The motion of the ocean

Isn’t technology incredible? Not only am I steaming (metaphorically) across the English Channel at a rate of knots (a rate known to the captain but not me), having just enjoyed a delicious tasty meal of rice and vegetables, I’m able to relay this news to you via satellite internet.

Don’t get me wrong, it seems like an outrageous misuse of resources that I’m beaming these meagre thoughts to your face via the shallows of space, but I’ve always been of the belief that just because you can, you should.

We’ve taken advantage of a competitive price for the lounge on the ferry, surrounded by a light sprinkling of middle aged couples who complain about everything. It’s quite the luxury. I’m three Earl Greys and two glasses of sparkling water deep and I’ll still have two hours of driving at the other end. That’s just the kind of risk taker I am. First things first though, another helping of rice.

Smell like you mean it

I was just out strolling the mean streets of my blandly suburban Oxfordshire town admiring how the return to school has brought an impressive deluge of traffic back to the roads when I passed a group of boys on their own way to school.

They reached about waist height on me, rustling in their fresh blazers, all four of them with the same haircut of curls piled on top and brushed forward that looks like a bad 1950s toupee but must be popular on someone or other at the moment. It’s all very different to my day, but then I did start secondary school over 30 years ago. We had none of the bravado or swagger these boys were taking up the whole pavement with.

But when they passed, that was a whole different story. I found myself choking on the familiar scent of mass market body spray. It’s nice to smell that Lynx is a universal rite of passage (Axe if you’re from somewhere less enlightened), though I do wonder how many pollinators are being thoughtlessly slaughtered every year by these roaming clouds of fertiliser. I could see flies dropping in their wake as they swanked their way to an opening salvo of English, French and Feelings (curriculum’s very different these days).

I staggered home and immediately began writing a blog post about it, but at least I have survived to tell the tale.

Making an entrance

I passed a van on the motorway earlier that had such a weird slogan emblazoned on the side that I thought about it for easily the next 10 miles. “Your global partner for entrance solutions” it said. Does it mean doors? Is that an entrance solution? Certainly if you’re on the outside a door would be an entrance solution, if you were stuck inside somewhere with no sense of egress about proceedings you would find yourself looking for a global partner for exit solutions.

It gave me something to do, it’s been a long journey. Scotland is really far away, who knew? I was up there for the last wispy smoke trails of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Is that its pedigree name? It’s such an amorphous thing with no one in charge, I can’t get my head round it. There must be some blandly marketed entity at the centre of it all, with the Official Fringe sponsored by some sort of global partner for entrance solutions.

I’ve never been up to the Fringe before, and it’s all anyone in comedy can talk about for six months of the year. I’ve kind of hoped I could just tick along without ever having to step foot near it – I have an instinctively contrary nature that hates anything that everyone else likes. And the Fringe is no longer on the fringes, it hasn’t been a punky outsider for at least three or four recessions. All comedy roads seem to lead through the Scottish capital.

I went up to see the shows of some people I know, and it was both desperately enticing and tremendously off-putting at the same time. I’ve got the pencilled outlines of a show I’d like to work on buried deep in my comedy notebook, and I can really see the attraction of taking something like that to somewhere like Edinburgh. But at the same time it’s this huge sink for hopes, dreams and your life savings. And why would anyone put themselves through that if they didn’t have to? If I did find it in me to go to Edinburgh myself, perhaps I would have to find some sort of organisation with globally gained expertise in making a splash, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.

A peek at the back end

I get access to these back end analytics so that I can look at all sorts of numbers to do with my little website, it’s sort of exciting, but at the same time massively discouraging.

And yet it wouldn’t be falsely modest of me to encourage you in some small way by saying that you – if in fact anyone actually is reading this – are part of a very exclusive club. And to think you get access to this world class content – billions don’t – for absolutely free.

But anyway – I was moping through my analytics and counting things on one hand, when I saw that someone had ended up on my blog by searching for ‘BTS Grammy’. Notwithstanding the Grammytically incorrect use of the singular to describe the auspicious music (and recorded audio. And horrendous noise) awards, I was surprised that such a search would bring you in this direction.

And so I googled it myself, failing to spot a link to my website in nearly 30 pages of results but confident it must have appeared at some point. Not near the top, but at some point at some point. I even looked through the news results until around page 18 then got massively bored.

It shows you, though, the dedication with which BTS fans approach their craft – so desperate for any novel insight into their heroes’ Grammybdication that they would wade through literally dozens of pages of nonsensical tastes of the same soft serve news bites.

I don’t imagine they stayed long, but what I choose to imagine is that it’s a sign of how influential my little blog is becoming, moving up in the world. Grammy for best internet diary? I wouldn’t write it off. Except nuts, I’ve withdrawn myself in solidarity haven’t I. Knew that would bite me in the thing.

