Speaking My Language

<< Richard Gasquet in the throes of a trademark existential meltdown

I'm trying to creep back to daily blogging, but don't go expecting extra material for your time. It's been a long hard struggle finding anything out today, particularly with about four hours taken up by the Gasquet v Murray clash of the titans just down the road at Wimbledon. Murray probably deserved to win just for his sheer persistence, even though Gasquet fell apart like wet cake after the third set tie-break. Eventually, with another corking episode of the reborn Big Brother ripping along in the background, I have found the following:

Hindustani is the third most spoken language in the world.

A language that, shamefully enough, I incorrectly thought was actually called Hindi, is spoken by 497 million people worldwide, and is only surpassed narrowly by English (508 million) and more comfortably by Mandarin (spoken by more than a billion people). It's interesting to me that there is only a difference of 9 million between a language spoken largely amongst citizens of one nation and a language spoken all over the world. It is in fact the popularity of English in India that has prevented its most widely-spoken language from reaching the dizzy heights that Mandarin has achieved in China. I got this list from List Universe, a nifty site with several slightly more subjective lists, including the ten most influential metal bands (no Metallica? what gives?) and various other trivia. You can enjoy that, while I go and shout at the obnoxious shits on my telly...

Weekend: A Few Sherbets, and Farewell Motson

<< Motty attempting to flog a hooky mobile phone to Trevor Brooking (seriously, what other explanation is there for this picture?)

Late on Saturday evening, I learnt the following without the help of the internet, instead resorting to actual conversation:

In America, sherbet is a type of frozen dessert.

Sherbet is a dessert that lies somewhere between ice cream and sorbet, having a lesser milk content than ice cream, but more than sorbet, which clearly doesn't have any. I don't know if there's a British equivalent - to be honest, the idea of removing fatty content from any product isn't one that sits well with us Brits, but then America are hardly trail-blazers in this field. Sherbet is used in the UK to describe a fizzy, powdery sweet substance, found in such messy but delicious treats as the Sherbet Dib-Dab. It also features in one of the Austin Powers films, where the comedic mix-up between what the British spy requests (orange sherbet) and what is delivered (an orange frozen dessert) is really not explored in any way - surely because of running time issues, rather than a failure to realise that sherbet means a totally different thing in the U.K.

A few minutes later, with the clock ticking into Sunday morning, I stumbled upon my earliest fact to date:

Hereford's 1972 FA Cup victory over Newcastle was John Motson's first commentary for BBC TV.

So far, so uninteresting, but this just interested me as it's quite a famous Motson commentary, particularly the moment when Ronnie Radford spanked the ball into the top corner to equalise for Hereford. A lot of people think it was the winning goal, but that was scored in extra-time by Ricky George, who replaced full-back Roger Griffiths, who broke his leg during the game... but carried on playing. Now that's commitment. Another barely interesting fact about this game is that it was a replay, the two sides having drawn 2-2 at St. James' Park a few days previously.

The game was originally designed to slot into Match of the Day in roughly the position that Middlesbrough v Bolton would do now - towards the end, in other words. The shock result catapulted it to the top of the programme, and kick-started Motty's commentary career. Tonight's Euro 2008 final will most likely be his final live commentary, bringing to an end a career that was starting to come adrift slightly, with our John seemingly ever more confused. One of my favourite Motty moments was when Sol Campbell had a goal disallowed against Portugal at Euro 2004 (a correct decision, with hindsight) and as play swept down to the other end, Motson attempted to allude to Campbell's disallowed goal against Argentina in 1998 - he was instead only able to incoherently babble the word "Hollandargie" - the beginning of the end, if you ask me...

Round Up: From Radiohead to Gatorade

<< The 'Gatorade dunk': probably not seen in Radiohead's dressing room on Wednesday night

I'm writing retrospectively as once again I've been too busy with my mountain of paperwork down at the station (OK, office), watching Big Brother and eating KFC to record my feats of understanding. I'm whacking them all in one entry this time - it's a whole new look for Quest For Knowledge, seeing as we're halfway through the year. Less material, updated with decreasing regularity - I know what the people want.

