Back to the blogging

I've been otherwise engaged lately, what with half term and doing other things other than blogging. I've also been seeing how the coalition is bedding down before making any comment that could be regarded as meaningful. I've also been watching Britain's Got Talent. And it definitely has. Piers Morgan is dead right. We talk ourselves down terribly. If anything is going to get us out of this catastrophic mess, then it's talented people. Some will make us laugh, some will make us cry, but we need a dose of reality on the way.

With regard to Ant and Dec, I think they deserve their BAFTA. They've virtually learnt their trade in full view of the public. There was a time when I didn't know who they were. I thought it was someone called Anton Deck. I muttered something as much to my wife. She responded by saying they were really Antanddec, rather like Williamandmary, aka King Billy and his queen. Speaking to my sister over the weekend she said they always had to stand with Ant on the left so that people knew which was which. "You know some people don't know which is which!" she exclaimed. A straw poll seemed to confirm that. Very strange. I can understand not knowing them both, but surely not when one is aware of them as performers.

So I watched the BAFTAs and, when they came up to receive the award, they had to get into position. It's not as though they look alike. I'd suggest they forgo this and just stand as they want. And those too moronic to decipher who is who, well.......

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Adolf Hitler taken into custody!

I had a post about what's in a name recently. Some people don't like their names, others are quite happy. I once remarked to my wife that nobody is called Napoleon, only to see a chap on Dutch TV called Napoleon Smit. Now it is reported that the authorities in New Jersey have taken exception to the name Adolf Hitler for a three year old boy. That's right, Adolf Hitler Campbell. They are afraid he might grow up to be some kind of Scottish-American Nazi! Heaven help us.

This all came to prominence because the parents went to a ShopRite supermarket in Greenwich, New Jersey and the cake decorators refused to inscribe Adolf Hitler Campbell's name on a cake for his third birthday.

The child protection unit say it's not about the name, but they won't say what is the real reason for seizing the child. I suppose they couldn't do it just on a name only. There are some pretty weird names out there and some people might be ringing up the welfare people every day.

So no cake for the little boy. The parents must be a bit barking, but if they have looked after the child for three years, why now? It surely wasn't the cake incident alone.

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What's in a name?

Over the past few months Barack Obama's name has been the subject of much talk. How is it pronounced is one question. Burr Ark - that's how some Americans say it. "We've got a brand new vessel, Mr. Noah! It's the latest thing in flood protection!" Then there are the Barrack disciples. Sounds like an Army hut on its own. And then there's Beer Rack, a shelving system for Budweiser.

He should come out and declare which one is appropriate for a would-be president. Colin Powell did. Captain Mainwaring in Dad's Army tried, in vain mostly, to get Captain Square to stop saying Main Waring. "It's Mannering!" he'd say, peevishly. Part of my antecedence is through the Burnett family. A great aunt used to admonish anyone who would not follow her advice. "I say wrap it up and throw it on the fire and BURN IT!" No Burr Nett for her! My grandmother spent most of her days in Yorkshire being labelled "Mrs Bayonet", which may not have been that inappropriate.

Names are very important. They are who we are. Get them wrong and we feel diminished in some way. I well remember being asked to chair a meeting and the tables had been arranged to form a square. I took the rash step of introducing about 25 names. An eager adviser came up afterwards, "I saw you struggling," he said, in a rather machievellian way. "You should have got them to say their own names". I learnt a lesson. Get a name wrong, and offence may be taken. I managed OK, but never again.

My mother was born in Lincolnshire. So was Margaret Thatcher. The link about stops there. However, Mrs T would talk fondly of Grantham and her father's shop. She put the town back on the map. My mother wondered not so much about Mr. Roberts and his grocery dispensing but if there was anyone left who did not say GRAN THUMB!

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