Few people ‘in the know’ can have missed the recent return to the public eye of the massive punk/blues/off key karaoke phenomenon that is 4D Jones. If you did, then more fool you, because last Friday’s barnstormer of a gig will be spoken of in future years in hushed and revered tones by those that were there, in the same manner as those that claim to have seen the Beatles at the Star Club, 1961, the Pistols at the 100 club in 1976, or Roger de Courcey in West Runton Pavilion in 1983. Probably. And we raised a bit of cash for the wonderful institution that is Future Radio, so everybody was happy, unless you had particularly sensitive senses of smell. Very hot and sweaty those basement clubs, you know, and since those health Nazis banned smoking in our pubs and clubs, they do rather tend to smell of people, which is Not Always A Good Thing.

Anyhow, having been away from the singing in front of people game for a few years, I thought it might be an idea to share some thoughts with our adoring* fans between numbers**. So, I did a bit of digging around to find some appalling lyrics that have been foisted on the general public over the last few years. This is my resulting top ten:

Lucky that my breasts
Are small and humble
So you don’t confuse
Them with mountains
Shakira – Whenever, Wherever
 
I’m as serious as cancer, 
When I say Rhythm is a Dancer.
Snap – Rhythm Is A Dancer
 
Before he leaves the camp he stops,
He scans the world outside,
And where there used to be some shops,
Is where the snipers sometimes hide.
Human League – The Lebanon

I don’t want to see a ghost
It’s the sight that I fear most
I’d rather have a piece of toast
Watch the evening news
Des’ree – Life
 
And when their eloquence escapes me
Their logic ties me up and rapes me
De do do do, de da da da
The Police – De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
 
“I am,” I said
To no one there,
And no one heard at all,
Not even the chair.
Neil Diamond – I am I said.
 
More sacrifices than an Aztec priest
Standing here straining at that leash
All fall down
Can’t complain, mustn’t grumble
Help yourself to another piece of apple crumble
ABC – That Was Then
 
You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye on the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte
You’re So Vain – Carly Simon

I drive my Mini Cooper,
And I’m feeling super-dooper.
American Life – Madonna
 
You’re the crop to my rotation,
You’re the sum of my equation.
Brand New Day, Sting

Note that Sting gets two mentions here. No less than he deserves.

Unfortunately, I didn’t really get to use the list at the gig, as my advancing years, a stage being lit by three 60 watt red bulbs and my decision to use a 10 point font to save paper, rather worked against me being able to read what I’d printed. Anyway, I reflected afterwards, that these were really obvious choices. In fact, if you google ‘crap lyrics’, chances are that these’ll be amongst the ones that everyone else has targetted. The real hidden gems are in the heart of some otherwise fabulous songs, where the writer has quite obviously, erm, dropped the ball in the third verse. Here are a few examples where I can’t help feeling that the song really needed to be finished before last orders in the nearby pub:

1. Speaking of which…
“I wish you’d listen to me
No I don’t want a cup of tea”
Jimmy Pursey wasn’t probably the most eloquent of lyricists, but he did rather plumb the depths with this one – other than trite lines like this, ‘Hurry Up Harry’ is just the best bit of energetic post punk nonsense you can imagine, before it all went Oi-wrong…

2. Mike Scott loses the plot
“Laura was my girl, when I first was in a group
I can still see her to this day, stirring chicken soup”
‘Bang on the Ear’ is one of the most infectious and all round fun songs you can imagine, putting the Waterboys into a whole new category of bands, years ahead of young folk wannabes like Mumford & Sons. And it’s all about neat couplets, so he was bound to make a few short cuts…but ‘stirring chicken soup’? Gawd help us.

3. Whisper who dares…our heroes are villains…
Since 1970, the Beatles have established a kind of gentle deity, whereby all that they’ve ever produced is considered masterful. There are exceptions to this way of thinking, for example, my friend N, who still considers them to be something of an average pub-rock group. But he’d probably admit to being in the minority. Anyway, they did write some astonishingly lousy words…
“I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
While my guitar gently weeps”
The thing that intrigues me about this is that George Harrison wrote it in 1968, when the Fab Four were at their absolute peak, so he must have known that every phrase would be picked over for inner meaning…and, umm, this one really, really doesn’t.