Be nice? Dolly would

Usually when a celebrity dies – and call me callous here if you like – I don’t give it too much thought, usually because the person hasn’t done the thing you connected with them over in at least 20 years.

There’s usually a nostalgia to the mourning of public figures, people having to confront the fact that a part of their lives is long gone.

I think too often we conflate the artist and their work – why do we only try to separate them when it turns out we don’t actually like the person who’s created something we love? People should be allowed not to be the things they’ve done.

But there was something about Dolly Parton that upends all that – the world feels poorer without her presence in it, someone who was aware of the power of kindness but also the power that she wielded.

And weirdly, it’s almost impossible to find someone who genuinely disliked her. I’m not talking about the people who took irrationally against her music or her image, but people who knew her and interacted with her. It doesn’t seem to have been an act. There are plenty of notables around these days you could point to and well imagine that they aren’t quite the same person when nobody’s watching.

So a moment of acknowledgment for the passing of Dolly Parton isn’t pining nostalgia for a time gone by, but rather just to note that the world is slightly poorer for her absence.

Pooing in the shrubbery

I am still here, I should say. I went on holiday camping for a week and felt remarkably disinclined to spend any time jabbing at my phone to relate the experience. It was camping. For a week. I think you can guess at the experience.

Then it was back to work, but a sudden slip, trip or fall by my sister-in-law saw her enjoying an extended stay as the guest of a rapidly revolving cast of either completely disinterested or massively overworked nursing staff and the odd doctor who would swish in unannounced and bark things.

It meant I got to spend a lovely pleasant week with my niece, who suffers a little from anxiety but enjoyed the company. She took to sleeping on the landing just by my door, which was very cute.

There was a bit of fuss hunting round the garden to see where she’d pooed in the shrubbery and a few issues just getting her to muster up the courage to leave the house and go for a stroll, but we got there in the end.

She’s a dog, I suppose I should clarify, but I was enjoying stringing that out.

Cake or death

I met my parents for lunch at a fancy garden centre in the Cotswolds today – it was one of those vast, cavernous affairs where the garden was an afterthought. Each area themed like something out of the Crystal Maze – Richard O’Brien came bounding past at one point with a load of 34-year-old IT workers from Reading shrieking “To the gilet zone!”

The clientele was very different to my usual sort of garden centre, we weren’t in Dobbies anymore. The age skewed rather higher, too. The women inside were all beautifully coiffed and twinsetted, you wouldn’t have surprised me at all if you’d told me there was a Mary Berry lookalike competition happening in the useless but compelling kitchen gadgets section.

I’m rather more used to going to garden centres with actual plants, with tools you might expect to use rather than a chromed ceremonial wheelbarrow or decorative spade, and those big revolving jobs full of seeds. There was a ‘rare and unusual’ plant section in this garden centre, but they were in a refrigerated cupboard, as if anything organic had to be kept separate for our protection. Lovely selection of olives and charcuterie too.

The cafe was a delight though – I enjoyed a delicious pistachio and lemon cake with a rose water flavoured icing, washed down with a locally blended pot of Earl Grey. Tea and a bun, really, just with added ponce. The fillable water carafes were a nice touch, a token on the way to making us feel like we were getting our money’s worth.

An ambulance appeared at the window over our shoulder at one point, but given the demographics you’d have to assume they have one on permanent standby at one end of the car park. Gardening isn’t for everyone, you understand.

Grammy get your gun

I’ve just seen a news story that BTS are planning to boycott the Grammys next year because of the introduction of a new Asian pop music award, which the group of Korean funsters complains reduces music to region and language.

Given that there are Grammys for categories as diverse as Best Spoken Word Poetry Album (a whole album! Just the thought brings a tear to my eye) and Best Large Jazz Ensemble Album (is it by weight or by number?) as well as something entitled Best Música Mexicana Album (including Tejano) (we wouldn’t want to leave Tejano out… I’m going to have to look it up now in case I’m saying something awful) (no wait, it just means Mexicans in Texas sort of) – is Best Asian Pop Music Performance really that bad?

Perhaps the Behind The Scenes lads think that they’re going to miss out on the really good awards if they get lumped in with the Asian crowd, which is a valid concern for struggling up and comers such as themselves, but I’m not au fait with the nuances of regional pop music (oops, I’ve just done it myself) to really be across the details.

But the decision I’ve come to is that I am also going to withdraw myself from the 2027 Grammys in support of my colleagues at BTS because I think it’s a very important principle.

Though having said that, if BTS have taken themselves out of the running, maybe I’m in with a better chance of winning the best Asian pop performance without them… a tough decision to be made.

