The Frumplingtons

We may not know much about graphic design, but we know what we like. And so, inspired by an article I read at the weekend about something called The Design Disease — it’s a tale of obsession, punctuated by photos of pencils; you should read it — and by later mention, in general conversation, of satirical signwriting artist, Bob and Roberta Smith, we decided to splash out on a book about typography and calligraphy. It’s on its way to us in the post at the moment.

I haven’t had much previous experience at the art of calligraphy. Shana therefore suggested that, while waiting for the book to arrive, I should practice on something suitable for beginners; something simple. Like potato printing. It’s ever so easy, apparently. All you have to do is cut away the areas of the spud that you don’t want, and carve the rest of the potato into the reverse image of the letter you want to print. Press the potato onto some paint and from there onto a sheet of paper and viola! (sic) — your first potato print.

It’s how Gutenberg got started, you know.

“That sounds like a doddle,” I said, after Shana had explained the process to me. I had to promise not to use all the potatoes, though. Otherwise there’d be none left for our evening meal. (It’s potatoes and chips tonight. My favourite!)

“I’ll get started right away,” I said. “If you want me, I’ll be sitting out on the front stoop, whittling potatoes.”

“Oh yeah?” said Shana. “I suppose you’ll pick up the guitar and sing the blues from time to time will you? We’re not in the Deep South, you know. This is Lincoln, Lincolnshire. Not Sweet Home Bloomin’ Alabama.”

I think that should perhaps have been Sweet Potato Bloomin’ Alabama.

“And besides,” said Shana, “It’s half past midnight!”

Well, that sort of clinched it. There’s no arguing with Shana sometimes.

Chris

Returning from an early morning trip to town today, we saw a bus about to turn into Lincoln’s busy Broadgate. While waiting for the lights to change, the driver was altering the destination sign on the front of his bus. We watched the names go round: Cherry Willingham, Birchwood, Boultham, North Hykeham. Maybe it was the Wheel of Fortune bus, out on a mystery tour: Round and round the name sign goes. Where it stops, no-one knows.

Or perhaps the driver was just dithering and couldn’t make his mind up where he fancied going next.

I couldn’t help thinking what might happen if he was a bit too enthusiastic with his winder, though. He might break something. Damn, the handle’s come off!

And what would happen then? Would the bus, together with its doomed cargo of human souls, be condemned to travel from Lincoln to North Hykeham and back for the rest of eternity, like some kind of busman’s equivalent of the Flying Dutchman? I like to think it might: however scientific and rational we are, it does no harm to have a few legends and myths in life. It’d be darn good value for the price of one of those day-saver tickets too.

Chris

According to some sources, we see more than 300 ads every day. Unfortunately, I usually lose count at around 253. But one telly ad that amuses me at the moment is the one for top travel company, Expedia, whose current slogan is ‘let yourself go‘. Every time the ad is on, I can’t help remarking to Shana: “I’m afraid I already have.”

Today’s ads might be cleverer, and consumers more sophisticated, than they used to be. But pre-War advertising is still hugely entertaining and often totally outrageous with some of its claims. Lots of brilliant examples can be found at Nostalgiaville. My own favourites include the one pictured above for Crosby’s Vitalized Phosphites, which apparently “will help any case of mental or nervous exhaustion or anxiety resulting from over-work”. The makers are clearly keen to sell the stuff. Halfway down the ad they ask: “Shall we send you a descriptive pamphlet?” You might think twice about their product, however, when you discover that Professor Percy’s vitalized phosphites are made from “a concentrated white powder from the phosphoid principle of the ox-brain”.

Erm…I’ll have to think about it….

The same company also produced the wonderfully alliterative Crosby’s Cold and Catarrh Cure, which, we are reassured, “does not contain cocaine, morphine, nor narcotics of any description”.

I’ll take six bottles then, please.

Some things are much less appetising though. Like Dr. Swett’s Root Beer. Can’t see that catching on in today’s trendy bars, can you?

You don’t hear much about Dr. Hubbard’s Vegetable Germicide (The Great Family Remedy) nowadays either.

Or the Health Jolting Chair (The most important health mechanism ever produced). Could be just what the NHS needs. Or maybe not.

But there might still be a market in certain establishments for Professor Baker’s Belt of Life — “The only effectual…adaptation of self-applicable medical electricity for the treatment of rheumatism, lumbago, sciatica…deafness, epilepsy and other derangements.” (My bold.)

I’m still trying to work out, three hours after seeing the ad, how a glorified truss is supposed to cure your deafness.

The standard belt is priced at six dollars. But you can buy belts of higher power for 12 and 18 dollars. Thank heavens mains electricity wasn’t widespread in those days, otherwise they’d probably have been flogging the plug-in version for 20 bucks.

You could spend hours browsing through the ads at Nostalgiaville, but remember, they are still adverts; they are still trying to persuade you to part with your cash. Keep your guard up and don’t go spending your money on anything silly.

