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Satyr Tales

Twisted stories to amuse and confuse.

Month

October 2017

Satyr Rant: British Weatherpersons

Ah, the English October, where the weather is fairer and more consistent now than in June and July put together! I wrote the following during those particular preceding months:

(N.B. Censored language within.)

God damn and other formidable sweary words! I put it to you, what is the point in British weatherpersons?

I don’t need to know what the weather is like now, I need merely to look up, or at worst to go to the edge of my woods and do similar. What I really need and what I’m actually asking you for is the weather in the near future- usually say, later today. But tomorrow, the rest of the week and indeed every night during that week would be helpful too. However, what I really, really, really need: is for it to be right!

Do weather men not have £^#king windows in their offices?

I ask this because surely the south westerly wind that blew that dirty great sky-turd of a rain cloud my way this morning must have passed by at least one weatherman in that part of the country.

There I was, safe in the knowledge that, whilst jubilantly stuffing essentials into my Adventuring Rucksack (of Doom, Power and Glory) earlier today, I had ‘hours’. ‘Hours!’ I said to myself in a proud and happy voice. ‘Hours have I, until even a hint of a globule of moisture occurs in the air. It may well rain later, as the report insisted. However, once I have my shelter up and my fire roaring, I’ll be as happy as a Euro Billions-winning weatherman in a real brothel full of real ladies.’

I donned my adventuring hat/ titfer/bonnet/ chapeau of Power and Prestige and made to bound cheerfully into the deeper wilds and indeed the exposition of a brand new adventure…

from the blog www.stuckincustoms.com
from the blog http://www.stuckincustoms.com

I’d just finished locking and treble checking the hut door (and indeed the forecast) when the heavens opened and my brand new sun hat and my rather absorbent light-weight summer ensemble ruined. Hmmm, perhaps Id misread the report?’ Said I, moistly. ‘Perhaps a rethink of the day’s activities is in order.’

But no, the precipitation proceeded petulantly for the rest of the day. Eventually the App/ weather-show/ radio-noise did update itself. But what use is that? The damage was already done.

So what is the point in these persons? What, do they think they are doing us a favour? A nicety? Their thoughts and premonitions are a little bonus to our little lives? ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got your backs. We know what’s going on in the grand scheme of things’. Or perhaps to make us feel secure that there’s no behemoth meteor in earth’s orbit and we only have a few moments left afore we are rendered in 2D by the impact or resultant earthquakes and tidal waves?

‘Oh Mr Fish, with these vague and ambiguous weather reports you really are spoiling us.’

Never mind your dull computer machines and bionic weather veins. I don’t care what you believe you divine from them; just look out your clucking window and tell me what’s coming for me and from where.

‘Oh my god, a colossal four hundred foot twister is eating up the post office next door! What on earth are we going to do?’

‘Don’t worry Gerald, the bleepy-blinky-machine says it’s just a light dusting of frost.’

Perhaps all British weatherpersons are pathological liars? Maybe they are all constantly trying achieve some sort of perverse hit out of fooling the country, luring it into a false sense of serenity. Or perhaps they’re trying to do the nation a light-hearted favour? Perhaps to promote optimism and wellbeing? ‘Don’t worry, it won’t rain tomorrow. Rest easy. You’ll get everything done you need to and just forget about your brolley.’

So what, do you think it doesn’t matter? That to us little people (and little goat people) the actual weather is not really that important? It may not be relevant to you in your dingy, airless, lightless box but it is to us sir, and verily so!

Shirkers I cry! But who is going to correct them? The Queen? She’s too busy organising a ‘Save Our Doilies’ rally in Birmingham. Other weather reporters? No way, less the press get wind that they’re all in fact a bunch of half-arsed, jobsworths in a cushy number with free parking and access to fresh coffee a plenty.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not blaming Mother Nature’s arbitrariness, nor merely grumbling about British weather for something traditional and polite to say to strangers. And of course I realise that we are just a wee speck of land amidst an otherwise grey and wobbly condom infested wide space just off of Europe proper.

What I am grumbling about is the lack of quality in our weather reporting.

If it’s going to be $*#t, just say so. Or at least put up an OR alternative for good measure: ‘It very well may rain like hell later today…or it may not rain at all.’ Or perhaps a disclaimer preceding the report, a blackout screen with BBC approved white font: ‘we cannot be held responsible for the accuracy of these reports. We’re doing our best. Just please don’t attack us in public’…But don’t just make it up and expect us to swallow it…or be drowned, burnt to a crisp or pneumonia-ed to death by it.

I don’t really care what the weather’s going to be like, as long as I have an idea and I can prepare accordingly. I am an all-weather goat-I don’t mind surviving under my Sponge Bob Square Pants umbrella for half the day. As long as I’m fully aware I need to pack it. What I do resent is researching well in advance for a lengthy adventure only to find out I shouldn’t have bothered with all that stuff and I only needed to bring my snow shoes…but possible a bikini too. And some sun spray. And chilblain cream too just in case.

Sigh, rant over. Discuss…

S.

photo credit: Stuck in Customs Deep in the South of New Zealand via photopin (license)

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My Office for the Day-Meandering for a Muse

Gadzooks, behold my office for the day!

The day in question was a yesterday.  Stumped. Mind fug. Inspiration much needed. To unclog the writer’s cinder-block in my head-space I opted to go out a-wandering.

I didn’t pay too much attention to my surroundings as I soliloquised trying to work out highly problematic, intellectual and complicated writer’s things: should the little goblin character be nice or nasty. Should Badger prefer worms for dinner or Battenberg cake? That sort of thing.

But before I knew it I’d hiked long and far and left my familiar wooded parts behind.  I tumbled out of the tree line and was greeted with this most glorious sight.

2017-10-03 12.52.46.jpg
Harlaxton Manor, Lincolnshire.

After some preliminary reconnaissance and general exploration of the area I sat down to do some actual writing and a bit of reading too. OK so I didn’t actually write anything I was supposed to be writing, or read or research about anything I was supposed to. But I was still productive none the less. And it felt grand.

2017-10-03 14.42.21
My Office for the Day

I have always maintained that as long as you are writing something then you are indeed a writer. And a productive one. Or at worst, as long as you are reading something relevant to some part of your writing, the same goes (as long as it isn’t the TV times or what have you).

Lummy! Observe what else I discovered. Just look at this handsome fellow! Cousin Pan in all his autumnal magnificence.

2017-10-03-10-05-52.jpg
Cousin Pan tootling a dainty tune.
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A most handsome chap.

I was even given the opportunity to have a quick shufty around the grand interior, thanks to a very friendly and sage horticulturist who easily realised my presence was innocuous.

 

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So anyway, to all writers out there struggling with mind fug I say, get out! And walk it off. The fresh air and fresh views may not give you any better ideas but they will certainly clear the noise and reactivate the juices in your creative parts. As long as you are doing something productive with writing in mind then you are doing well.

I did, and look-I got a post out of it!

For further intel on the beautiful place i visited, please proceed hither:

http://www.harlaxton.co.uk/wordpress/index.html

Have a beautiful day.

The Satyr.

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