Talk To Rex

Just in case anyone wants proof that 19th century gear suits me better than anything in my own wardrobe, here is my resplendant self taking a turn around the garden with Alastair.

It looks like 19th century clothes suit him as well.

Alastair was also responsible for the moment when I did a Colin Firth style “emerging from the lake”. I suggested as the party wore on that it might be aposite to wander around in shirt sleeves with a damp, smouldering look, to which he responded by turning the shower on me. The results speak for themselves.

I’m sure it’s what Jane Austen would have wanted.

One of the joys of being a resident at 2 Victoria Street, aside from the fact that our ceiling is lined with sewage (file under “still unresolved”), is that our parties have become notorious for being stylish and memorable events.

We set the standard with our 1930s-themed housewarming party, at which people wore hats, outlandish cocktails were mixed and Miller’s Crossing was projected on the wall. Our winter warmer party in December raised the bar even further, with somebody tearing two ligaments dancing to the Mary Poppins soundtrack and a member of the household (who shall remain nameless for his own protection) drunkenly touching the left nipple of one of the female guests without waiting to be invited.

On Sunday night, however, I feel that we beat all previous records with the most successful venture yet: our long-awaited Pride and Prejudice party.

Some would say that this was a cynical cashing-in on the fact that we live with a Mr Bennett. But whatever our motives, this was a genuinely classy affair. For a start, we all looked fabulous – our trip to a local costumier involved the realisation that 19th century garb looks better on me than anything I actually own. Secondly, our house, lit almost entirely by candles, also looked fabulous – and we saved on an evening’s worth of electricity. It was also a civilised evening throughout; fine wine and champagne flowed freely, there was domestic performance at the virginal (well, Alastair and I bashed through the Pride and Prejudice theme on the piano), people took turns around the garden (we only have a tiny backyard, but after a little encouragement guests threw themselves into turning around it with great aplomb) and we even managed a spot of country dancing.

The dance in question was a simple little number called “The Love Knot”, and in case you would like to attempt it at your own parties (it is highly recommended) here are the directions:

Longways, four facing four.
First Lady leads the Ladies line leads round Gents line (8 bars).
First Gent drags other Gents round Ladies Line (8 bars).
Top couple cross to other line, “weave” down “wrong” line to bottom, then return to own side and stay down there (8 bars).
Make two stars, near & far, right & left (8 bars).
Ladies start again with new top lady.

I suggest you walk through the moves once or twice then whack on the music. Our guests managed it admirably, though Chris did choose to interpret “weave” down “wrong” line to bottom as meaning throw yourself on top of the lady opposite – but that’s pretty much what we’ve come to expect.

Most successfully of all, the same female guest as last time had her left nipple touched by a member of the household – albeit with her consent (and indeed her other nipple).

On the downside, my bike has been stolen – again. It is widely known that bike theft in Cambridge is virtually an industry in its own right, and it doesn’t seem to me as a resident that the police are doing an awful lot about it. For all that their website boast testimonials from six-year-olds who have been reunited with their beloved vehicles after nights of fearful weeping, this is now the fourth time I have had a bike stolen, but the only arrest ever made in connection with my vehicle was when I was fined £30 for cycling home without lights a couple of years ago (uncharacteristically, I might add). At two in the morning, along a deserted road. Far be it from me to accuse the Cambridgeshire Constabulary of sloth, but the phrase “easy target” does spring to mind.

Bravo to Jason Fout who, in order to satisfy my need to procrastinate constantly, has started a week-long Distractionfest. I must say, his efforts to find diverting stories are so impressive I’m wondering if he has distracted himself more than me. Perhaps he sees it as vocational.

It turns out I’ve been laid up in bed with a cold so it’s not even like I’ve been doing any work to need distracting from. But I have been much comforted by the pictures of Rudolf Carnap’s parents.

The news that Alan Johnson is going to raise the compulsory school leaving age to 18 has a possible side effect which the department of education may not have considered. It has been made clear that there would be exemptions for teenage mothers – which I would say offers an obvious and pretty darn simple way out for youngsters who don’t want to stay in school.

What I’m suggesting is that the decision might see an alarming rise in the number of teenage pregnancies.

Another side effect of what I suspect will in the future be known as “the 21st century school leavers’ baby boom” is that, given that genetic science has not yet evolved to the point of allowing teenage boys the option of childbirth, the ratio of educated boys to girls will rise dramatically.

Having spent the previous century fighting for their independence and equality, womankind may be about to suffer a terrible blow as an entire generation of uneducated women stay at home to bring up children while their male contemporaries get clever and carry on the work of running the country.

Just a thought.

I never thought I’d say it. I once did some temping for Cambridge City Council and they treated me like shit. They tax us an unbelievable amount for living in this house and to claim any kind of support you have to go through nine circles of hell and come back with Satan’s broomstick (see former complaints).

And yet, when they go to live in hell, will Cambridge City Council be in the ninth circle (which, as you’ll know if you’ve read yer Dante, represents treachery and has all of the sinners frozen in a lake called Cocytus)? The answer is, no. They may end up in the fifth circle, reserved for the Wrathful and Sullen. But that will still put them many levels above Ambassador Property Management, for whom the eighth circle of hell (fraud) is reserved. (If there’s any justice, said fraudsters will end up in the second section of the eighth circle, where the souls are immersed in their own excrement.)

Because unlike Ambassador, it transpires that Cambridge City Council occasionally actually do what they are meant to!

Cambridge City Council Environmental Services
11 January 2007

Dear Mr Lark

I write further to our meeting at 2 Victoria St on 3rd January 2007 concerning your complaint of disrepair to the kitchen and bathroom.

