YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE

One of the reasons I do what I do as regards this blog is that I'm not really good at waking up. Seriously, I have nearly injured my hand turning off the alarm clock. On my bedside table you'll find eye covers, ear plugs, and a Jeremy Clarkson book. I don't read it first thing in the morning, of course; the book is to throw at the birds when they get too noisy. (Don’t worry the RSPB - it's only the paperback version).

For my birthday I once got an alarm clock that sang; 'Waking up is hard to do'. As if we didn't have reason enough to hate Neil Sedaka. I can't even sleep when the snooze button is set. Post-alarm-clock sleep is like a shower that will, at any moment, turn ice cold. I've always had trouble falling asleep anyway, something to do with those bedtime stories of yore...

"And the monsters came to overtake the city and make their homes in the closets of children everywhere. The end. Good night, son."

Chances are you've spent your day mumbling to co-workers, bumping into furniture and performing pedestrian chores. Your brain spends the daylight hours in a state of drowsy semi-consciousness, and only decides to spring into life when the lights go out. And ‘morning people’ really take the jam out of my doughnut. By the time you wake up, they've already jogged ten miles and rebuilt the patio.

"You're supposed to wake up at sunrise," they say, "like a rooster."

Rubbish, you’re not supposed to wake up at any time that isn’t natural. And if a rooster wakes me up at sunrise, you'll know exactly what I'm going to be having for breakfast that morning !! Last week I went to a Doctor Who convention in London with a young woman who gets so little sleep herself owing to the crazy amount of sheer stuff she crams into her life it's frightening, and owing to the travel arrangements we had made, subsequently cancelled, then remade again, I had to haul my sorry carcass out of bed at 4am. First, I didn't even know they made a 4 am; but as I lay in bed, eyes bleeding, EH EH EH EH, I started to wonder:

"What if I did go back to sleep ?? I'd make new friends..."

It was cold, too, one of those days when the blankets fuse to your body like an-over amorous shower curtain. It took 30 minutes to finally haul my sorry carcass into full consciousness. Have you ever been so tired that you can't even get up to go the lavatory ?? You almost want to let it be and deal with it later. Maybe there's a market for this - Presenting the new deep-sleep adult undergarment. Yellow and blue makes green !!

My brother-in-law’s best friend Dave, father of twins, bragged about 'sleeping in' till 7 a.m. Let this be a lesson to you young people. When they say to use precautions, this is exactly what you're protecting yourself against. Dave's kids go off at any old hour, and he can't throw a exactly lob a book at them and not worry about taking heat from the RSPB. And why, since we're on the subject, would anyone actually want to sleep like a baby ?? They wake up crying; they don't know where they are … It's like the life and times of Paul Gascoigne.

[Fact: If the alarm clock woke you up this morning, you did not get enough sleep. And now you're being catty. There. It's been said. You almost can't blame the people at Starbucks.]

"Yeah, gimme a triple espresso latte and, uh, serve it in a syringe."

Starbucks isn't the only pusher in town either. Whatchyou want, man, whatchyou want ?? We got Red Bull, Vivarin, Buzz Bites, Monster III and Pro-Plus. Then we skid away to our next appointment - no time to say goodbye, hello, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. They say that the Native American Indians had no concept of time, that it was a gift along with alcohol, firearms, and Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The point being that there is little in life that can't be helped by eight hours sleep and a bowel movement. So ask not for whom the alarm clock buzzes; it buzzes for thee. I'll therefore leave you with these wise words of wisdom from The Beatles, namely a track from “Revolver”, aptly titled, “I’m Only Sleeping”;

When I wake up early in the morning,

Lift my head, I'm still yawning,

When I'm in the middle of a dream,

Stay in bed, float up stream.

Please don't wake me, no,

Don't shake me,

Leave me where I am,

I'm only sleeping.

Everybody seems to think I'm lazy,

I don't mind, I think they're crazy,

Running everywhere at such a speed,

Till they find, there's no need.

Never a truer word spoken, nighty-night !!

WEDDING WHEEL WOES

Last summer a friend of my sister was getting hitched to her long-term beloved just before he was setting off to finish his Army training prior to his tour of Iraq. Admittedly, my role in the proceedings was as minimal as they come, (I didn't even get a bloody invite) but this still served to remind me that this whole business of getting married is more complicated than translating the instruction manual for the Chinese Space Shuttle. Into Klingon. (The less said, of course, about my own pitiful attempts to even get remotely close to getting to the altar myself, the better).

This rather convoluted metaphor sprang from the fact that my brother-in-law and I were roped in to help get some cars sorted out for the big day. Wedding plans being wedding plans, family feuds had been commonplace, the caterer was adamant she wouldn’t do asparagus rolls, the vicar had said that unless the guest list was significantly trimmed down the church doors would have to be held shut with a crowbar, the marquee that was initially ordered had a brown lining and the planned honeymoon in Egypt was aborted for reasons nobody still knows about to this day. Anyway, despite all this, surely getting some wheels sorted out would be the easiest part.