Desperately lazing Susan

Do you know who I feel sorry for? Susan. So many people have used the things – and who can really be bothered to stretch across a large table? – but it’s poor Susan who has been tarred with the mean spirited brush of laziness.

I’m lazy too, but nothing has been named after me yet. Maybe I shouldn’t feel sorry for Susan, what a legacy. Famous like Cher and Madonna (who needs a surname?) and yet blissfully anonymous. That’s probably the level of fame to aspire to. She probably need many good things in her life that have gone unrecognised, and this is how we repay her. Or at least she meant to do lots of good things if only she could get off this sofa. It’s a hard life.

They bloody love a good lazy Susan in China you know. Almost every dinner I went to when I was in Beijing the other month featured a revolving centrepiece festooned with harrowing dishes of whole animals frozen in death. Or coated and deep fried in death in the case of one particular chicken. They also bloody love serving the animal in its entirety, which is a shock the first eight times a gurning grouper fish comes spinning past your body plate.

Susan is not famous in China though – their word for the device literally translates as ‘dinner table turntable’. Susan’s publicists clearly have some work to do. Or perhaps she was just too lazy to make the journey.

Road trips of fancy

A little bit of surprise and delight this afternoon when I was mentioned in the reputable London daily The Times as ‘my friend and fellow comedian Sam Burnett’. I don’t think I’ve ever been referred to by anyone as a comedian, nor as my friend either come to think of it. But it was highly esteemed humorist and travel writer Christopher Beanland who wrote the piece and I do actually know him.

He wrote a top notch book last year called Architecture for Cars and was delighted to be able to contribute some nonsense talking about my love of service stations – particularly French ones, and particularly the Aire de la Baie de Somme, which is an hour or two south of Calais and an utterly delightful example of the oeuvre.

You should have a read of Christopher’s best and worst roadtrips, even though I’m loathe to send you to look at writing that’s distinctly better than mine. Come back?

Talk to the paw

What I didn’t mention about seeing the play the other night was that it was exceedingly chilly. Which is to be expected given that the sun was on its gentle way downwards (landed in Swansea from what I can tell, someone should check whether the place is still there) – only I wasn’t expecting to be out that late on my little holiday to Devon and of course I had not brought anything suitable to wear.

Neither had Laura of course, so we found the only charity shop in Lynton and ransacked the clothing section in search of smart casual attire that was cosy but suitable for the theatre. Disaster. The men’s section is meagre. Some shirts, plenty of suits, some t-shirts. Nothing that I could make use of.

But a plentiful women’s section, so many clothes that they extended upstairs. Some rummaging later and Laura has a tasteful cardigan with chunky buttons and I have a hot pink sweater with a cartoonish image of a dog and the phrase ‘Talk to the paw’ emblazoned on the front. I think I love it, and I don’t buy many things from the charity shops. I can cope with getting books from them, but not the casual wear of the recently deceased, which I’m fairly convinced makes up the bulk of the clothing donations. I do have a couple of jackets, I must admit, but those were both bought in a fancy posh charity shop in Alcester. I sick in my mouth at the thought of getting shoes from one of them, even the posh ones.

Still, my jumper kept me snug (it’s a little short in the sleeves) and I think it’s funny. Don’t like it? Talk to the paw, because the snout ain’t listening.

What the Dickens

We have come to Devon for the weekend. If I’m honest I prefer Cornwall for the pasties, but I understand you can buy them elsewhere these days, which is a reassuring development. We’re in the north of Devon, which has a prime view of south Wales. It’s very much like booking into a nice hotel and the view from your room is into a neighbouring apartment.

I enjoy the rugged landscape and proximity to nature round here, though it’s a shame there isn’t a greater proximity to the major road network. It took hours to get down the motorway for the weekend as it was, then another three days to make the last 30 miles on foot while trying to coax along the mule that was laden with our baggage.

The telegraph has made it though, and the incandescent light bulb, so it’s not as though you feel too far away from home. The other preservation of the olden days is the bed and breakfast, where you slumber in a drastically overdecorated room and are somehow watched by the proprietor every single time you leave the house.

A particular delight of the weekend has been our visit to see a play by the Pleasure Dome theatre company (nothing to do with Amsterdam, it’s apparently a reference to a Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem) by some rocks outside. They performed The Signalman, a play by Charles Dickens but also starring his great-great-grandson. Something something nepo grandbaby.

It was a real treat though, and I speak as an uncultured swine. The feral goats stage right, the audience members trying to keep their dogs quiet. It was lovely how the sun setting behind the actors added to the eerie disquiet of the spooky train track based chiller. More theatre ought to be enjoyed from a picnic blanket with a little tub of hummus in front of you.