Tango trade

Contributed by Aaron (thanks!)

There was a dirty secret within the Falklander Freddy McWorther. He just wanted to dance tango, but knew he would never.
When, 36 years ago his father and mother moved to the anachronistic archipelago via a UK government initiative to increase the island’s population, he was just a typical Birmingham kid. Slightly long in the face, and with fat red lips, he would never have been given the great opportunities in life, but his shoulders were broad and he stood tall, and gained respect. He was uniformly affable, to the point of jealousness from those around but not close to him.
It all started the year after they arrived, when he was 14. Coastal Argentine and the local UK council offices began an initiative to mix the cultures. It was an under-funded exercise that fizzled out but did result in an Argentinean barbecue on a beach near Stanley that ended in an argument between two fathers whose sons had tried to catch a seal in a fishing net, an uneventful sheep herding competition in Chubut, and a Morris Dance in Santa Fe that went down well with the local Argentineans, but was never repeated.
That year however, the Falkland Islands Community School in Port Stanley successfully exercised a cross cultural exchange between its students and those of the rather catholic Colegio Carmen Arriola de Marín in Buenos Aires.
Freddy's exchange friend was Matías. A kid of cool, a boy out of his body who led others and made girls swoon. Short, dark and slender. He brought three VHS videos and gave them to the family as way of presenting himself. The first was a short film from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism on the way of life in the Pampas, in Spanish, the second a politically-charged comedy feature-length film, in spanish, and the third a documentary about the dance 'Tango'. The family could understand none of them, and soon after Matías left, and Freddy's father denounced all Argentineans as 'Poofs', the videos were pushed into the dark cave of the cupboard where all that shit goes.
Nobody could have known about Freddy's feelings. His younger brother thought it was funny that he would find Freddy watching the Tango video when their parents were out, and he would prance around the living room laughing at Freddy. Freddy instinctively wanted to get up and give him a dead arm, but as he rose he quickly lay back down on his front, scared that his median erection would be revealed.
As the years passed Freddy built his own collection of videos, which he transferred onto DVD in 2002. The death of his father brought no relief as his wife held similar beliefs about their Latin neighbours. So, he built a secret compartment in the shed out of plywood. It was taken up mostly by a large soft chair but when he finally managed to exchange the bulky 21" false wood TV for a flat screen, he could finally add a foot stool to stretch out on. He was thinking about how he could get wireless out that far. The collection of DVDs took up so much space. He usually watched the dance with headphones on, but sometimes he would watch without sound to really concentrate.
How could he practice, how could he learn, how could he find a partner? How how how? He would run through ridiculous scenarios most days, even when people were telling him the dimensions needed for their new kitchen to which they expected him to fit. One oft-imagined scenario would involve him hijacking a fishing boat from the Port, heaving it through the wild southern ocean and arriving on a decked jetty at sunset to find his partner in a long black dress, laterally split up to her waist, waiting for him. It was impossible, surely.
For the reader’s interest, he was committed to the more traditional 'Tango Canyengue' where the couple stand very close indeed.

The Hopes of a crocodile dashed, then sprayed along the Pan-American Highway

In a lake adjacent to the Panama Canal, beneath the vertiginous bridge that carries tourists to the Miraflores Lock to view the great container ships on their way to the Pacific Ocean, on a mud bank, lay a crocodile. Named Ignatius, the crocodile was over ten feet in length, and was considered the alpha-male of his territory: a role he wore with grace and humility, and he was greatly respected by the other animals in the vicinity. Though a proud and successful creature, Ignatius was privately irked following his discovery of an old copy of National Geographic in which he read of the mighty Nile River in Africa. In this river (he read) crocodiles grow up to 20 feet long, weighing in at over 1000 kg, and are the most successful predators throughout history. Their varied diet includes birds, fish, various antelope species, monitor lizards, snakes, and other predators including lions, leopards, hyenas, wild dogs as well as other crocodiles. Feeling suddenly claustrophobic (and quite provincial) in his small lake, Ignatius resolved to travel (by foot) to this paradise, in which he would grow, learn, and dine like a king.
He waddled from the bank into the lush jungle which bordered his lake. Without hesitation, Ignatius pressed on, sure that he was making the right decision. After a difficult hour over treacherous terrain, Ignatius met a porcupine, travelling in the opposite direction. Though they had never previously met, the porcupine knew Ignatius by reputation.
‘Where are you going to, Ignatius? You are far from your swamp here.’
‘I make my way to the mighty River Nile, in Egypt, to begin a new life.’
‘Egypt?! Crocodile, you cannot walk to Egypt! Egypt is many miles away, across oceans and desert. You will die! Return to your territory Ignatius, where you belong, and are loved.’
Ignatius considered the words of advice that this concerned friend had spoken as the prickle of quills scratched the inside of his throat. Though uncomfortable to swallow, the mammal provided some sustenance for his journey, and no small amount of flavour. He continued on his way.
Ignatius’ next obstacle (and regrettably, his last) was the Pan-American Highway. Undeterred by the speeding motorcars (and quite unaccustomed to submitting to any creature) Ignatius continued his forward momentum. His head met with the front wheel of an agricultural vehicle, which sprayed his brains, blood and fragments of skull along the road. The driver of the truck was a poor, but enterprising farmer. With great difficulty, he lifted the carcass of the beast onto the back of his truck and took it back to his family.