It’s a shame, because now I can’t really hear songs like these without thinking of the little flaws. I go from enthusiastic nod to sad and doleful shake of the head in one line. As lots of musos like to say – “third verse, same as the first”. Sounds like a good idea sometimes…

*ahem
**ahem, again

Firstly, many apologies for the long gap since the last episode of The Emu. Did you notice? Well, it’s all been a tad busy round these parts, what with families to worry over, careers to mis-manage, and, most importantly, the plotting of the return to form of the blues tampering monsters of pub rock that are 4D Jones. It’s all been a bit ch-ch-ch-changing, as the less than thin white Duke probably says to himself on a regular basis these days.

I do like a bit of change in life, as it tends to keep you on your toes, and this parenting lark, which in the last few weeks has been like viewing the whole world through parted fingers, is a fine example. Just ask me about #1’s 18th birthday party next time we bump into one another and I’ll tell you tale that would curdle the freshest milk. Still, probably not best to dwell on this too much. It’s not really what you might call broadcastable material.

Anyway, the other reason I’ve not been filling up my bit of the internet with the usual drivel is that, for the last few weeks, I’ve had very little to get cross about. As regular readers* will know, this blog is largely the charting of my steep decline into being a grumpy old man, except without the payment. And, rather delightfully, I’ve found myself in a rather splendid place. I realise this is all a bit insular, what with the global financial crisis, continuing genocide and starvation across the world, and the ecology of the planet being irreversibly damaged by some sensationally stupid actions, but sadly, those things don’t occupy my thoughts as much as they should, and the prospect of a late train, a bad pint or some twit in a nylon shirt trying to provide his own special ‘retail experience’ have far too high a profile. And, by and large, those little irritations have been, well, just that in the last couple of weeks. So much so, in fact, that I decided to not get teed off with the world about the little things and to have a little bet with myself around little ripple effects of positivity.

This all started with the saga around a car that I really shouldn’t have bought, which was desperately unreliable, and which caused something of a rift in the homestead, what with our son and his chums being left stranded at odd hours of the day and night on the hard shoulder of the A11. Anyway, after quite a lot of faffing around, a certain amount of subterfuge, and, frankly, lying through my teeth to my wife, someone I didn’t know did me a massive favour, fixed the car, and wouldn’t accept any payment. I’ve kind of scampered through that bit of the story, but let’s just say for now that, should you ever need an MOT and you happen to be in Norwich, go to DR Laws on Bessemer Road. There you will meet the sort of person who won’t rip you off, have a firm understanding of what customer service is about, and, for all I know, be a potential godfather to your offspring.

Anyway, after this experience I started to think about random acts of kindness, and how seldom seemed to happen these days. Needing to code my life, as we all seem to need to these days, I decided to actively search out the opportunity to perform these acts, and set myself the target of one a day. And, you’ll be unsurprised to hear, spectacularly failed. For the first four weeks I looked for old ladies to help across the road, people with heavy bags of shopping, and children looking lost or frightened. Be warned, gentle reader, because if you start looking too hard for those sort of people, you do get a few odd looks. And comments. There is such a thing as trying too hard, after all. And, other than a chance meeting with a cat and a car on a run home last week, where I managed to diffuse a potentially ugly standoff between the two parties, I’d managed a null score across a whole month.

Last Thursday, however, my luck seemed to turn. I jumped into a cab in London, to find that the cab was turning away a couple of other punters. “Sorry” I said. “But I can give you a lift if you want to go to Liverpool Street.” Which, funnily enough, they did, and after a bit of looking at each other in a sort of ‘should we trust this person who may well be some sort of sociopath’ style, in they jumped.

On the train, my lucky roll continued – the screaming schoolgirls sat next to me were smiled upon gently despite the fact I could barely hear myself think. Off they hopped at Colchester, and all was quiet, until, with the train doors locked, their little heads bobbed up and down at the window, and the slightly muted screaming was heard again. I looked down and noticed that they’d left a set of headphones on the floor. With what I like to think was a cat-like grace, I grabbed the headphones, legged it to the end of the carriage, opened the window, and handed them their headphones. “Thank you soooooo much”, they shrieked. Returning to the carriage, an elderly woman looked up at me. “That was a very nice thing to do” she said, and I reflected that, despite this being the sixth 2-hour train trip I’d taken in four days, it was the first time that anyone had spoken to me.

Cycling home later that evening, I saw a bike locked up with a front light switched on. So I stopped, and switched it off.