Unfinished Business

Anyway, on Wednesday 25th, I did attend the Radiohead gig as I had previously boasted about (although I didn't manage the double whammy of eating peri-peri chicken whilst enjoying the show) - it was very good, though in a weird setting populated by knobheads drinking red wine and talking about the quickest journey to work throughout the entire set. By the way I just read that they closed with The Tourist on the first night - unlucky, Elliot. My brother deserved something, for he gave me a useful fact - computer programs with the label 'beta' are not completed. This mostly applies to computer games, which are then finished off and released - but Google maps are clearly still working on it.

Transgender Neo-con

On to Thursday (26th), and ShortList magazine, which enticed me with its headline "QUIT YOUR BORING JOB NOW!", only for me to discover that quitting said boring job actually involved setting up a business so dynamic and outstanding that it was capable of winning a national award. Drat. Anyway, in another indie-related fact, I discovered that Haley Barbour is a man. Who cares, you may be thinking (about that, or just in general, I'm not fussed) but it relates to the name being mentioned on 1994 gloomy rock masterpiece and Knowledge Towers' official Best Album Ever, The Holy Bible by the Manics. I'd always thought Haley was a woman, but not so - he is, however, as objectionably right wing as Richey and co suggested.

The Drink That Makes You Do Football Better

And so to Friday (27th), or as some wags would call it, today. I learnt that Gatorade was invented by students at the University of Florida, to help improve the performance of their American football team... the Florida Gators. From this I deduced that Gatorade is named after the Florida Gators. Two years after the drink was created, the team won the Orange Bowl and were thus crowned America's finest college side. They may have all been unable to sit still and riddled with paranoid anxiety, but damn, they could play some football. Gatorade has apparently never before been available in the UK, although I've drank it, and I ain't never been to no America, so like, whatever, but its hella popular in the States, being one of only four companies to have an 80%+ market share. Any ideas on the others? Answers tomorrow. There is no prize.

Victoria Parks

Today may have been a soulless trudge through tedium, but it's OK, because tomorrow I'm going to see Radiohead. One reason to be smug about living in London is the certainty that any decent band (and a lot of not-so-decent bands) are going to play a short tube ride from Knowledge Towers. Radiohead are pushing the envelope a bit, however, by playing in Victoria Park, which lies between Hackney and Bethnal Green. It may be a short mooch for Shoreditch trendies, but I've got to change trains twice. The nerve of these people.

Victoria Park is the oldest public park in Britain.

It was opened to the proles in 1842, and is known as 'The People's Park' in East London. It's the third Victoria Park I'll have been to, following on from parks in Bath and Cardiff. I'd think that I had some kind of affinity with the name, except there are also Victoria Parks in Aberdeen, Glasgow, Bristol, Birmingham and Manchester, amongst many others. They are, of course, named after Queen Victoria, who according to Eddie Izzard, lived for 2000 years.

I'm getting excited now ahead of the gig, but as this is a Radiohead gig, it might not fit my usual metal gig template. Three things that probably won't happen:

1. Singer implores crowd to 'go fucking crazy'
2. Band begin encore with cover of 'Summer of 69'
3. Guitarist launches 5-minute solo with request for circle pit

And three things that might:

1. Singer implores crowd to stop littering
2. Band begin encore with eight-minute jazz odyssey
3. Guitarist plays Paranoid Android, with any luck

It's (Not) A Gas

Today's fact comes courtesy of Claire's work colleague, who shall remain nameless as the overnight fame that would follow a reference on this blog would surely destroy him. He has informed me of the following:

CS gas is not a gas.

It's a powder, sprayed in the faces of the unruly via a nifty aerosol. It was invented in Wiltshire, in the mysterious Porton Down research unit. Other gifts that God's county has bestowed upon the world include crop circles and Billie Piper, whilst celebrities seduced by its rustic charms include Dot Cotton and Pete Doherty. But back to the gas, or lack of it. CS gas was invented by Ben Corson and Roger Staughton, whose surname initials give it its name. Despite its rise to prominence in the last 20 years, it was invented in 1928, originally being used as a tear gas rather than a hand-held weapon. Wikipedia also claims that CS gas is "generally accepted as being non-lethal", which is slightly worrying. A final fact before you're all gassed out - the CS gas used by British coppers is 5 times stronger than that of their American counterparts. To rectify this slight imbalance, however, American police do get to carry guns.

