Swine Flu: The song

It's been a while since I last blogged here as I've been pre-occupied with organising my six-month working trip to Israel - I'm currently working as a news reporter for The Jerusalem Post (and have been for the last three months).

I came across a quirky story with an international flavour, as yet unprecedented on this blog... It seems that some countries outside of the UK occasionally display a bizarre sense of humour...

While Swine Flu causes global panic, an Egyptian singer has decided to voice his fears through song and is calling for pigs to be slaughtered.

“We have yet another disaster, the situation is dangerous. That’s all we needed – Swine Flu”, goes Sha’ban Abd Al-Rahim’s strange, yet catchy song, which debuted on Egyptian TV last week. The singer continues: “If you come across a pig or a sow, you need to quickly get the hell out of there… In every port and airport, we need to write in large letters: ‘You’re not allowed to enter Egypt if you have a pig with you’.”

Abd Al-Rahim, clad in a striking gold blazer during his TV performance, is also concerned that the disease might spread to household pets: “Pigs, birds, and who knows what else – people are getting depressed. May Allah protect us from cats and dogs too… I tell you loud and clear we don’t want to be quiet. It’s a shame people are dying because of pigs and chickens.”

If the eccentric singer hadn’t made his position on the issue clear enough, he concludes: “So what if some pigs die? It’s better than wearing masks over our mouths and noses… We closed down many farms and killed many birds. Now we want the go-ahead to kill all the pigs… If we let the pigs live, we will sacrifice many people. It’s better for people to be healthy, to hell with the pigs… I hope they kill them so people can feel safe”.

Abd Al-Rahim is famed for his topical music and first made headlines with his 9/11 song “Road Map”, which included the line: “Hey people, it was only a tower and I swear by God that they [the U.S.] are the ones who pulled it down.”

In the interview that followed the singer’s performance, Abd Al-Rahim hesitated to shake the interviewer’s hand and subsequently revealed that the epidemic has caused him to evaluate his behavior. “Kissing is out of the question”, he instructed. “When I meet a woman I know, we blow kisses from a distance”. Despite his tough stance on pigs, Abd Al-Rahim is in fact fond of animals and emphasised his particular affection for dogs. He owns two, an English dog and a Black Jack. However, animal lovers may be alarmed to learn that in spite of his partiality for his pets, the singer wouldn’t hesitate to cut their lives short if the flu infected the dogs: “I would [kill them], if it was harmful to people… and besides, there’s talk about compensation. If they pay me for the dogs – no problem, they can kill them for all I care.”

(Anti) vice president

A Surrey man has appealed for local residents to email him directly with prostitute sightings, so he can speed down to the scenes himself. What a lazy good-for-nothing, you might be thinking - if he wants to fraternise with prostitutes, he should locate them himself. Is this community cohesion gone nuts? I don't even know the names of my neighbours and here's a fellow who's getting x-rated tip-offs from his.

Well, let me lay any seedy suspicions to rest by informing you this man is a Conservative parliamentary candidate for Tooting. What do you mean "and"? This one-man anti-vice squad is trying to clean up his local area, says the Surrey Comet.

Mark Clarke, 31, has apparently grown so tired of prostitutes "blighting" the area that he's resorted to escorting some of his family members and even his own girlfriend (known only as "Sarah") down to these unspeakable scenes to “disrupt their work” and "ruin their business" - even though it made his partner "quite distressed".

On one occasion, persistent and brave Clarke spent three hours trying to "reason" with two prostitutes. He was "showered with abuse" and told "I know people who can sort you out" - but left feeling very dissatisfied.

"Most people in the community are afraid of tackling them," said Clarke. "They think the pimp will get them, or they might get done for curb crawling themselves." How does Clarke himself ensure he doesn't get arrested for the latter? "I can do this because everyone including the police knows who I am," he explained, "They know I'm not harassing anyone."

It does make you wonder how many innocents get done for soliciting, when they're really trying to help reform prostitutes. It also makes me wonder, furthermore, how many Tory MPs might have retained their good names if their alleged misdemeanours had really been down to a legitimate desire for social reform. Has any MP ever tried to plead this? Did anyone ever consider that Jeffrey Archer may have paid prostitute Monica Coghlan to go abroad so she could receive a better education and find more respectable work? Was anyone open-minded enough to accept that John Profumo may have had benevolent long-term intentions for Christine Keeler by encouraging her to learn Russian, so she could work as a translator - and perhaps end the Cold War for good?

Of course, Mr Clarke clearly has legitimate and honourable reasons for having regular contact with prostitutes, but frankly the local police force could sound a tad more grateful. Sergeant Jill Horsfall commented: "I don't recommend that anyone stands next to the prostitutes, but that is a matter for Mr Clarke."