So there we are. Three in one Thursday. Which means, with my one a day target, I have to start again tomorrow. So, if you’re reading this, are an elderly lady standing by the road in the NR2 area, then watch out! You’ll be across that road before you know it…

* Hello to both of you

Of all of the senses, I firmly believe that smell is the most over-rated. Some people apparently thrive on the sniff of new mown lawns, of stupidly expensive perfumes, or the cheeky bouquet of a heavy burgundy, but not me. I think it’s down to two things – a habit for snuff that I tried to develop in my early teens, which probably destroyed most of the inside of my nose, a long time before Francis Rossi and that girl from Eastenders jumped on the bandwagon, and an acknowledgement that there are, on balance, more offensive smells in the world than pleasant ones.

If you stop to think about it, we’re bombarded with pretty unpleasant aromas a fair amount of the time, and many of them from our fellow humans. Incidentally, I understand that the average dog has nose sensors about a million times as sensitive as ours, which does rather make me wonder why they spend so much time sniffing each other’s bottoms. Personally, if I was a dog, I’d keep well out of there. I would skip about nose pointed firmly up in the air and never mind whose territory I was on. Kind of a canine Quentin Crisp, in fact. But I digress; for humans, what makes all of this all the more challenging is the taboo around the smell of each other.

And, I was reminded of this last weekend, at a splendid party held by my friends N&N, when I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen for years. Immediately we started chatting on like you do in these situations, getting on like a house on fire, and after a few minutes, we were joined by his wife, who’d brought a plate of food for her husband, and soon all three of us were busily chatting away like our lives depended on it. Until I realised, to my horror, that one of them had farted. Fortunately I had an inner monologue to keep me company; the conversation went something like this:

Bloke I Hadn’t Seen For Years: “I’ve been doing a fair bit of running and cycling in the last year”

Me: “Me too, I’ve never really been sure about triathlons though”

Wife of BIHSFY: “Oh, you should – they’re great fun”

Inner Monologue: “Bloody hell, what’s that smell? Crikey, one of you has just, shall we say, dropped your guts. And there’s two of you. And you might think it was me. Which would just be unfair. And I can’t mention it because that would be just awful, and you might be the sort of couple that doesn’t believe that each other fart, and you’ll have that as your lasting memory of me…”

Me: “So…how do you find the time to train?”

BIHSFY: “Well, we’re quite lucky, really, as we live near a river and can swim for about a mile regularly”

IM “I can’t believe he’s just carrying on as normal. Blimee, so’s she. Maybe they enjoy this sort of thing. Maybe they’re just incredibly polite…”

….and so on…

I excused myself to go an do a bit of light mingling. Started talking to someone else I knew, who also had a plate of food. To my horror, I realised that they’d farted as well, the same putrid milky stench that had made me gag earlier…and that was in fact coming directly from the cheese on their plate…

Al of which made me very glad that the inner monologue had stayed, well…inner. And to all my friends, past, present and future, my apologies for ever doubting your fragrant-ness.

Some time ago, I used the offices of this blog (very good phrase that, don’t you think? I should make it clear that this blog does not have it’s own office. That disappeared some time ago when we decided that liberating jr emus #3 and #4 from each other would stop them from squabbling. It didn’t, and as a result we now have children who squabble in two rooms, rather than one. It also explains why I’m writing this blog not in an office, but in the back of a Volvo 740, speeding home from Harwich. But there’s a danger I may be digressing.) Anyway, I used this blog to rattle on about just how civilised cycling in Holland was.

I could quite happily go on at great length again about how wonderful it is to bike round Holland for a few days, although I’d respectfully suggest that if Holland is experiencing severe south westerly winds, it’s rather asking for trouble to travel north east for two days and expect to get back in one and a half. Seeing as you ask though, here are several reasons why you should be oiling up your chain and booking your ferry now:

– proper cycle paths

– when you do have to mix with them, courteous drivers

– people who go out of their way to help you with directions…

– …in perfect English

– apple cake

– dog owners whose charges are perfectly behaved around runners and cyclists

But rather than write all that again, I’ll tell you about an interesting experience crossing the Afsluitdijk bridge. You may well know this from your school geography classes; it’s the bridge that separates the sea from a whole load of reclaimed land that makes up much of northern Holland. It’s 32km long, which makes it a pretty impressive bridge in itself, and has the north sea on one side and what used to be the north sea on the other,so it’s a pretty weird place to be. And with the wind blowing the way it does in Holland, it’s either a very pleasant ride SW to NE, or a complete nightmare. Fortunately for us, we were travelling north, so discussed the right sort of speed to go for.