Cover Me

<< The Total Guitar team attempt to sit through Geri Halliwell's version of 'Symphony of Destruction'

Today I have learnt that the worst cover version ever made is a version of AC-DC's 'You Shook Me (All Night Long)" by... Celine Dion. Admittedly, this is a matter of opinion - the opinion in question belonging to the staff of Total Guitar magazine. I think you can imagine the reaction in that office when they heard Celine's take on a hard rock classic - it's just lucky they don't keep guns in their office. Having perused the link above, I can confirm that it is truly horrible - I got as far as the first line of the vocal, having nearly plucked out my eyeballs at the sight of Celine's attempt at air guitar.

Other musical butcherings in the list include Girls Aloud and the Sugababes collaborating on Walk This Way, in an unprecedented attempt to use a charity record to resuscitate not one, but TWO, ailing groups' careers. Will Young's lounge version of Light My Fire makes a deserved appearance, as does Westlife's version of Extreme's More Than Words. I've not heard it, but judging by the shame they inflicted on Uptown Girl, and the fact they've obviously missed the uncomfortable sexual overtones of the original, I can imagine it's not great. Rounding off the list is Mike Flowers' version of Wonderwall, which is unfair, as it's better than the original. It's on the 'best covers' side of things, however, that I find a revelation:

'All Along The Watchtower' was originally recorded by Bob Dylan.

Jimi Hendrix' version was a cover, and I feel I may be the only person in the world who doesn't know this. Truly, my Dad will be appalled. You can see the rest of the list here, but it's not nearly as fun as the worst covers collection. Personally, I've been racking my brains to think of my favourite cover, but the truth is that outside of concerts, I don't really see the point of them. If it's an alternative version of a pop song, then you can't like it and then pretend not to like the original - if it's a mainstream version of an alternative song, it is almost guaranteed to be horrible. Finally, if the genre of the covering band matches that of the original, then it's totally pointless. To be honest, it's Sunday afternoon and my mind's drawing a blank, so I'm going to have come back to you on this - the fact that Alien Ant Farm's 'Smooth Criminal' is currently the best I can think of suggests I may have to do some research...

The Longest Day

<< David Tennant: Making the longest day of the year feel that little bit longer

Today is the longest day of the year, with the sun rising at 4.43 this morning and due to set at 9.22 tonight. There is one second more daylight than yesterday, with the night creeping in by six seconds a night over the next week. Days such as this, which are notable without being worth celebrating (unless you're of a pagan persuasion), tend to only serve to amplify how unremarkable day-to-day life is. To whit, our day so far.

I woke up at 11am and got up, not because I wanted to, but because I had a headache from sleeping a bit awkward. I thought it was dehydration, but halfway through a glass of water it dawned on me that, if anything, I'd had too much water lately. I then watched Saturday Kitchen until Claire got up. We decided we ought to go to Halfords and get some headlight deflectors and a GB sticker for our impending trip to France. Having first paused to enjoy a leftover Chinese takeaway and watch the final of the Eastbourne tennis tournament, we left for Halfords and purchased the said items as well as (oddly) a £100 camping kit, complete with four-person tent. This kind of crazy spending is pretty out of character - I think the solstice got to us.

The word solstice comes from Latin, and translates as "the sun standing still".

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, we went to Sainsbury's after that, and got one of those £5 car washes that they do while you're in the shop - except we came back before he'd finished and had to hide for a bit, all embarrassed. The day sunk to a new low as we then attempted to watch an episode of Doctor Who, which featured climate change, refugees, echoes of Nazism and rip-offs of His Dark Materials, all set at a headache-inducing pace and handled with extreme clunkiness. As Catherine Tate and Billie Piper tried to out-overact each other, David Tennant stumbled off for half the episode, only to reappear, eyes bulging out of his head in a tour de force of bad acting.

As the night progressed, we sat down for the promising Holland v Russia tie, only to endure a desperate first half. I began my blog at half-time, and am now furiously typing out this rather tedious yarn as the game has improved immeasurably. Russia are leading 1-0, and football has just beaten my interest in this blog by the same score.

The Land of Chocolate

<< Hershey, PA: Jaywalking Oompa-Loompas not pictured

Now, before I get started, I should point out that I'm aware of my intention to avoid American sweet-based facts. But I couldn't resist this doozy, printed on the side of a chewtastic packet of Hershey's Milk Duds:

Hershey chocolates are made in the town of Hershey, Pennsylvania.

The reason the fact is a bit half-hearted is because I had assumed that the chocolates were named after the place; I have now discovered that this isn't the case. The town formerly known as Derry Church has been renamed after William Hershey's factory, which is also open as a kind of Cadbury World attraction, though presumably (as it's in America) a whole lot bigger. I'm imagining chocolate swimming pools and Milk Duds falling like snow. The nearest airport's only a couple of hours away, so it may soon be time to find out.