“Don't worry, my Dad works in the motor trade and I talk to uncooperative receptionists for a living. Any car in the world is a phone call away” I said. Like an idiot. First of all, despite the fact that my old man actually WORKS for Aston Martin, it became apparent that his own colleagues couldn't organise an orgy at a strip club, which meant our first choice option was out of the window quicker than a roadrunner with a stick of dynamite wedged up his bottom trying to find his way out of a matchstick and sandpaper factory. Blindfolded. In the dark.

The man at Bentley trotted out a ridiculous message that, when decoded, indicated that the cost would be such that, in order to cover it, the wedding ceremony itself would have had to been held under the wheel arches. Then the squeaky-voiced chap at Jaguar rather delightfully offered us up an XJR12, but considering this was an old barge of a car built during the last days of Ford ownership, the odds of it not breaking down on route to the church meant it was somewhat prudent to turn it down. The very friendly young lady at BMW was delighted to be able to help, but at this point the bride somewhat huffily put her foot down, saying she’d rather turn up at the church in the back of a lorry than in a BMW.

As we began to grind our teeth to talcum powder in frustration, I suggested going down the Top Gear route and ordering a bright lime green Lamborghini Aventador, but several glares and protocol put the knockers on this particular scheme. Then the groom suggested a hot air balloon, in case the wind got up and blew his future mother-in-law all the way to Tunisia. This was also shot down to such an extent the whole damn thing was nearly called off. Finally, with no help from me, the unusual idea of going for a Range Rover surfaced. Yes, said Land Rover, they would be delighted to help. Then it got complicated …

“Would a red one do ??”

“No.”

“How about a green one ??”

“Yes, that would be super, thank you !!”

“It’s an SE model.”

“Ooh, even better.”

Then the bride piped up AGAIN, saying green was an unlucky colour for a wedding car and she didn’t want it.

“(sigh) Okay, what other colours have you got ??”

“Errrrm ... brown ??”

“Errrrm ... NO !!”

“We have one in white ??”

“Yes, yes, white would be perfect !!”

“It’s not an SE.”

At this point, we didn’t give two hoots what it was as long as it had some wheels and a method of propulsion capable of getting a young lady in a big white dress, along with her mother, two miles from a house in King’s Norton to a church in Northfield. An ox and cart would have done by this point. Various circuses were a little reticent about lending us an elephant. And we also failed to find anyone who even owns a camel, let alone someone who would let us tie some balloons to its testicles. The options kept coming and were just as quickly struck off.

"A horse and cart ?? What if it rains on the day ??"

"A steam engine, or a tractor ??"

"Errrr, the bride’s only meant to be fashionably late."

Even the suggestion of a good old fashioned Rolls Royce was determined to be ‘a bit naff’. It was then at this point, the best man suddenly stepped into the fray with a massive grin on his face and his mobile phone by his ear. He absolutely refused to tell us what he had planned; only that it would make everyone laugh. This made the groom extremely worried. I still haven’t seen the wedding photos to this day, but I can’t help wondering whether or not it was a 1998 Nissan Sunny ZX-GT with go-faster stripes. 

If that was the case, his colleagues will probably still be wondering why he keeps turning up for work unable to digest solid food and with his head still stuck on back-to-front.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE PRESENTS: "THE DISSEMINATION" (A SHORT STORY)

It was a dark night. The darkest night there had ever been, in fact. The moon had attempted to brighten the sky, but had eventually given up and moved to Alpha Centauri. The tides had not noticed - yet. Hopkins could see the dim flicker of a car's headlights coming towards him, gathering speed in an effort to crush him. 

He leapt out of the way just in time, and the headlights sped past, almost clipping his ear. It was a further ten minutes before the rest of the car arrived. Campbell stepped out of the car and shook Hopkins's hand. "Sorry I'm late," he explained, "But my headlights flew off without me and I couldn't see where the hell I was going."

"It's always the same with Hondas", commiserated Hopkins.

"Anyway, down to business..." started Campbell, but his voice broke off. He then reattached it using a paper clip. Hopkins shivered, and the night seemed to grow even darker. Somewhere an owl hooted, but it wasn't anywhere near them so it didn't really matter.

"Business..." he mumbled, looking at the floor. "Must we?"

"It must be done", replied Campbell. "I must disseminate essential information. That is my purpose."

"OK. Then take this." Hopkins handed Campbell a flat board, as used in games like Monopoly, Chess and Polo. "I can help you no further." And with that, he was gone. Campbell stared at the board. The side closest to his eyes was marked with roman numerals. The other sides were identical, except that one had letters on it and the other two were covered in felt.

"What the hell is thing? How will this aid me in the dissemination of essential information? What does Christopher Biggins do these days?" These questions raced through Campbell's mind, and the one about Biggins won. Although it was a photo finish.

But before these questions could be answered, the sea noticed that the moon had gone after reading an article about it in 'New Scientist'. The tides disrupted, and a gigantic tidal wave roared over the world. Campbell saw the huge mass of water bearing down on him, and he knew that he was doomed. But - as the wave was about to hit him, he held the board over his head out of desperation.