Lessons for life

Overweight Macclesfield parents will be forced to join their dumpy offspring in after-school PE classes, in a bid to tackle the swelling obesity crisis, says the Macclesfield Express.

Yes, the obesity issue again. I'm quite fond of this one because growing up, I had more in common with a globular pumpkin than a human child. I'd show you a photo, only my camera didn't have a panoramic lens setting back then. I did have some desire to exercise, I wasn't that fat and feckless. One day I made a snap decision to make more effort and started by sneakily hauling hefty family-size (or "fun ") bags of Walkers to my bedroom instead of the ordinary, puny packets. I watched my upper arms grow with pride - an emotion that peaked triumphantly when I was told I needed the "big girl's" blood pressure cuff at my doctor's surgery. "Big girls" being giant female pandas, presumably. "Chip on my shoulder"? That's a double-chocolate chip you're looking at. And hey. I like it there.

This health scheme is a ten-week fitness programme for families who have a child who is classed as overweight or obese in school health checks. Of course the logic is simple: there's a direct correlation between overweight parents and their "larger-than-life" children. "Out-of-shape mums and dads will be invited to take part in a range of physical activities that could include skipping, running and jumping – as well as learning about diet and nutrition." "Invited"? If my plump mother was invited to get her pulse racing and her pits sweaty at her discretion, she'd politely decline due to a "family function" (chocolate fondue party for one). If kids are forced into publicly humiliating themselves while attempting shoulder-stands and cartwheels, why shouldn't the parents who made them lardy in the first place?

This article is bringing back all kinds of painful PE memories - one of which involved my year 5 PE teacher making the whole class sit and stare at the one pathetic pupil who couldn't manage a forward roll (...me, obviously). "A forward roll? Is that like a sausage roll? Or more like a mini-roll?" I'd lived in the world, you see? So there I was, head pushed on the floor, between my wobbly thighs. And there I was 15 minutes later, tears soaking my eyebrows and the crash mat. What did my mum say when I got home? She wasn't about to write a strongly-worded letter to the cruel tyrant of a teacher. Instead she stroked me on the back, lovingly, and told me she was surprised I found sport so difficult when she remembers herself excelling in it so effortlessly at school.

This course of action by the Central and Eastern Cheshire Primary Trust is partly prompted by new government guidelines for schools - instructing them to send letters home to parents of overweight pupils - "believing too many do not realise their children have a weight problem."

Speaking of "letters", in secondary school, my mother used to write letters to my PE teachers every Thursday (dictated by yours truly) - reporting that some horrendous ailment had befallen me just in time for PE. I was thus under no circumstances to "do games". It was actually usually one ailment - period pain - most weeks. I soon realised that the female PE teachers felt little sympathy for my womanly woes. They often made me change for games anyway (wearing lost property PE kit that I could just about yank over my embarrassing bulges). Desperate, one day I hopefully approached the male PE teachers and was at last victorious! One mention of "ladies bits" and "periods" and they were awkwardly clearing their throats to drown out my pained tones. The head of PE was a man, so which fearless females would take him on? Sure it was a sad state of affairs for feminism, but I was free. Burn my training bra? I'd have sooner burned my plimsolls.

My mother bailed me out of PE so many times and the least I would do for her is get her out of similar scrapes. But if we were both coerced into PE lessons (along with my dad, who can't write comprehensible English anyway), who would write us sick notes? Grandparents? Am I to understand that those without living grandparents are to be so savagely disadvantaged in this way? Will nursing homes around the country commence staff dictation services so grandparents can save their descendants (and any other non-relatives who are prepared to pay their way) from suffering in such an unspeakable manner?

"Gillian is unable to swim today after suffering some unusual HRT side-effects - aged 66, she's started ovulating again and consequently is menstruating. Chloe is also feeling unwell. She badly sprained her upper arm while continuously lifting the contents of a family-size potato-based snack to her mouth. They'll be out of action for approximately ten weeks."

Plus (size) stop

I wish I could tell you this was a new ABBA tribute band - although if it was, it would be called Flabba (you'll get it in a minute, and you'll chuckle hard...) - but it is in fact a group of X41 bus passengers who are limbering up at their local bus stop in east Lancashire.

http://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/hyndburn/accrington/3594963.East_Lancashire_bus_passengers_urged_to_queue_jump_/

I thought that perhaps an honest bus company had finally come out and admitted it's quicker to walk to your destination with one hand super-glued to your foot than to use public transport, but no such luck: "A whole new meaning is being given to the phrase ‘queue jumping’ as a campaign starts to get people exercising at bus stops," according to the Lancashire Telegraph.

I personally hope this scheme will enable passengers, once fitter, to chase missed buses for farther distances - perhaps impressing bus drivers enough to bully their consciences into halting. If not, then at least by the time racing commuters accept they've failed to convince drivers to open up, they've reached the next bus stop and are spared the embarrassment and mean-spirited glares that await their return at their original stop.