Now complete both of the following questions:
1 a) Was Ignatius right to try to reach the Nile? The porcupine would say that it was a foolish ambition, the farmer would assert that he made delicious steaks. Who was right? Give reasons for your answer.
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b) How likely is it that a crocodile could make it onto the Pan-American Highway? Cite previous examples. Show your workings.
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The Death of Dead Bub

We did have pets but now they are all dead. We did have one goldfish and he was called Bub but he did die. Poor, poor Bub.

DEAD!

I do love animals and I think that giraffes are definitely the best and they are the tallest and they do eat leaves from tall trees but that is all and not meatballs or spaghetti. And I like High School Musical and Gabriella is my favourite because she is a very good singer and she is the best and she does love Troy.

My brother does like tigers the best and he does like dinosaurs but there are no dinosaurs now. They are all dead and that is called eck-stinkt. In school we do about animals and I did tell the teacher that giraffes are my favourite and she said ‘Good Maddie’, and I did say ‘Do you want to know why giraffes are my favourite?’ and she did say ‘Please sit down Maddie and put your hand up if you would like to say anything’. Later on I did a wee on the floor, but this was when I was a little girl and I was in Nursery and I am big now.

Do you like my dress? Because I am a Princess and you must say ‘Your majesty’ when you speak to me. When I am big and a grown-up I will have one-hundred and twenty pets. I will have a dog called Peter and a cat called Gabriella and even a pig! What do you think of that? A pig in the house is very funny. Ha ha.

One day my daddy did tell me some sad news. He did say that Bub is dead and has gone to Heaven to see God. And Daddy did a sad face but I could tell that he was not really sad and so I did a sad face too, and we did dig a hole in the garden and put Dead Bub in it and did cover it up with soil. Then daddy did have a cup of tea and I did have a hot chocolate in my princess cup.

Sometimes I do dig where we made the hole with my red spade, but I never find Dead Bub so Daddy must be right. Dead Bub must be in Heaven with Grandpa-with-sticks and with Michael Jackson and they must be having a tea party.

A village, entombed

The inhabitants of the village of Goosnargh in Lancashire awoke to the greatest snowfall that they had ever witnessed. To give an idea of the amount of snow that had fallen: The tallest man in the village, Peter Preston, was six feet and seven inches tall, and if he stood at his window, only his eyes were visible above the snowline. There were over twenty thousand tonnes of snow in the village; over a hundred thousand cubic metres had fallen overnight.
The responses of the villagers were varied, ranging from blind panic to exuberant joy. The initial thought of everybody was 'how will I get out of my house?' Stefan Jorvik was of a practical nature, and used a spade to create a series of channels, steps and tunnels in the compacted ice and snow. Daphne Killson (whom many of the villagers had long suspected had issues with her sanity) wept and screamed and clawed at the snow piled up outside her front door.
The women of the village obsessed over milk and bread: 'We will run out of milk and bread,' and, ' the shop has sold out of milk and bread,' or, 'We mustn't use too much milk or bread – make it last'. Why milk and bread were the top of their list of concerns was a mystery to the men of the village. Surely in a housebound emergency, milk and bread were the most useless staples. Canned food, rice and pasta would be more useful. But try telling this to the women.
The men of the village worried more about their backs. Shoveling the snow, falling on the ice, lifting their children – all of this was taking its toll. And don't forget, the men of the village are not as young as they once were. 'They are weak,' thought the women of the village, 'what happened to the man I married?'
The children of the village spent a large amount of time looking out of the window in awe. When the snow dissipated enough to allow outdoor play, the children threw snowballs, wriggled snow angels into the ground, and built snow robots.

In three days, the snow had melted. The only evidence that remained was to be found in the garden of the Cotterston family. In a puddle on the patio sat the following ingredients: a soggy scarf and hat, one carrot, nine pebbles and two sticks. Snowman soup.

