Month: August 2007

a pinch of salt

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I’ve been reading Mark Kurlansky’s book “Salt”. I’m about halfway through, so I don’t know who the killer is yet; don’t spoil it for me. It’s basically a world history, through the medium of salt, or rather it’s a salt-coated world history. Or rather, it’s a history of the world, spattered with tenuous links to the importance of salt. It’s interesting, sure, but it could do with some pepper.

The rise of of the Celts? Salt. The cornerstone of Chinese civilization? Salt. Great Pyramids of Egypt? Salt. The paid armies of Imperial Rome? Salt. Etymology of half the words in English, and every other language for that matter? Salt. JFK? Salt. The Beatles? Salt. Bush’s election victory in 2000? Salt. The dodgy penalty decision in the Liverpool-Chelsea match last week? Salt. It’s incredible what you learn.

When I was about seven I stayed with my aunt and cousins in Norwich for a few weeks. One morning, before breakfast, my cousin Daniel thought it would be hilarious if he poured a load of salt into my orange squash. It tasted funny, and even though he confessed I still drank it all up, not knowing the consequences. Within ten minutes I was throwing up all over the breakfast table (and all over my cousin Debbie’s leather jacket), feeling rotten, and I learnt then and there that whatever else you may do with salt, you don’t put it in your morning drink. To be fair to my cousin, it probably was hilarious to watch. Well at least I have an interesting story about salt. Perhaps Kurlansky can put it in the second edition.

Originally posted at 20six.co.uk/petescully

hanging on the telephone

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I rejoined the communications age tonight. After living a Hereward-like existence for nearly two years, I finally got a mobile – oh, sorry, a ‘cellphone’. It’s not too dissimilar to the one I had in the UK (just, you know, not blue). I never really use the phone anyway, if I can avoid it. But here, unlike in the UK and Europe, you actually get charged for receiving calls, and for receiving texts. It’s a disgrace I tell thee. So don’t call me, I won’t answer.

I tell you what though, twice today – firstly calling Fed-Ex, secondly calling AT&T – I had to use those voice-activated phone systems. I hate using those. Especially in public. For one thing, the bloody things can’t understand my accent. I say, clear as James Bond, “more options,” and they reply, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, can you please repeat?” This went on. It’s all very time-consuming, and brings me to mind that Kevin Bloody Wilson song, the one about the guy who gets so angry with the phone company he tells them to stick the phone up, well, their bum. I did mention the voice system to the lady when i finally got through, and she tried giving it the “well yes, the system does have problems when we come up against lovely accents such as your own,” to which i replied, “ho ho ho, your mind tricks won’t work on me!” (well i didn’t, but i thought it, and i thought it in the jabba voice as well). Then later on, I call AT&T to top up my phone for the first time, not knowing it was another irritating voice-system. I muttered something to my wife about the message being in Spanish – and it recognised the word ‘Spanish’ and launched into the whole schpiel in espanol. I hate talking to robots. If I wanted to do that I’d pretend to have conversations with R2-D2. Well I do that anyway (he hates it when I call him Dusty Bin).

Still, the phone was a bloody good deal – just twenty bucks, phone and sim card, and that includes ten dollars credit. Can’t go wrong, guv.

By the way, did I remember to use the ‘hanging on the telephone’ gag about Saddam being executed and those guys capturing it on their mobiles? If not, well, I’m using it now.

Originally posted at 20six.co.uk/petescully

false prophets

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The fans were getting impatient. “Bench it Like Beckham,” read one sign, while others berated him for having the audacity to be injured. The American sportsfan attention span was quickly turning against him, but the other day Beckham finally started a game, as captain no less, and scored his first Galaxy goal, a copyrighted trademark textbook (and cliché-filled? ) free kick. It was in the Superliga, played between MLS and Mexican teams, kind of the North American equivalent to the Anglo-Italian Cup (but without the mighty Swindon).

Mystic Pete should have seen it coming, but was shaking his head in wonder at his latest curse-stricken prognostics. He said, for example, that Genk would become Champions of Belgium. The next day, Genk lost 5-0. Early doors, though. Man United will win the league again, he said; then Rooney injures his foot, Cristiano Ronaldo gets sent off, they drop points against two fairly lame teams. Spurs, well, two defeats after being predicted easy fourth place plus the Cup. Long season though! Cardiff, they’ll go up into the Premiership, he says; next day reads the news they’re being sued for 30 million quid, and we all know what happens to smaller clubs in the financial bogs (eh, Leeds). Cheers Mystic Pete. Marseille will finally break Lyon’s deadlock in France! Two nil-nil draws later, still looking for a goal, OM faithful less certain. It’s a long season to come though! Bayern Munich, may get the UEFA Cup but will do nothing in the league, they don’t have the players. Werder Bremen will win it, they still have Klose! Mystic Pete said. Next day, he reads Kicker (German footy mag) and learns that Klose, yes, now plays for Bayern, as do goal-machines Franck Ribéry and Luca Toni. Ja, vielleicht wird Bayern ‘was machen. Still, Southgate’s job looks unsure, but if the papers are believed (do they ever lie?) Jol might beat him to it. Still, long old season ahead of us. Never mind Mystic Pete. More like Myopic Pete.

originally posted at 20six.co.uk/petescully

cash cab

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My feelings about American telly are well-documented. Two many (loud) advert breaks, schedules being the same every single day, endless reality shows modeled on the worst of British (with cheesy soundtracks and editing) (most American shows these days are modeled on something British), crap asinine game shows requiring little or no knowledge of anything (Jeopardy being the huge exception), news shows fronted by giggling imbeciles with huge hair, faux concerned looks, enormous teeth and absolutely no sense of when to shut up and stop prattling pointless nonsense. Yes, I try not to watch much TV.