“About 20mph” said Chuckle brother #1

“And the rest” said CB#2, who, as I may have mentioned before, really does redefine the term ‘alpha male’, and who could probably pick a fight in a phone box.

So we set off, with the wind behind us nicely, and soon got up to a comfortable 20mph. Far too comfortable for CB#2, who was at the front of the four of us.

“He’s cranking it up”, CB#1 said.

And he was. We crept up from 20 to 22 to 25 to 28 and after a couple of miles we were on 30mph. At which point CB#2 thought it would be a great idea to capture the moment on his iPhone video app. Fortunately, not looking at the road ahead proved to be no disadvantage, and we cracked out another 12 miles across the bridge at that pace, our fastest mile being 1:49.

It’s pretty unlikely that any of us will ever go as fast for that sort of distance again, and it’s worth reporting that it was just fantastic, albeit in a ‘this is going to bloody well hurt should I come off’ fashion. And also worth thinking about next time you watch the Tour de France.We’re reasonably fit blokes who had the wind behind us, and managed to maintain that pace for half an hour at close to maximum effort. The tour maintains that pace for 5-6 hours at a time, then sprints for the finish. Mark Cavendish will sprint off the pack at 30mph and get up to 40-45mph in a matter of seconds. Which is just awesome. As Bean remarked to me after day #4 in the saddle, “No wonder they’re all on drugs”.

As it goes, I’m not sure I’m all that bothered. If I was putting that 30 minute effort in for 6 hours a day for three weeks, I might be grateful of a bit of a boost now and again; and some of the substances that result in bans are things that non-sports people tend to have whizzing around in their blood as a matter of course (Vick’s inhaler, anyone?). And some of the testing practices are, well, bizarre. But that’s a whole other debate for another day.

Until next time, from the Emu (in his office), Ta ta.

Sometime I don’t know why I bother. I spend months trying to craft some original words to make people think or laugh, then I realise that I’d be far better off just copying out some words from OK! magazine.

Incidentally, I’m keen to point out at this stage that we don’t actually subscribe to OK! magazine. In fact, I’m loathe to do anything to line the pockets of Richard Desmond, but OK! and Hello! magazines are very much the reading matter of choice in our toilet. These are delivered to the house every week by Mrs Emu, who works on Mondays as a nurse, bringing people back to a state of consciousness. A heroic profession indeed, although slightly marred by knowing that these are the very people that go out and buy OK! and Hello! by choice, so perhaps a kinder choice would be to leave them asleep.

Anyway, onto the interview, billed as a World Exclusive with Katie and Leandro. Here are my favourite extracts:

OK!: How do you handle the language barrier?

Katie: It’s intuitive, like it is with me and Harvey sometinmes. You could talk to Leo and he wouldnt understand you…but we connect. In the car I’ll think, I bet he wants his glasses, just before he asks for his glasses.

Leandro: The connection we have is so intense. Like sometimes I’ll be sitting and moving my head from side to side and she will know I’m looking for the remote control.

OK!: Can you say a sentence in Spanish?

Katie: Like what?

OK!: Maybe something like ‘Could you please pass the toast?’

Katie: No, because I don’t like toast normally

OK!: Katie, have you ever considered dating, rather than going headlong into relationships?

Katie: To me, dating is going to dinner and sleeping with people. I’m not into that.

Honestly, it’s all true. Steal a copy of OK! next time you pass by a Psychiatric ward and see for yourself.

Next week: Fidor Dosteovsky writes about the Ramones. 

* I believe this to be a real headline, around January 2011

Naturally, there will be a number of morals to this sorry tale, so let’s start one. How about ‘Never place too much trust in the views of people who are obviously pissed’.
The only disappointment on Thursday was, while enjoying a quick pint, having a chat about where to eat, and being assured by a steaming local that there was only one curry house worth going to in the whole of the lakes, and that it was just round the corner. ‘Just tell ’em mad Tony sent you’, he reassured us, while falling off his chair, managing to spill not a drop from a full pint. Naturally, a disappointing meal ensued, with us as the only diners, and the shut sign being put up before we’d even started eating.