Sheepish Exits & Saucy Encounters

<< "I'm going to take the money, Chris"

It's currently half-time in a ding-dong quarter-final between Portugal and Germany, and following that we turn to Big Brother, to witness the sheepish exit of the world's most annoying woman, Alexandra De Gale. Having claimed to be esconsed in a community of murderous thugs when she is in fact an accounts executive from Croydon, she threatened revenge on those who had dared to tolerate her over the last two weeks, and was escorted from the premises. Can't wait to watch it all unfold. So here's the fact:

The ostrich brain is the size of a pea.

For an example of what a pea-sized brain can do, have a look at this U.S. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire contestant (scroll down). Incidentally, the Guardian today pointed out that Portugal boss 'Big Phil' Scolari makes a little sauce in his spare time - what they neglected to point out was that German boss Joachim Low has been giving him a hand as well.

The Puns of Brixton

<< Charlie avoids a mugging on his way to pick up some more smack

I've had a couple of good facts this week, so it's only right that the two things I've learnt today are your garden variety knowledge. Firstly, I learnt that Twinkies are a kind of cake, with fondant in the middle, but I've already covered American sweets previously, and as much as I love them, it'd be churlish to return to them so soon. Instead, here's what I got:

Pimlico is the only London Underground station not to contain any of the letters of the word 'badger'.

Pimlico is also the station you need to alight at to visit the Tate Gallery, although be warned, it's a bit of a walk. Incidentally, the Tate Modern claims to be near Southwark tube station - it was far enough to bring me to the verge of tears. I'm going to see Radiohead next week at Victoria Park, which claims to be near Bethnal Green tube, and I'm expecting similar sob-inducing distances. The BBC's H2G2 also claims that Pimlico is also the only station on the Victoria line that was built especially for the line, as all other stations were interchanges before - except that Brixton, the end of the line and gateway to gigging - isn't, so they're wrong.

It shows how much they know that they suggest you don't walk from the Tube to Brixton train station in case you get mugged by passers-by. Now I know it's a bit rough round there, but it's not like a lawless breakaway republic. Not yet anyway. Weirdly, a poorly mocked-up version of Brixton tube appears in Lost (see above), and its platforms are adorned with an image of a ton of bricks. Pictures of riots and Eddy Grant were dismissed at the planning stage...

Playing God

<< God: Interestingly, was asked to play Alanis Morrissette in forthcoming biopic, but declined

Today's piece of trivia came to me through the random pointless website finding service, StumbleUpon (other random pointless website finding services are available). After imploring it to 'Stumble' at an ever more desperate rate, it led to uncover this actually very interesting bit of film factuality:

The only character to appear in all four Monty Python films is God.

If you're an actor, it doesn't get much bigger than playing God (playing the president, or Elvis, might push it close though). Morgan Freeman, Gene Hackman and, um, Alanis Morrissette have all filled the big cheese's omnipotent shoes on the big screen. As for God's nemesis, the anti-Christ (a man who so hates God he named himself after his opposition to God's son - a bit like having a dispute with a neighbour whose son is called Roger, and changing your name to I Hate Roger) - well, the devil has been portrayed by (amongst others) Dave Grohl, Tim Curry and Al Pacino. If you can tell me the six films in which the aforementioned actors played the epitomes of good and evil, you can win (scans desk) a permanent marker, a party popper, one blank Sony CD-R disc (with case) and a copy of this week's Wimbledon Post (delivery pending)...

Fuggin' Awesome

I'm now warming to a theme following yesterday's bullshit post (perhaps in more ways than one). Perhaps this blog should be turned into a history of swearing - although on second thoughts, it's puerile enough as it is. Anyway:

The word 'fucking' was first used on a record in 1965.

The record was the self-titled release by The Fugs, whose very name is a toned-down version of the world's finest word. I discovered this in a Guardian article about bands with F-heavy names, which features a list of said monikers, surely designed to reduce the most hardened muso into bursts of childish giggling. If you're looking for a fresh name, here are my suggestions: Fuck Yeah, which unbelievably hasn't been taken yet; Fuck A Duck; Pot Fuck; Monster Fucks; the double-edged Fuck This, or if you want to play it down the line, how about The Fucks. The article seems to be suggesting that there are too many clever fucks putting the word in their band names, but if you ask me, there aren't enough. It might be a sure-fire way to fudge your career, but if you're flipping terrible anyway, then why the fug not...