I tell you one fairly enjoyable quiz show my wife and I have discovered recently, though: Cash Cab. Set inside a taxicab on the streets of New York, unsuspecting passengers climb into the cab, state their destination to the driver, and suddenly colourful lights appear on the ceiling and they are told they are on a game show. The driver, New Yorker Ben Bailey (who looks like a younger De Niro mixed with Elliot Stapler from Law & Order), asks them a series of questions as he takes them through the congested city streets, and each time they answer a question correct they get cash. If they get stuck, they have two ‘shout-outs’ they can use, one mobile (like phone-a-friend), and one street shout-out, whereby they pull over, and ask someone from the sidewalk to help with their question. If they get three questions wrong, that’s three strikes and the driver kicks you out of the cab, no matter where you are, with no money (a free cab ride though). If you get to the end, you can either keep the cash, or go double-or-nothing with a bonus question. It’s an interesting concept for a game show, and good fun. Now I thought to myself, it’s a very New York show, set inside the iconic yellow-cab; given the trivia-soaked black-cabbies in London you could have it there too. Maybe you already do?

Well I looked it up, and yes it seems you do, and yes, like all shows these days, you actually had it there first, on ITV, since 2005 (the year I left). Jeez, it makes me feel like I’ve been away for ever.

Originally posted at 20six.co.uk/petescully

mystic pete returns among us

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I received an urgent fax from the ether today…with only one day to go before the football season begins in England, Mystic Pete communicated with me, his vessel on the earthly plane, with this year’s football predictions. Now I know Mystic Pete has had his moments in the past (four years in a row the teams he predicted for the champion’s league all got knocked out in round 1, newcastle to win the league the season they ended up sacking bobby robson, etc etc), but there is no reason to doubt his prognostic prowess. “…another title for Man United…” he said not-so-cryptically, “…spurs coming fourth; arsenal fifth maybe, but only because everyone else are still too rubbish to get there…” He went on, “barcelona for the champion’s league…” (thierry henry is quaking already) “…cardiff city to get promoted, but not as champions…derby, wigan and birmingham to go down…marseille to finally break lyon’s deadlock in france…fernando torres to score loads of goals…gareth southgate will be first manager on the chopping block, and boro will stay up as a result…” Oh yes, and the obligatory “…spurs for the fa cup…” Yeah you say that every year mate, please give us a chance for once! He even had a few predictions for Euro 2008: “…don’t worry england, you’ll get there, and i’ll hazard northern ireland and scotland will too…mystic pete used a calculator…”

And the mists evaporated and Mystic Pete was gone, for another year, off to predict football scores in other alternate universes. You can see his full list if you follow the “Mystic Pete” link (on the old blog). I bear no responsibility.

Originally posted at 20six.co.uk/petescully

i’ve hit more home runs than you’ve had hot dinners

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There’s been a lot I want to blog about lately, but I’ve been a little preoccupied; the state of the healthcare system (and mr bush saying nobody wants a nationalized government-funded healthcare system, while his own operation was funded by, yup, the guvverm’nt); presidential hopeful barrack obama scaring his support away by saying he’d bomb pakistan without pakistan’s support; or maybe the weather, which has been unseasonably cool for summer in Davis, to the point of being cold and in the 70s (compared to the 110 degrees this time last year). But I thought I’d wrench myself away from the sketchbook to mention a sporting occasion tonight (no, not the forthcoming football season this weekend): Barry Bonds has finally become baseball’s all-time home-run king.

Barry who? you may be saying back in England. (Didn’t he used to manage west ham?) You probably aren’t though; I remember hearing about some baseball hitters on the ITN news back home over the years. Well anyway, the San Francisco Giants veteran slugger, with the indifferent look on his face, hit homer number 756 tonight, and he did it at home, at the AT&T Park, in fromt of possibly the only people in the country who like him. You see, every time you read about him, every time he is talked about on the news, his name is prefaced by “love him or hate him”. This is because of the allegations of (unproven) steroid use (or is it misuse? that makes it sound like he didn’t use them properly). Well, we’re Giants fans, so we are pleased about it. funny thing is, I used to know a guy in Belgium called Barry Bonds, though I think he was more cricket than baseball. anyway, well done Barry; and now we wait for the Premiership.

originally posted on 20six.co.uk/petescully