(Point of note – I didn’t complain about the kitchen, since there was no excrement dripping from it. However, it was in a bit of a state when the nice man from Environmental Services came round, what with Alastair having left a lot of washing up to be done, and I think it’s as well that the situation was exaggerated.)

– I understand that the saniflow macerator pump broke down in mid November and was replaced during mid December. During a period of time faecal matter leaked from the saniflow chamber onto the bathroom floor, through the floor boards and eventually through the ceiling in the hallway and onto the carpet below.

– On entry to the house I detected an unusual musty odour in the hallway.

(Alastair and I agreed that this is actually caused by Chris’ dirty washing, which he stores in a kind of dirty washing version of a pot pourri dispenser.)

Whilst not offensive this odour was not pleasant.

(Well, we’re not disputing that.)

– The hallway ceiling plaster is damaged in an area immediately beneath the WC and there is a stain on the carpet below this.

(The stain in question was actually caused by a careless member of Girton choir and a glass of red wine within two weeks of our moving in here, but as Alastair said, “let them paint a picture”.)

The bathroom floor covering has lifted and is ill fitting in places around the saniflow and WC.

– It is likely that as a result of the leaking saniflow the bathroom floor covering, floor boards/ceiling and carpet have been contaminated with faecal waste and require thorough cleaning and disinfection.

I have contacted Sarah Lawson at Ambassador requesting that they carry out the following.

– Carry out repairs to the ceiling plaster and make good afterwards.

– Thoroughly clean and disinfect the area of stained carpet where the contamination dribbled through the floorboards in the hallway.

– Lift the bathroom floor covering and thoroughly clean and disinfect the floorboards below.

– Refit/replace the bathroom floor covering as it has lifted from the floorboards around the WC.

I trust that Ambassador will carry out the works in the next few weeks. If the have not made any progress in three weeks please contact me again.

Yours sincerely
Name and address supplied

Need I point out the huge triumph this represents? The system, it would appear, worked this time.

Furthermore, if you google for “ambassador property shit”, this blog is the first thing to come up! Now if I could only achieve the same result for “ambassador property”, my life would be complete…

Over the next couple of weeks, Kevin is doing a number of shows at The Etcetera Theatre in Camden, including mask, improvisation and (unless he’s cut that bit) puppetry using found objects – amongst other things. If you have a soul, you’ll like his work, so please: go see.

Thank God for Virginia Ironside, who in yesterday’s Independent cleared up the whole complex moral question of aborting potentially disabled babies. Responding to an anguished reader who has taken the difficult decision to have an abortion because her child would have been disabled, Virginia reassures her that actually it would be completely wrong not to have an abortion in that situation.

“What parent,” Virginia asks, “would knowingly give birth to a child who she knows is going to be born at a dreadful disadvantage, probably having to suffer endless operations, pain and suffering for what may be a very short life?” A very bad one, I think we are meant to conclude.

That’s that then – if in doubt, don’t give birth to that handicapped person. It’s a good job we’ve got hacks like Virginia to sort out these issues, as the people who are supposed to be qualified to do so – the Priests, the philosophers, the Reader’s Digest – are still dragging their feet and debating them endlessly. And if only we’d had the technology to identify potential disabilties in previous centuries, we might have avoided the lives of Ray Charles, Stephen Hawking, Lord Byron, Beethoven, and every single one of those athletes who has won a medal in the paralympics. And if Professor Hawking was reading this, I’m sure he’d be the first to agree he should never have been born – though I fear he’s currently too busy answering questions from all around the world about the first ever discovery of a triple quasar in space. Tsk – the life of a quadriplegic, eh.

But even if Hawking were to argue that he’s rather pleased that he was born, Virginia Ironside has anticipated his argument: “Writing this will, I know, bring in an avalanche of letters…from severely disabled adults who are horrified that I’m proposing their lives should have been extinguished before they were even born. And once they’re on the scene, of course what is there to do but love them and help them?” Of course, what indeed? It isn’t their fault they were born. “But,” she warns, “those who write optimistically about a disabled life are the lucky ones” – that’s right, disabled people who believe they had every right to be born are just selfishly ignoring all the others who would rather be dead.

In any case, as a reader letter succinctly puts it: “a handicapped child handicaps the entire family”. Damn right, they just drag everyone else down with them. Bring on the gas chambers. (Quoted reader is, I’m glad to say, now enjoying a box of Charbonnel et Walker champagne truffles for their profound opinion.)

Reading a little deeper, I think that Virginia is actually making an even more profound point; when she says that “it is only kind, fair and, importantly, truly loving not to give birth to a child who might spend its life in permanent pain and suffering”, she is surely advocating a blanket stop to any childbirth whatever. After all, any child might spend its life in permanent pain and suffering – God knows, many of us feel that we do. We all know that man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery – and as Virginia says, “there is nothing about life that makes it worth living per se”. I only wish that my parents had loved me enough to have me aborted.

Virginia Ironside is, as I said, expecting an “avalanche of letters” so if you can spare a moment email your thoughts to dilemmas@independent.co.uk because I wouldn’t wish to begrudge her a little feeling of satisfaction at every narrow-minded conservative who disagrees with her. After all, she’s probably still coming to terms with the fact that her parents didn’t love her enough to put an end to her foetus’ growth into a human being.

Well – a being, at any rate.

J. S. B. Monsell’s hymn O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness declares in the fourth stanza, “mornings of joy give for evenings of tearfulness”.

After the kind of week I’ve had, I can’t help feeling that a more useful dictum might be “evenings of joy make for mornings of tearfulness”…