More Bullshit

<< A bull prepares to drop a steaming corporate mission statement

Apropos of nothing, I got to thinking today about where the phrase 'bullshit' comes from. There's a lot of poo-related swear words out there, but not many with such a specific meaning. How did bovine bowel movements become associated with falsehoods (that's not quite what bullshit is - the beauty of the word is that it refers to something no other word can describe). Well, the answer is really quite interesting - and none of the aforementioned either:

Using the phrase 'bull' to describe something false or nonsensical predates the use of the word 'bullshit'.





I had always thought it was the other way round, and that 'bull' was the clean version, much like 'fudge' or 'sugar' (incidentally, I remember an edition of Family Fortunes where words used to replace swears was the topic, and the guy said Schweppes, not realising that he was the only person in the world who used it). Not so - 'bull' first appeared in the 17th century, and probably came from the French word 'boul', meaning fraud or deceit. Bullshit didn't come into use until the 20th century, and has been around ever since, as anyone who's ever had customer care training will testify...

Return of the Living Fact

<< Bub: Dead, but funny, so it's okay

Today has been spent watching 80s (and not so 80s) horror films, the pick of which was Return of the Living Dead, in which the release of a toxic gas brings the dead back to life (I think that's what was going on). It also taught me the following:

Rigour mortis begins in the brain.

Now I have to admit, I don't exactly know what rigour mortis is, or even if it's spelled right, but the trouble with researching this is that I'm probably going to stumble upon pictures of dead bodies, which I really can't handle. It appears that there are some barriers learning can't cross - and my fear of the dead is one of them. It all stems from being a teenager, and looking at a site called rotten.com, which was full of pictures of people getting gruesome facial injuries in motorcycle races, and is pretty disgusting all round. Thinking I was too cool for school, I rifled through, opened a picture of a dead body, and spent the rest of the night curled up in a ball snivelling in fear and revulsion. It's far too hardcore for me.

Incidentally, I also learnt from the rest of the day's film and computer game-based fun that A. Michael Myers has a tough childhood (although possibly not tough enough to excuse his rampant killing sprees) - thanks to the Halloween remake. B. If the new, creepy guy from work asks to rent your spare room, and then tells you he can bring people back to life, you should believe him (Re-Animator). Finally, C. The steering wheel that you get free with Mario Kart on Wii is rubbish.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

<< Westray Airport in the Orkneys: Not in the top ten

Today's fact is one of those great examples of realising that something I thought was true is in fact quite the opposite. I'm even throwing it out there. What's the busiest airport in the world? As far as I was concerned, it was Heathrow - and watching the planes cruising in every 30 seconds over South West London, it seems hard to argue otherwise. However, I am mistaken:

Atlanta's Hartsfield airport is the busiest in the world.

That's right, a place that nobody seems to have any inclination to go to receives close to 85 million visitors a year (as of 2006). Either it's got an unbelievable duty free store, or a lot of connecting flights pitch up there. Heathrow only finishes in 3rd place, also behind Chicago's O'Hare airport. The top ten also features Tokyo, Beijing, Dallas, Denver, Frankfurt, Paris and LA. Surprisingly, New York's JFK is only 15th. The departure lounge must be rubbish.

Of course, I'm not much of an expert, having only ever been to 3 airports. They are, in order of preference - Riga: a compact, laminate-floored delight; Krakow: cavernous but efficient, and complete with burly, yet surprisingly approachable, soldiers on security; and finally Stansted, a clean, modern, bustling airport that appears to be run by a room full of chimps with a pile of flight itineraries in front of them. Prior to the smoking ban, upon arriving home from abroad, we were greeted by a sign that read "No Smoking Allowed (except in smoking area)" - a swift reminder of how bloody stupid this country can be.

Bon Voyage

<< If in doubt, just keep driving

A piping hot Chinese takeaway is arriving imminently, so I'm phoning in this blog. In a few weeks we're heading over to France for a week of Gallic delight, and are taking a car. As a prelude to a week of baffling road signs, and pedestrians stepping briskly out in front of oncoming traffic, we've been faced with a payload of paperwork, and a few mildly interesting French road facts:

In France, you can't get breakdown assistance on the motorway - you have to call the police.