The water hit it, and dispersed either side of him. Saved, he sat on the board and floated off on the huge lake that was once England. He knew what he must do - find survivors, and disseminate essential information to them. Campbell floated for hours, the board supporting his weight on the new ocean that had so rudely knackered England. Eventually he came to a small, man-made platform in the sea. It was smaller than an oil rig, yet bigger than a vinegar bottle. A winch was lowered down to him, and he was raised aboard. He was greeted by a small Chinese man.

"Greetings, O Stranger. I am Onli Wun Lung, master of the cult of Naxos."

"I am Campbell" replied Campbell, because he was.

"The cult of Naxos has been expecting this flood. It was foretold in the Book of All Things," said the Chinaman, holding up an Argos catalogue.

"I see", said Campbell, because he could. In fact, his eyesight was very good.

"Come, join my disciples for a meal", continued the Chinaman, "Do you like steak?".

"Yes, I do", answered Campbell, because he did. Medium rare, usually.

The chinaman led Campbell up a spiralling staircase, into what passed for a dining room. Five young women sat round the table, and stared at the men as they entered. The Chinaman motioned for Campbell to sit down, and the motion was carried 6 to 1. After the Chinaman had left to prepare the meal, Campbell cleared his throat and turned to his eating companions.

"What the bloody Hell's going on round here, then?", he asked.

"We are members of the Cult of Naxos, unfortunately", said the woman closest to him.

"Eh? Why don't you just escape?" asked Campbell, as it seemed important at the time.

"Because our feet are cemented into the floor", answered another of the women.

"I can see how that would make running away a problem," said a concerned Campbell, "What is this Naxos thing anyway?"

"The Master, Onli Wun Lung, worships those cheap classical music CD's that clutter up record shops. This platform is a testament to his faith." Campbell was still confused, only more so.

"But where did he get the money to build it?" he asked.

"He invented the original format for Noel's House Party," replied the third woman on the left.

"That bastard!!" screamed Campbell, enraged. By the time the Chinaman had returned with the meal, Campbell was deep in thought.

"What are you thinking, O honoured guest?" inquired Onli Wun.

"I'm thinking of an old paintbrush on a staircase, and I don't know why," replied Campbell.

"Never mind, here is the meal" said the Chinaman, briskly. "And afterwards, I will give you a huge sum of money for no particluar reason, O honoured guest."

"Thanks ... " replied Campbell, his anger subsiding.

"But, before the meal, I must play this Modern Jazz Quartet record to honour Naxos," stated the Chinaman, in an overtly holy manner. Campbell screamed, leapt from the window, and paddled off on the board as fast as he could. He paddled for what seemed like horses, but were in fact hours. Eventually he fell asleep, and the board continued drifting. He awoke on a beach, the board still beneath him. The felt was soaked, and had sand stuck to it. Which was a shame. He looked up to see two pallid men dressed in purple robes standing above him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, more politely than you might expect.

"We are the Observers. We watch all. We have semi-infinite powers, which you cannot begin to understand. You are as an amoeba to us." replied one of the pasty fellows.

"Eh? Where is this place?" inquired Campbell, like the rapscallion he is.

"You could not understand, for you are as an amoeba." an observer replied. Campbell stood up and brushed the sand from the board's felt.

"Why do you keep saying I am as an amoeba?"

"You could never hope to understand our ways, for you are as an amoeba."

"It makes you feel big, saying that, doesn't it?"

"We have no feelings in the same way as you do, amoeba-like one. We are vastly removed from such inferior notions as arrogance and pride."

The other observer shot Campbell a glance, using an old cannon. "You're as an amoeba!" he giggled.

"Oh shut up," said Campbell. "Have you got anything to eat? I'm starving." An observer handed Campbell a bowl full of coloured pills.

"This is the food we eat. You could not possibly comprehend, for you are as an amoeba." Campbell took the bowl.

"Wow! Is one of these pills the nutritional equivalent of a full meal? Or will a single one last me a whole week?" he asked. An observer shook his head.

"Er.. .no. You have to eat a whole bowl." the other observer chipped in, "Three times a day, usually. We use this device called a spoon!" he added. A spoon was handed to Campbell, as you might well expect.

"Hmmm. Thanks," he said, obviously unimpressed. The observers looked distraught. Then one whispered, "Amoeba!" and they started giggling and cheered up a bit. After Campbell had eaten the bowl of pills, he decided to ask more questions. This was probably a good idea.

"So... Observed anything good lately?" he asked.

"Everything has been observed by us. We are aware of your purpose." came the enigmatic reply.

"What? You know of my mission to disseminate essential information?" Campbell asked, as excited as a little boy with a new cog.

"Yes. Your information must be disseminated to the remaining populace of the Earth. You can use our phone, if you like." Campbell called the only remaining radio station in the world, who offered him a five-minute slot after the Golden Oldies hour. And after Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing', Campbell spoke, and those with radios listened.

"Ignorance can always negate sanity. Maybe, eventually, lunatics lose sight of our threats."

The speech was made; few listened, and fewer still understood. Most thought he was being secretly ironic or something. But the essential information had been disseminated - only time would tell if it would help.

The observers listened to the message, and knew it's true meaning. They remained silent for a moment, then eventually one finally decided to speak up.

"That phone call is going to cost us a fucking fortune … "

THE END