Christmas Special

At a quarter to eleven, Ebony Zerkel smiled beatifically as she folded the last of her ribbons, and traversed the length of her flat to the haberdashery drawer. As she walked, she took great pride in the home-made decorations which adorned the dining-room table. She neatly laid the scarlet ribbon in the drawer, then allowed herself a peek through the kitchen window at the snow outside. The sight of falling flakes upon the adjacent factory roof made her literally ‘eep!’ with joy.
She made her way to the bedroom and routinely checked her digital alarm clock. Already the display read 1 AM. How could this be? The thing must be broken. She pressed the necessary combination of buttons until the correct time synchronised with her wrist-watch, and lay back upon her bed. No sooner had sleep swallowed her than she was awoken with a chill, and a presence at the foot of her bed. With a start, she sat bolt-upright to survey this spectral apparition before her.
The figure was female, over six feet tall, and though not fully opaque, her body could be seen to be shapely. Long, shiny black hair swept down from her crown. Her face was distorted and sinister: Her lips were bloated like those of a carp, and her skin was stretched and pulled back as though tied in a knot behind her head. Draped over her breast was a necklace composed of a number of credit-cards and bank-notes. At the end of each long, slender arm was a collection of designer shopping bags, each one bulging and angular.
The apparition silently surveyed Ebony, and for some time, Ebony could only stare back, at a loss as to what she should say. Eventually, having ascertained that the ghost would not break the silence, Ebony cleared her throat, and meekly enquired ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
The voice that returned her questions was soft and low, and had a numinous quality to it: ‘Ebony Zerkel, I am the Ghost of Rampant Consumerism, and I am here to teach you the true impact of Christmas. Over the next two nights, you will receive two more visitors; the Ghost of Catholic Guilt, and the Ghost of Non-Biodegradable Landfill. You shall heed our warnings, Ebony Zerkel, and you shall mend your ways.’

Many years later, Ebony (now plump with middle-age) reclined on her sofa with her husband, who was already watching a Christmas Special on the television. Suddenly, the memory of her ghostly visitations returned to her. ‘How strange,’ she thought, ‘that such an event should have so little effect on me.’ As the third spirit left her that Christmas Eve, Ebony did indeed vow to mend her ways, but each successive year, a little more festive cheer returned, a few more mince pies on the table, a little more tinsel on the tree. Slowly, the effect of the visions had waned, as the cultural omnipresence of Christmas bombarded her cerebellum.
Dressed as Batman, Del Boy ran through the streets of Peckham, Rodney close behind.



Thanks everyone, and Merry Christmas. I'm going to take a short break over the holidays. I'll be back in the New Year with more nonsense.

Temporary respite is achieved through the knowledge of two scientists and a time-travelling bird.

In the midst of all this, right in the middle of all the foofaraw, after the phone call, but before the whole thing erupted, Maurice read in the New York Times about a pair of scientists named Nielsen and Ninomiya who had hypothesised that a bird may have travelled back through time from the future to disable the Large Hadron Collider, and they had proposed a thought experiment in which a card is drawn from a deck of one hundred million cards, and if that one card is a spade when all the other ninety-nine million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine are hearts; if that one card is drawn then the Hadron Collider will be switched off forever, and they submitted this in all seriousness, and the news brought Maurice a real feeling of relief, and of lightness and buoyancy, and a quickness of step which lasted for the remainder of the morning.

The Computer is slow

The computer is slow. Infuriatingly, stupidly slow. He watches as the computer tries to open a third application and counts the seconds: ‘One, two, three…’
At fifteen, the window opens at last. ‘Fifteen seconds!’ He thinks, ‘Fifteen seconds is ridiculous.’ He stands up, paces from his desk to the sink in the shared office, then back to his desk again.

As he resumes his position, he tries to look unapproachable, so that the customers will avoid his desk. He leans his head forward, furrows his brow, and picks up a pen as if in the middle of a difficult calculation.
His plan fails. Two well-dressed overweight middle-aged women loaded with shopping bags sit down at his desk. They smile disarmingly and patiently wait for his attention.

He glances back at his supervisor’s door, then corrects his posture and his countenance: ‘Yes ladies how may I help you?’
‘We’d like to book a cruise please.’
‘Certainly,’ (all the while, clicking with his mouse, to open the software) ‘is there anywhere…’ (he tries to keep engaging with them while inwardly fuming at this wickedly slow computer) ‘…special you have in mind?’ (Why won’t this evil machine work? Why won’t it open?)

He fantasises about jumping to his feet, snatching the computer monitor from the desk, raising it above his head, and launching it across the room, smashing it upon contact with the wall opposite, shards of glass and electrical sparks dropping and slicing into the meaty backs of the simpering bovine idiots before him.

The idea is greatly appealing, but what then? Having destroyed this machine, what then? He would have to walk, embarrassed, out of the shop, and down the street in just his shirt sleeves, with people watching, open-mouthed. Suddenly, he realises that he has been staring at the customers all this time, his fists balled up, and his right eye twitching.
‘Please bear with me. This computer is very slow.’