The Last Word, July 19 2009

You've no doubt heard of the legendary American frontiersman, Davy Crockett, who, according to the popular ballad, “kilt him a b'ar when he was only three” (a b'ar, of course, being a bear with a Tennessee accent).  There are however many who believe that the unfortunate Mr Crockett was in fact “killed in a bar when he was only three”.

To be fair, a toddler meeting his doom in a tavern brawl is, sadly, rather more believable than said infant managing to despatch a 2,000-pound grizzly.  Let's be honest: most three-year-olds couldn't even wrestle a placid medium-sized goat to the ground.  God help us if there's a war.  Especially if it’s with the bears.

There are thousands of such misheard lyrics floating around: we all have a few, usually without even knowing it.  I always thought Don Henley was singing "I can see you, your bra strap shining in the sun" in his wearisome 1980s dirge "The Boys Of Summer", for example.  But why do we find humour in such errors?  Maybe because, as the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein put it, "Language is the harmony between thought and reality".  Hence our amusement when language accidentally subverts or distorts itself: it's like reality has changed in some absurd and unexpected way. 

Nowadays we have many new tools to help us mangle and pervert our words: spellcheckers on computers, for instance.  My boss recently sent an email to several company fat-cats which concluded by apologising "for the incontinence".  A minor typo while spelling "inconvenience" had been erroneously corrected by his PC's dictionary-robot; far be it from me to cast asparagus, but you really need to antipasto problems like that.  At least he didn’t sign off with “manly thanks”. 

I myself was once invited to a job interview with the tantalising enticement that "it could be the best love you'll ever make."  I did not, in the end, make that particular move.  Nor have I ever seen the band Assylum play - but I have seen their advertising.  Just last weekend, I noticed a poster for an imminent amateur dramatic production: top billing goes to someone called "Staring Tommy Magee".  Sounds a bit creepy.  Don't think I'll bring the kids to that.

The funniest of these carry the bracing shock of hidden truth, though.  There's a book lying around at home somewhere that, at a glance, seems to deal with "Your Child's Development: From Birth to Obsolescence."  Similarly, my attempt at upbeat cheer in a recent text message was transmuted to something rather more nihilist when "How's tricks?" became "How's trials?"  And what is life, indeed, if not a series of trials?

Well, that’s my massage for this week.  It’s back to bushiness as usual next time, with features on underfloor hating and onanic farming, a great recipe for friend chicken, a free Scared Heart of Jesus poster and a special “Animals of Farting Wood” comic for younger readers.

The Last Word, July 4 2009

I finally gave in and bought a barbeque recently. 

I say "gave in" because, though I'm an affable man of few dogmatic opinions, I realised long ago that I'd never be afflicted by that peculiar modern malady which can only be healed through the purchase of a outsized camping stove.

This is uncharacteristically strong-minded of me, but I have my reasons.  Barbeques are expensive, they take up a lot of room, and as a sedentary slob who needs no excuse to dodge exercise, I can't think of anything more profoundly wrong than a device which, when a sunny afternoon comes along, replaces the natural instinct to go swimming or kicking a football with the lunatic ambition to torch the crap out of slabs of animal fat and force them directly into your arteries.

So what changed my mind?  Well, they're cheap now, for a start.  Mine was reduced from €969 to just 57c, and in fact the man in the shop would probably have paid me to take it away if I'd haggled.  Times are tough for vendors of useless contraptions that look about as sensible in these post-Tiger days as alloys on a Massey.

I guess I was affected by a touch of heatstroke too.  With July 4^th coming up – arrived, now – the notion of a big family gathering over some sizzling steaks had a certain Yankee Doodle appeal to it.  I've always loved those bins full of ice and beer bottles that you see in American TV shows, and this seemed like a good excuse to put one together.

But having christened my barbeque last weekend my historic disinterest has come screaming back.  Revelation number one was that you have to assemble them yourself.  Sure, we assemble lots of stuff these days, but that IKEA bookshelf under the stairs isn't likely to explode and kill granddad if you leave a few clips out.  Revelation number two, which admittedly everyone except me probably already knew, was that you really have to pre-cook meat on a conventional grill before finishing it over the barbie's flame, unless you want to give everyone diphtheria.  Which has to raise the question, really, what the hell is the point of having one at all?  Revelation number three, and the final straw for me, is you have to clean about a ton of grease off them after each use – and sharpish too, or you'll have a garage full of rats. 

I dunno, maybe I just have no sense of fun.  What I do have though is one nearly new three-burner gas barbeque.  It'll be in the Articles For Sale next week, if you're interested.