Chris

Winter is here at last. Two flakes of snow in the south of England and you’d think it was a new Ice Age. Meanwhile, the threat of bird flu has still not materialised (as if it ever will). You’ve much more chance of catching the little blue fella pictured above. Recognize him? He’s a rhinovirus. A ‘plush rhinovirus’, to be precise. And you can, apparently, enjoy ‘cuddly fun’ with him or any of his virus pals, including plush Streptococcus, plush Yersinia pestis (Black Death), and even a plush Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (mad cow disease) prion.

So, where can you get these bizarre cuddly toys from? Edinburgh’s very own Voga, that’s where.

Now, we’ve got upwards of a dozen teddy bears. I know it’s verging on sacrilege, but those viruses are so sweet.

I wonder if Voga do swaps…

Chris

Shana found an Online Fuzzy Felt page. So I went and made this picture of sheep, using the drag-and-drop tools provided. Other animals are available, but I felt somehow drawn to the sheep. I shall be visiting the page again. It’s my kinda thang (as if you hadn’t guessed).

Oh, and if you’re wondering why the bird is carrying an orange, well, satsuma thing you’ll have to figure out for yourself.

Chris

The container vessel, Napoli, ran aground just off the Devon coast over the weekend. Unfortunately,

1. Neither of us has a motorcycle licence.
2. We don’t have any children.
3. We can make one bottle of wine last a whole year.

Therefore, we have no use for BMW bikes, pallet-loads of diapers or old oak casks of vino. And the only sympathy we really have is for the oiled seabirds.

But let’s not get all moralistic about this. If a container full of cakes just happens to arrive on the beach, feel free to alert us via the comments link below.

We’re on 24-hour standby.

Chris

Sainsbury’s are excellent. There is lots to choose from in their online store. They even have more than one brand of toilet tissue. (Yes, that’s right: there is no longer any need for us use torn up copies of the Lincolnshire Echo on our visits to the privy.)

We were a bit puzzled by the price information on the bog roll page, though. First, there is the price per unit. That is simply the price for the entire pack of 9, 12 or however many rolls you want. This is followed by what we assume to be a more detailed breakdown of the price, which, in the example below, appears to be 24p per 100sht.

What we want to know is, what is a ’sht’ ?

If you want to watch grown men acting like spoilt children, both Match of the Day and its ’sister programme’, Match of the Day 2, are essential viewing. Tonight’s MoTD2 featured the customary montage of name-calling and shirt-tugging incidents, including one unfortunate player pillock who was sent off about five seconds after coming on as a substitute. Adrian Chiles’s running commentary was the perfect blend of contempt, derision and astonishment. That dry Brummie humour never fails to entertain.

When the camera cut back to the studio afterwards, Chiles turned to one of his co-presenters: “You’re no stranger to touchline rumpuses yourself,” he said. “Or should that be ‘rumpi’?”

“That Adrian Chiles is far too educated for Match of the Day,” I said to Shana. “He’ll be after Paxman’s job on University Challenge next.”

Strangely, although I knew Chiles had only been joking, I still found it hard to resist checking the etymology of ‘rumpus’. And this sort of thing seems to have been happening more and more over the past year or so. If it gets any worse, I’ll be spending all day looking up ‘the ‘ and ‘and’. I might even insist on reading the dictionary at the dinner table, although I’m not sure that Shana would approve of my propping it up against the tomato sauce bottles.

Why do I have this sudden urge to investigate words I know perfectly well? I have joked that it might be due to what I vaguely refer to as ‘early-onset….’ The ellipsis is quite deliberate. Shana and I both tacitly understand the full phrase to be something along the lines of ‘early-onset stupidity/daftness etc’, as if it’s something I’ve caught from the local yokels since moving to Lincoln several years ago. This could quite possibly be true. But further tests are needed.

Chris

Britain was battered by gales earlier this week. We did the sensible thing (I know, unusual for us, isn’t it?) and stayed in all day wearing our sou-westers and cowering on the sofa in front of Trash in the Attic, waiting anxiously for the waves and spray to reach our front windows.

After a couple of hours, we told ourselves, in our best mockney accents, not to be so bleedin’ silly: we live on the first floor in the middle of an urban area. (Aspiring actors may feel free to insert a hearty “for goodness’ sake” at the end that last sentence.) A rather tatty urban area maybe. But still, miles from the nearest ocean and in no danger of being inundated by the North Sea — or any other inland waterways — for many years to come.

In fact, apart from hearing a few gusts of wind from time to time, we were unaffected by any of this week’s wild weather.

We were puzzled though, when we saw film of some localized flooding on one news programme. When rivers burst their banks, the water is always a pale, muddy brown colour. And there are always tree branches and other debris, sometimes even cars, being swept rapidly downstream by the force of the water.

But you never see any startled ducks being swept downstream with them. I see them in my mind of course, beaks open, aghast at this new experience, ducky eyes a-goggling in horror, and quacking madly for assistance. But you never actually see it happen.

Or is the BBC keeping quiet about its secret stash of duck footage? I’d love to know.

Chris