Last night, our new BFF was a veteran of many C2C rides, and made it clear that there was only one way we should take out of Rookhope. ‘Don’t go to Stanhope – too many hills’ he said, ‘go up the old track then drop down to Parkhead – much easier’. And we, like the gullible fools that we are, believed him and duly went up the track, pushing our bikes until the track levelled out. Which it didn’t. We pushed upwards for about 3 miles into the most desolate moor you can imagine, then had to try to descend on a track made out of flint, rubble and anything other sharp substance you can name, to make the journey harder. Mrs Emu, by this stage had not only put on the Horcrux, but had had a couple of diamante Horcrux T-shirts knocked up, and was contemplating a Horcrux tattoo.

Got to the top of the climb, and found ourselves at Parkhead, where a cafe offers windswept and frustrated cyclists a chance to stop before the next chance to be thrown against the side of an unsuspecting sheep while trying to avoid a scree slope. This was naturally an excellent spot for a puncture, although to Mrs Emu’s credit, she didn’t mention luxury Paris hotels at all at this stage.

After another couple of miles, we saw some tarmac in the distance, and headed for Consett, where there is a splendid bike shop selling inner tubes, albeit placed on top of the most stupid hill imaginable.

And so onward east, and to Newcastle, which, after all the challenge of the last couple of days, was simply a straight and fairly downhill slope for about 15 miles, across viaducts and forests, and generally making us feel very happy. Rather unfortunately, the end of the route was at Tynemouth, which I’d previously thought was next door, but in fact is another 10 miles east. So on we pedalled, through Byker, Wallsend, looking over to Jarrow and finally to the end…which was marked by a small post, which we initially cycled right past.

Back another mile for tea, fish, chips, peas and bread at ‘the best fish + chip shop in the North East’. Which I’ll remember most for its astonishingly slippery floors, which had been coated with an ice-like veneer of chip fat. Mrs E visited the toilets and pronounced them as smelling of ‘old ladies and chips’, which I’m sure was very accurate.

And into Newcastle, where we met Emily, Tom, Graham, Nathan and Polly, drank more than was strictly healthy and looked on in wonder at the goings on in central Newcastle on a Saturday night. Which brings us to the second moral of the day. Once you reach a certain age, you should do everything you possibly can to avoid being ‘on the market’.
We both woke up immensely relieved not to be lying next to someone with orange skin, and pushed the bikes to the station.

Homeward bound now, and only planning to ride the bikes from the station to home.

Which would seem a good place to end. Thanks for reading, and take it as read that this is a fantastic way to see some fabulous countryside and meet some great people. Just don’t do as we did, and forget the Assos cream.

Did I mention that we did some hills yesterday? Well I was lying. Today we really did some hills. Five of them, in fact, starting off with an outrageous one up to Hartside, and ending up with a tasty little number out of Allenheads towards Rookhope, where thankfully we stopped for the day, and deadened the saddle sores with far too many pints of something that may well have been called ‘Golden Sheep’.

We met cows, sheep and a disturbing amount of roadkill, got sunburnt, managed to still be talking to each other at the end of the ride, and everyone we spoke to, whether cyclists or unsuspecting people where we stopped, were wonderful. It was like being right in the middle of JB Priestley’s ‘An English Journey’, although that may sound a bit pretentious, so let’s just say it was a very good day.

Not, of course, without the odd little challenge, and perhaps the first couple of hours were rather less fun for Mrs Emu than her original plan for the break, which involved Eurostar to Paris, a luxury hotel, and a little light shopping. Problems with her bike squeaking turned quickly to problems with the gears, which turned to problems with the saddle and then to problems with the terrain, finally ending with the immortal words ‘I’m not bloody impressed’. Quite what possessed me to say ‘no-one’s trying to impress you’, I don’t know, but it didn’t seem to help. Half an hour and an energy bar later, she said ‘I’ve been wearing the Horcrux’, which will mean something to you Harry Potter fans. Anyway, order was restored, she returned to being wonderful, and all was right with the world.