The thought of summoning the gendarmes only to find that the engine starts when they try it doesn't really bear thinking about. Here a few other facts about France:

1. They drive on the wrong side of the road

2. The police have funny-shaped hats

3. The pylons are a weird shape

4. It's similar weather to Britain but a bit warmer

5. They eat baguettes

I will, of course, be learning much more about our fashionable, misunderstood neighbour on our travels. In response to my brother's drunken rant, which unlike most drunken rants about the French, was largely positive: I think the way we describe a nation indicates our disdain, for example, I'm currently watching Austria v Poland, but earlier on ITV were showing Croatia v the Germans, and tomorrow it'll be Romania v the French. What's that all about?

Politicalcorrectnessgonemad

During the Grand Prix this weekend, commentator Martin Brundle quipped to Bernie Ecclestone that "some pikeys are out resurfacing the road" following, I dunno, something going wrong with the track. Now I hope you're thinking what I'm thinking - he said pikeys?! This has, unsurprisingly, caused something of a stir, with people questioning whether the term is a racial slur. Just to clarify - it is. This word is hugely derogatory, and labels an entire ethnic group as undesirable. Unsurprisingly, a Daily Mail columnist doesn't agree - claiming that if we can't say pikey, then the same goes for words like hippy, hoodie, Sloane, tinker, chav etc etc. So what he's basically saying is that we absolutely have to judge and insult people. I'd question why such awful generalisations are at all necessary, but he's writing for the Daily Mail, which without its life force of prejudice would literally turn to dust in your hands.

Verbally insulting travelling communities is seen as the acceptable face of racism, and far too many people throw the word around in a way that generally alludes to people being below society. It's quite possible that people don't know that it refers to Roma communities, but ignorance isn't an excuse. The same goes for people who swallow media reports of travellers being disruptive and unpleasant. My view is that there probably are people in travelling communities who act inappropriately, but only because there are jerks like that in every social group. I've met people from travelling communites, they were intelligent, ambitious and welcoming - but that's not even the point. You shouldn't have to meet a nice traveller to think about not using racial slurs. I have never felt the need to generalise about any group - I wish other people felt the same. Anyway, to the fact:

The term 'pikey' comes from the phrase 'turnpike traveller'.

Well, that was all a bit heavy, so a little Apprentice chat to round it off. How on Earth did Lee win? He looked a bit confused when it was announced - he wanted it so bad, he just couldn't want it any harder, and ended up looking like he didn't really want it at all. I give him six months - though to be honest, I thought his chances had been blown when he chose to give a presentation about a guy called Wyan, who wore a fwagwance called Woolette...

The Digestive System In Reverse 3 - The Final Embarrassment

<< A mageiricophobia sufferer struggling through Ainsley's 'immersion therapy' course

And so to today's entry, the third I have written today and the third about food. Here, like an incompetent factory worker, we're moving to prep:

Mageiricophobia is the intense fear of having to cook.

I think a better word would be laziness - I'm struggling to see why anyone would be scared of cooking - unless they happen to have once hospitalised 20 people whilst knocking up a bolognese sauce. In that instance, the sight of a hob and a jar of stir-in sauce would justifiably induce a squeaky bum - wait a minute... we're back where we started!

On that note, I'll draw to a close this brief but enlightening triptych of eating-based learning. Hopefully I’ll give you all a bit more to digest tomorrow (I thank you)…

The Digestive System In Reverse 2 - This Time It's Personal

<< A family of tropical fish prepare for a heady night of incest and cannibalism

…Monday, where I was informed by a work colleague of the following curio:

Eating live bait encourages fish to breed.

I know this because she informed me that the inhabitants of her fishtank are currently caught in a vicious cycle of breeding and then eating the microscopic offspring that ensue. This, of course, makes them wanna get their breed on, which means more tiny fish, and so it goes on. Thus we have now passed through the digestive system from the colon to the stomach, which as we all know, is the wrong direction, and a feat only ever before attempted by Lemmiwinks.

The Digestive System In Reverse

<< Costa Rica: Second in the amusing currency name table to the Vietnamese Dong

I’ve been a busy man for the last few days – if it’s not been computer game Olympics, I’ve had a list of chores that the bloke from the Flash ads would baulk at, or have been having the kind of day that tipped Gordon Gekko over the edge. Incidentally, one of the things I learnt on Sunday was that the aforementioned Gekko is the lead character in Falling Down, rather than a puppet, as I had previously thought. Buzz – the Big Quiz is a fountain of knowledge, for it also offered me the following:

The currency in Costa Rica is the colon.

