and to ensure that no one within 10 yards would have to inhale the smoke. No – it was always something much more personal. It was like crushing the life out of a tribal enemy. More than the disdainful sneer at an inferior, it was a real testosterone loaded attack.

If an ashtray was used, then it was essential that the cigarette stub be severely mutilated, severed, twisted, turned or even broken, until any signs of life had been brutally snubbed out. “That’ll teach it.”

Yes – the way that you put out a cigarette, was a way of telling others what sort of man you were (or woman).

Now all this is in danger. Our society is on the brink. The “Case of the Half Alive Bahnhof Enge Cigarette Butt” had to be followed up. After some further sleuthing, in the following 30 seconds, I saw 5 further instances of cigarette butts, 3 of wimpish delicately or casually dropped on the ground variety, and two of the “I’ve been totally crushed by a Real Smoker” sort.

This brief review will require further analysis and more data (as we Six Sigma Types keep saying). For example, do men and women display different stub handling techniques? Is age a differentiating factor in dealing with the final incendiary embers? Is it a seasonal habit, like migrating? I shall prowl the platform Bahnhof Enge watching for factors which will enable me to discern the important social patterns evolving here.

If you hear of a middle aged man being arrested for suspicious and intimidating behaviour at a station near to the centre of Zurich (“Are you going to drop that fag end or not? I haven’t got all night, you know”), then I shall be relying on my readership to supply character references and bail, if necessary.

Fun on the Roads

If you have children, and have taken them on holiday in the car, you will have experienced the endless fun in keeping them amused. (I am talking “pre-videos and computer games in the back of the car” days. Why can’t today’s parents suffer like we did?)

But consider the poor driver, who has nothing to keep him amused, except the sound of a Bee Gees track (Beatles, if you are over 70) or the sound of the commentary of the cricket test match as Australia pile on another 500 run innings. (My son tells me that this does not happen as often now, but I will not let this deflect me from my point.)

I have therefore come up with a list of ways in which drivers can amuse themselves and test their skills and those of other drivers.

My favourite is to come up behind a car on a motorway, pull out and overtake and when two yards in front, pull in and take the foot off the accelerator. The driver being overtaken enjoys the chance to test his reactions and adjust his speed.

A variation on this amusing little tactic is to overtake, pull in and then pull out again immediately in front of the next car coming up the outside lane. This apparently pointless manoeuvre is good for preventing the car in the outside lane from going too fast and thus perhaps exceeding the speed limit, which, if course, is illegal and the overtaking driver will thank you for this.

Even better than this is to actually drive in the outside lane, just below the speed limit. I believe that it is every civic minded citizen’s duty to do this, to protect his fellowmen (or women) from committing a potentially illegal act.

One of my favourite “About Town: Let’s keep them Guessing” games, is not to signal at all when going around a roundabout. You can add to the fun by faking a turn off, and then carrying on around the roundabout, thereby testing the emergency stopping ability of drivers coming in.

Sometimes you need to be the “Good Samaritan”. If it is dark and the passenger in the car in front is trying to read, then you should come up as close as possible behind and shine the full headlights through his rear window. If your lights are badly adjusted, then this is even better. This is generally well appreciated by both driver and passenger alike.

There are many other such games to stretch driving skills. Readers of this blog will have their own ideas. Let’s see if we can develop something around driving while at the same time using a mobile phone, sending SMS messages, lighting a cigarette, eating a Chinese Takeaway or reading a novel. Should there be extra points for doing two or more at the same time?

Controversy

I had you worried then, didn’t. You thought that I was going to say something that might be “Controversial”. Not at all. As I explained to my Dad, Grumpy goes out of his way to avoid anything that might get him into hot water. Call it cowardice, if you want. I call it self-survival. Whatever it is, preferred targets are those who cannot hit back. So, on to my favourite source of Grumpiness - The BBC 24 News Service and English Newspapers.

I know that it is good to teach people to “Engage or Attract the readers’ attention”. True. (HBR contributors; please take note) But do you want to engage your reader / viewer’s interest and hopefully their intellect (do you remember that part of your audience’s mind?) or do you want to stoke their emotions? No prizes for guessing what Grumpy thinks about the intentions of Television News and Newspapers. But in case you cannot guess (wake up those in the back row) ……….I am still not going to tell you. So there!!

If the openings of articles in the Harvard Business Review are designed to help insomniacs (my old friend from New College, Martin Mosse, helpfully suggests three pages of Keynes General Theory for people for whom the HB Review is too stimulating), then the English News reaches the other extreme. They use headlines specifically designed to engage the emotions. A search for any content in the article or programme will frequently fail.

When the subject does not seem interesting enough or there is very little time to prepare it, the use of the word “controversial” can be thrown in to create the illusion that the topic is very important. I wonder if this is not the most frequently four syllable word used in the newspapers. This is a shame, because the English language is very rich in ways to express different shades of meaning.

The BBC News reached new heights of “Controversial Absurdity” in a broadcast on 26th January with the sentence “…plan to scrap the controversial control orders and replace them with controversial new proposals.". That must rank as the current Number one of “Grumpy’s most hyped up openings”. I drew the immediate conclusion that it really was not that important, so decided that it was time to make a cup of tea.

Even the Economist falls into this trap. It reported on 20 November, “The government's efforts to reduce the inflow of foreign workers have re-ignited an old controversy.”

So does “Controversial” just mean that some people disagree? To be honest, I did not know what the sentence in the Economist really meant. Immigration has always been a subject, about which people disagree. Is it a “Controversy”, because people feel strongly or passionately about it?

I bet that you did not know that in order to force a Federal Referendum in Switzerland, you need a minimum of 100,000 signatures. Do you think that there is a minimum number of people holding an opposite view before it become a “Controversy” (and must they all be passionate about it)?

Let’s say that this number is 1,000. Then based on this, I have decided that the word “Controversy” can never be applied to work of politicians. Firstly, there are not enough of them to fulfil even any sensible minimum quota requirements. Secondly, it is important to recognise the difference between great skilful acting and passion. Behind all the raised voices and shouting in the Home of Democracy, the reality is little more than posturing along party lines. The “Opposition” are meant to “oppose” the Government. That is their job. Likewise, the Government is duty-bound to ridicule any proposals from the Opposition. It matters little whether or not the Opposition’s suggestion might be sensible or ought sensibly to be adopted.

I am going to form a political party. Its sole aim will be to force Parliament to pass a law banning the use of this word. The “Anti-Controversy Party”.