We're told that leaflets and posters are being distributed between Accrington and Helmshore: "Featuring six easy-to-do Pilates-style positions and movements, designed to improve posture, alignment, strength and flexibility." For anyone who fears they may feel some embarrassment working out in such a public place - who would? What are a few well-intentioned lunges between public transport customers? - the campaign should put those concerns to rest: "Passengers balancing on one leg, circling, pointing and flexing ankles or simply standing tall, with shoulders back and buttocks in, are told not to feel self-conscious as the movements are discreet." Feel better now, right?

More concerning than the humiliation issue, is the thought of over-60s limbering up at bus stops unattended. Will there be 999 calls to the local ambulance service reporting that an 86-year-old man is unable to board a bus because he got his leg stuck while impressively propping it on top of the bus stop bench? Will citizens of a similar description helplessly watch their buses whizz past them while their non-compliant hands (often used for hailing modes of public transport) are steadfastly focused on touching their toes? But apparently, the 'Every Stop Helps' campaign team purposely decided on the X41 route as "it’s used by a mixture of people with a range of abilities." This is most likely a method of mortification: that is shaming younger, unfit members of the bus-using community into exercising by implicitly snarling: "If old people can do it, so can you, you muffin-top-lard-ass-yoof."

Are YOU lamenting the fact that this scheme is restricted to east Lancashire? Wish you could stand behind a troop of stretching bus commuters? Fear not. The campaign group have spoken: “Eventually we’d like to see ‘Every Stop Helps’ extended to other bus routes and train journeys.”

Who needs to watch the Olympic gymnasts on TV when your friends and family are making history right here on our streets? You witness a greasy, 21-stone teenage boy doing star jumps on a street corner and tell me your human rights haven't been violated. China ain't got nothing on us.

Potty mouth

No, it's not a water fountain or a sink. It's a urinal. And not just any urinal, a "disappearing" one. Hence the sparkling confetti. "Of course!" you're scolding yourself, why else would it look like a scene from The Generation Game?

This is according to the Surrey Advertiser, who frankly, should win an award for their classy headline 'pop-up urinals set to solve a 'wee' problem'.
http://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/s/2032951_popup_urinals_set_to_solve_a_wee_problem_
Lesser journalists may have gone for 'Guildford town council finally takes the piss', 'Residents relieved by local council', 'Whizz kids solve town crisis' or the sensational 'Town council announce: ur-ine safe hands'. Do let me know if you can put a *tinkle* in my eye by bettering these...

Ok, enough. This blog is beginning to look seedier than an allotment.

Guildford borough council spent £54,000 installing a toilet unit, "known as Urilift" and it'll be the first of its kind in Surrey. Made of stainless steel, the two-metre high unit will be hidden underground by day and pop up for business between the hours of 10pm and 3am.

Those of you concerned that the urinal might trap unsuspecting, full-bladdered folk underground should worry no more, as "it will be activated by a person on location."

A council spokesperson reportedly said: "We intend to use the pop-up loo to tackle the problem of people urinating in shop doorways and on the streets of our town centre." Sorry to be pedantic, but this isn't a regular "loo", is it? It's a urinal - that is, for men specifically. I'm not sure whether I'm more put out by "people" (that is, womenfolk included) being blamed for the foul stench of Guildford streets or the fact that women have been callously excluded from this £54,000 initiative.

With regards to the latter, can the tax-paying females of the area expect a tax break, given that their needs aren't being catered for? And is a public body finally admitting that men are the prime cause of public disorder... or at the very least, dis-odour?

You might like to know that previously schemes aimed at tackling this have included a Waterbus (launched in 2004 and relaunched this summer) - a portable water tank complete with buckets, brooms and disinfectant. Those caught peeing in public choose between cleaning up their mess or being arrested.

An anecdote that simply cannot go untold is that of a local man "who was caught relieving himself through the letterbox of a house in Walnut Tree Close, last November." One hopes that this story wasn't a main driver behind the new Urilift scheme. Logic (that infernal voice again) tells me that this man didn't aim his member through a front door because of a lack of public facilities. Stand this man in front of the new Urilift and he'd most probably relieve himself over the orderly queue of well-oiled individuals who will undoubtedly assemble at the new amenity...

The socio-political message that melts in your mouth

This nugget maybe be a few weeks old now, but I have enough experience to know that chocolate keeps for a long while - especially when it's formed in the shape of a baby, avec firearm.

http://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/2406115.chocolatier_planning_knife_crime_sculpture/

Chocolatier Paul Wayne Gregory ("widely considered to be one of the top three chocolatiers in London") plans to "tackle" the rise in knife and gun crime in London through "the medium he knows best" - chocolate - according to The Streatham Guardian.