I didn’t realise that the colon was a Latin American currency – I always thought it was a part of the body, at the business end of the digestive tract. While we’re on digestion, let’s move to…

Arise Sir Parky

<< Parkinson recoils at the news that even Judi Dench beat him to it

This week saw the announcement of the new Honours list - recipients included the newly-named Sir Michael Parkinson, who described the award as a "great honour". What he actually meant, of course, was "what took you so long? Wogan got one ages ago, and he's not even British! I've had to brown-nose a legion of talentless minor celebrities for this, and I've got to pretend to be grateful - you people make me sick". Memorably, Mick Jagger accepted a knighthood in 2003, which led to criticism that it really wasn't very 'rock and roll'. Another highly amusing Jagger fact is that, whilst living in a Chelsea flat with Keith Richard and Brian Jones, he still attempted to continue with his LSE business degree. One can only imagine the rows that must have taken place.

It's a shame that even 'anti-establishment' stars like Mick Jagger are prepared to accept honours from the royal family. Here at Knowledge Towers, we're in agreement that more celebrities should turn their awards down. The only problem is, they can only do it when they first hear about the honour - if they want to go public, they have to first accept it to get on the list, in order to turn it down - if you follow me. Some famous refuseniks include Alan Bennett, who turned down a knighthood, French and Saunders, who refused OBEs, and Lenny Henry, who also declined an OBE - but accepted a CBE. Guess the OBE was just too 'small time' for him. John Lennon is thought by many to have refused his honour, but in fact accepted and then returned it. There's just one problem:

An honour bestowed by the British monarchy cannot be returned once received.

This is a technicality really, as a public display of rejection does as much harm to the image of the honours as actually being able to hand the award back. Lennon publicly returned his honour as a protest against the Biafran and Vietnamese wars. Parky may be inclined to do the same - he may feel that after 20 years pretending to be interested in Paul McCartney's new material, he really should be made King.

15 Minutes of Fury

Tonight I went where I haven't been for many moons - I tried to watch an entire episode of The Weakest Link. It was loaded with Apprentice rejects, featuring such legends as Tre and Paul, and a genuinely unsettling spat between Kristina and Katie Hopkins. It should have been fine early evening fare, but there's just one problem - I can't stand Anne Robinson. I literally can't bear to watch her without barking at the TV. So what is it specifically, I hear you cry - well, where do I start. There's the whole 'ice maiden' schtick, and the way she relentlessly attacks contestants until they're actually rendered speechless; there's the way she always says the amount of money they've won in a weary sigh, even when they bank about 75% of all possible winnings.

The cherry on the cake of hate, however, has to be the horrible puns - "who's Alan Sugar free?" "Who's going to get their P45?" etc etc. There must have been a thousand episodes of this show by now, and she's still rolling them out, with an impressive strike rate of zero amusing/clever puns to her name. Imagine what a great show The Weakest Link would be if she stopped swivelling that bloody screen about and just acted like a normal person. It sickens me. Still, if nothing else, sitting through the 15 minutes that I could bear taught be the following:

Balaclavas take their name from a village in the Ukraine.

Balaklava was the scene of a battle in the Crimean War (that I did know) and were worn by British soldiers. I didn't know that Balaklava was still a town today - it's in the environs of the city of Sebastapol, with a population of 30,000. OK, as learning goes, it's pretty shaky, but it brings new information to what I knew before. Whatever, I can't allow that I watched that stupid programme for nothing. The Weakest Link of facts it may be, but I'm not voting it off.

A Pregnant Pause

<< A kangaroo jettisons her joey - and there's more where he came from

Some days you just can't be bothered. Six months in, six comments received in that time - my thirst for fact is running low. I even had a poser to solve, regarding the seeds in bell peppers, and whether they're poisonous or not. The answer, in short, is probably not, but I couldn't find a proper answer - although there were people who claim to have grown chillies for 20 years, and who thought that the seeds were the spicy bit (it seems more likely that it's the shiny bit on the inside of the skin). Sometimes I wonder how I keep this thing going with only forum douchebags to turn to for confirmation. In the end, I resorted to talking to an actual human being, who informed me of this:

Kangaroos are able to pause their pregnancies.