Worth pointing out that the start of the day, in our rather retro Hotel, was marked by a cooked breakfast that appeared to have been twice-cooked, especially on the egg front. Someone in Penrith is taking all manner of precautions to cook the living crap out of the food to avoid the current e-coli crisis. But breakfast time was enlivened enormously by a coach breaking down in the town immediately outside the hotel, and when we got back into the lobby, there were 50 slightly bemused looking Japanese tourists, being catered for by equally bemused hotel staff. I don’t know if it was a translation failure, but trays of drinks were being despatched, left, right and centre, with the drink of choice being pints of lager. I’ve only ever seen lager drunk at 0830 in the morning when I used to fly into Edinburgh airport, and the holidaymakers were working to, well, holiday hours, but everybody seemed happy enough, so maybe the rest of the tour went with a bang. We’ll probably never know.

And into our hotel, where our room features framed pictures of small lovable kittens. Another of Mrs E’s ailments has been contact lenses drying out, so I’ve taken the precaution of photographing the pictures so I can show her if it happens again, all being well, she will go a bit dewy-eyed. And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got a couple of snaps of the hill up to Hartside.

One more b’tard hill tomorrow, then 50 odd miles to Tynemouth. Can’t imagine it will be as exciting as today, but who knows?

So, to day two, or possibly day one, given that yesterday was all on the train. The plan was to follow the C2C route to Penrith, across the lakes, taking in a few hills along the way. This we did, but the hills that we saw on the map didn’t quite do justice to the reality – these are proper steep ones up and down, with very little flat bits between. Given that we come from Norfolk, where the accepted wisdom is that hills just get in the way of the view, this was a bit of a shock to the system, and by the time we’d done the first 10 miles, I was quite glad that the original plan of doing this trip on the single speed had been dismissed fairly early on.

We started off at the Whitehaven harbour, ceremoniously dipping our front wheels into the Irish Sea, and nearly dipping ourselves as well, given how slippery the slipway was. We met a few other riders who all appeared to have been brought by minibus, a booming market whereby someone drops you off, then carries your luggage to your next stop. They seemed to think that carrying your own gear was quite extreme, given some of the climbs ahead, and proved their point by overtaking us for most of the day.

So, from Whitehaven, hard work for about 9 hours, with an occasional stop to look at what must be the most amazing views that this country has to offer. I could quite get into the majesty of the countryside hereabouts, although I fear that in order to do so, you might have to read up on Wordsworth and Coleridge, two individuals who, as far as I can make out, were the Pam Ayres of their time. But, that aside, the views across the lakes and up to the fells and pikes were stunning. And slightly daunting, once you realised that you were heading in that direction by bike. My fave bit was a turn around Mungrisdale, which came after the only down point of the day, when Mrs E needed a puncture fixing. This was combined with lunch, which consisted of bread and some cheese which we’d bought the previous night and which had been in the panniers for five hours. No need for a knife to spread it.

We left the guest house in Whitehaven giggling unfairly at our host, who was made to run a guest house, in the same way that Glen Roeder was made to be a football manager. He was very, very keen to point out the key points of the macerator attached to the toilet, and had gone to the trouble of laminating a number of signs to make it clear what could and couldn’t be disposed of. We made the mistake of getting to breakfast 10 minutes after our allotted time, which threw him into something of a blind panic, but things soon settled down, and we were pleased to see delights such as ‘home made toast’ on the menu. We were so worried that it might be shop bought toast, after all. Anyway, an interesting contrast with the hotel in Penrith, which appears to have been genteel in it’s day and is trying desperately to hang on to the past. I don’t think that their normal clientele bustles in wearing lycra and asks to borrow a tin of swarfega, but they seemed to take it all in their stride.

Tomorrow beckons with, according to the map, four unpleasant climbs to Allenhead. If only we’d had the presence of mind to book that bus….

And so to Whitehaven, which we reach with 4 train journeys, each slightly more interesting than the last, and with the final one pottering along on the edge of land just before you drop down into the grey Atlantic Ocean.

Admittedly, we left the house at 0815 and get to Whitehaven at 1745, so it’s taken us 9.5 hours to travel just over 300 miles…which means that it’s not the fastest way to get about, but this will undoubtedly be the greenest holiday Mrs Emu and myself have ever enjoyed. Well up until now, anyway.

Anyway, into Whitehaven, which has a fairly despondent feel to it; ideal for a seaside break with Morrissey, or possibly to breed threatening dogs, which seem to be all the rage round these parts. Time was, when Whitehaven was a huge port, with rum and sugar going in and big ships going out. In its day, it was built up in a grand style by the Lowther family, who effectively built it as a new town, and, rather excitingly, it was used as the template for Manhattan. Whitehaven’s most famous son is John Paul Jones, who left for the colonies, pretty much invented and then commanded the US navy, and rather inconsiderately used his new role to invade England in 1778. Not much was heard from him for a couple of hundred years, until he cropped up again playing bass guitar for popular beat combo Led Zeppelin. Although that may conceivably been a different John Paul Jones.