The 38-year-old chocolate sculptures expert, whose last project was creating a 4ft by 3ft chocolate painting of Nelson Mandela for the former South African leader's 90th birthday, reportedly said: "I think sculptures in chocolate would have a powerful effect to show just how young these child victims and those responsible are."

Maybe, but one can't help question whether chocolate is a suitable remedy for these soaring levels of teenage crime. Firstly, where would we find a fridge big enough to accommodate this massive piece de resistance? Imagine the stench of stale chocolate that would fill the already pungent London skies. Would this really lead to Quality Street(s)? - copyright MBezzle 2008.

Most importantly, would this new chocolatey policy not, I hear you cry, stand at odds with the government's plan to battle the obesity epidemic? The last thing London needs is fatter yobs - but maybe we're missing something here. If, as I've already assumed here, readers, teenagers insist on gobbling away at these sculptures, their exposed boxer short waistbands will grow ever tighter as their health and fitness levels steadily decline. Thus, the ability of delinquent teenagers to run away from the scene of a crime is exponentially reduced - increasing the chance of police officers arresting the wheezing fiends.

And my dad said my politics degree was a waste of time. I've just saved London, dad.

Additionally, Mr Gregory has suggested the idea of a chocolate bust of the London Mayor to a City Hall staff member. Go ahead and snigger if you like, but a chocolate Boris Johnson might just be what London needs. And even if it isn't, we can always melt it down and make cakes and muffins for the masses. If only Boris was as agreeably malleable.

An intro

"And in other news" has been my favourite kind of "current affairs" for a long while. Sure it's interesting and important to know that youth knife crime has soared - but who can resist a story about a Chinese pig with the face of a monkey... aptly titled "the pig with a face of a monkey": http://www.mirror.co.uk/2008/07/28/picture-the-pig-with-the-face-of-a-monkey-115875-20674998/

Apparently "this little pig will stay at home - for fear that nobody will buy a walking bacon sandwich with the face of a monkey." It's touching to see that the Mirror are "doing their bit" for fighting prejudice by affectionately dubbing the monkey pig (no relation to Spider Pig) a "freak piglet". My enduring hope is that this poor creature develops a thick skin and fast (what can one more "alternative" bodily feature hurt?) ...Oh and that it never communicates with its family, given that the pig allegedly "scares the family to even look at it." Sorry, but since when have pigs been a beacon of beauty, possessing the right to assign the dividing line between normal and "beastly"? These animals bathe in mud to cool themselves down. And I don't recall the term "swine" ever being applied to a nice individual.

You see? It's very easy to get carried away with a story that's buried at the back of the newspaper... or showcased on page 3 of the Metro. It's so refreshing to finally find a publication that has its priorities sorted:

"There've been some suicide bombs in Baghdad."

"Right. Big news, eh?"

"You'd be forgiven for thinking that, Gerald."

"Oh, because people are bored of Iraq now, you mean?"

"Sort of. We need an interesting angle. We need some edge, for we're the kooky spit-out-your-coffee-all-over-other-commuters-in-disbelief Metro."

"Right. Well this is fairly outrageous given that over a hundred people were injured."

"But were the bombers human?"

"Sorry?"

"Were there any armed hyenas at the scene?"

"Er…"

“How about irate snails?"

"I don’t think so… no.”

"You don't THINK so? You need to check these things out, Gerald."

"Right. I'll make some... calls?"

"It's my kind of enquiring mind and quality of research that differentiates us from the Times and all those other "proper" papers."

"Yes, sir."

"It's a monkey pig-eat-monkey pig world out there, Gerald. It's up to us to set Britain straight. Well, us and the London Paper.”

I first started keeping my eye on "other news" pieces and local stories after finishing a two-week internship at my own local paper - The Watford Observer. After a few days of subbing, I was finally unleashed onto the fine roads of Watford - following two reporters on a top local story. According to some new ground-breaking research, Watford men are the geographical group least likely (nationally) to change their underwear on a daily basis.

I can still hear the "kerching" sound of a scoop ringing in my ears. Having lived near Watford for most of my life, I could darn well believe it. But the ball-busting editorial team felt they needed hard evidence, and so sent us out to gain some ethnographic insight. To cut a long underwear story short, when local individuals were asked how often they don fresh pants, most felt the need to present their bare backsides to us. I wish I could tell you that I'm joking. Five years and many a disturbing dream later, I still wish to god that I could tell you I'm kidding. Unfortunately, the editors, in their apparent wisdom, wouldn't allow us to communicate the sights (and sounds) we experienced to Observer readers.

Since then, I've been hooked. Hooked on ludicrous stories that some lucky/poor sod has to go away and research - and maybe even conduct interviews on. "Tell me. This monkey pig. What do his family and friends think of him?"

You simply couldn't make it up.