Wandered into town to find a curry house, and called the kids on the phone; 30 seconds into the call we both managed to get blasted from above by a passing seagull. Pinpoint accuracy for our feathered enemy, managing to pepper both our hair + jeans, and also the park bench. Astonishing just how much shit can fit into a relatively small animal. Apparently, it’s good luck to have a bird shit on your head – although I may have slightly mistimed this news to Mrs E as she struggled to come to terms with her new ‘distressed’ look.

So we swiftly made our way to the curry house, where a handy internet connection informed us tht not only was a bird crapping on your head a portent of good luck, but so was fingers tingling (check, although might have been to do with cycling with no gloves), when it rains and the sun is shining (check), and when you meet up with a cow (not today, but I have high hopes for tomorrow). See http://www.wofs.com/index.php?option=com_content&Itemid=37&task=view&id=540 for more nonsense factoids. Including the great luck that you will have should the date of your birth add up to 8. Which Mrs E’s does. So all being well, it will be a lucky day tomorrow. We’ll let you know…

PS hot towels at end of curry are ideal for cleaning up seagull poo

Like many, I spent a little time at the weekend playing a game called ‘how well do you know Google’, in which I tried to get to the name of the ‘Top Flight Premiership Footballer’ in the injunction case with as few Google searches as possible. Got it on the second page of the second search, so obviously I score pretty low on the Google capability. Anyway, the point of the search was not so much to enjoy the salacious gossip around Who’s Bedding Who And Keeping It Out Of The Public Domain, but more to understand the workings of the footballer’s brain.

So, I’ll try to explain that last bit. After all, you might think this is an elaborate bluff to justify a good leer at Busty Welsh Big Brother Beauty Imogen Thomas (28), and it’s not.

For a while now, I’ve been thinking about how long the press can continue in its current form; not just with the takeover of printed media by online, but in the whole area of traditional journalism. In times gone by, the journalistic right to privilege was very tightly bound to the media group that they were representing. In some areas where you might least expect it (the NoW’s phone tapping case, for example), this is still the case, and we see charges levied against the business rather than the writer. But these times will soon be behind us, and the concept of journalistic privilege, where conversations can be off the record, where confidential anonymity can be protected, and where journalistic opinion is protected by the publisher, will no longer exist. Some of this is a good thing. The media in this country has long been dominated by some pretty extreme views, which might purport to represent the readership, but do far more to influence it politically. And in an age where the internet allows individuals to be, well, individuals, then it’s absolutely appropriate that people can source their own news sources, mixing, for example, the relative independence of the BBC with their favourite blogs, or what’s trending on Twitter. All of which, I think in general is a good thing.

Which brings me back to the weekend, where I was listening to a very worthy legal expert describing the Criminal Justice view on following up on ‘name & shame’ Twitter Tweets. In the unlikely event that you’ve missed this, the idea is that a celebrity takes out a ‘superinjunction’ to suppress any mention of their name with a gossip story, lest it damages their reputation. And when there’s a threat that it might leak, through the crowd-power that is Twitter, they look to take the information’s source to court. Anyway, this chap was justifying the action against Twitter by using a rather charming analogy.

“Let’s just say that we were receiving abusive mail from a PO Box*”, he said, “We’d be completely within our rights to ask the post office to name the sender”

The problem is, that this is so far and away the wrong analogy to use, that I do wonder where such people have been for the last ten years. Sending a Tweet is not the same as sending a letter. At All. If you wanted to use a more appropriate analogy, think about the way that rumours used to spread around – one person would tell somebody something in a pub, that person would tell someone at work, and before you knew it, the next week it was being relayed back to you, often with lots of embellishment. Well, that’s kind of how social media like Twitter works.

And only a completely out of touch dimwit would try to sue the equivalent of chatter in a public bar, showing themselves to be so far out of touch with reality (and indeed, their own importance) that they’d be made a laughing stock.

And that’s why I was keen to find out who it was. And now I do.

*No, I don’t know who would send abusive mail from a PO Box, either