A nifty fact and no mistake, even if only for the punalicious title it affords me. After the kangaroos mate and conceive, the embryo is held in stasis until the previous joey has emerged from the pouch. Have they ever heard of just waiting? Lay off the red wine, you crazy roos. It's probably a lot more complicated than this, but frankly, a full analysis of the machinations of a sticky marsupial orifice isn't on the cards when I've got a dinner to keep down.

Incidentally, there's a legend that claims that the first Westerners to reach Australia asked their Aboriginal guides what those big, hopping animals were called, and that they were told "ganguruu" - which means 'I don't know' - and that's how kangaroos got their names. This is bollocks.

Big Eats

<< An Alan Partridge-style 'mock up' of the world's smallest (and most pretentious) restaurant

One of the worst things about being back at work, apart from the constant sense of unease and bitterness, and slow, inexorable increase in stress, is the journey. I know I've gone on ad nauseum before, but really, it's just too much. First off, it's the conditions. Platform 15 of Clapham Junction station has one type of weather - cold and windy, 365 days a year. I then transfer from this microclimate into a place that is always unbearably muggy, even on Christmas Eve - the Northern line. As if this wasn't bad enough, making this transition involves defeating my greatest nemesis - the ticket barrier at Balham tube that is prone to slamming shut when I'm halfway through it, causing pain and embarrassment in equal measure.

The worst thing, however, is when I try and go through the journey without headphones, or reading material. As hard as you try, you end up listening to other people's conversations - if I hear one more person say how they just can't be bothered to go to the gym tonight, I think I'll try and remove myself from the train while it's in full flight. Don't go to the gym then, I think over and over to myself. I've never been to a gym in my life - and I'm chunky but alive. It's particularly frustrating when I'm trying to pick up nuggets of useful information to end up with nothing but so much blather. Look what I'm stuck with today:

The world's biggest restaurant is in Syria.

The 6,000 seater jumbo eaterie is called Damascan Gate, and has swimming pools inside it and that. The smallest restaurant on Earth, meanwhile, is called Table for Two (there's a clue in the name) and is in Portland, USA. I can't imagine there's a smaller restaurant out there, unless a particularly Machiavellian chef is preparing food purely for his/her own consumption, and sits in a Soho restaurant on a lonely seat, scoffing his/her face in full view of a salivating public. It doesn't seem entirely implausible, but Table for Two wins for now. The question is - which would you prefer? The outlandish glitz and bustle of a cavernous Middle Eastern hangar, or the awkward silence and suffocating pretentiousness of a restaurant with only one table? Answers on a postcard to Knowledge Towers, Road to Learning, Big London, UK...

Back In A Jiffy?

Today I'm going to talk about speed, swiftness and velocity. Being quick, in other words. It's not something I particular enjoy, much preferring the 'slow and steady' philosophy - it's been known for me take half an hour to make a cup of tea, and only because my unfortunate girlfriend intervenes, bringing me back to reality upon finding me staring at the ceiling with a piping hot teabag balanced on the end of my spoon. When I say I'll be back in a jiffy, I mean I'll be back in approximately three times as much time as is feasible. But how am I to know any different - how long is a jiffy anyway? Well, apparently...

A jiffy is generally recognised as lasting 0.01 seconds.

Unless you're Speedy Gonzales, or under the effect of time-bending substances (told you we'd talk about speed - arf), returning in precisely a jiffy is impossible. In reality, the definition of a jiffy is a technicality, and comes from computer terminology far too tedious to go into here (it's got something to do with servers - and if my broadband server does anything in 0.01 seconds, I will literally eat my hat). The term 'jiffy' also features in electronics, and is the time between alternating power cycles - which is roughly 0.02 seconds.

Of course, all these definitions are references to the original term 'back in a jiffy' - so where does that come from? The internet is pretty sketchy on this - although Wikipedia claim that it comes from thieves' cant (a medieval dialect) and means 'lightning'. The fact that Wikipedia mentions it and nowhere else does is clanging the alarm bells of inaccuracy, but I don't care because thieves' cant is way cool. A language used by, er, thieves, beggars and others at the foot of the feudal system, some choice phrases include 'sham abram' (to feign illness), 'smuggling Ken' (a brothel, for some reason) and 'glimflashy' (a bit miffed).

Thieves' cant also used a number of modern terms, although not quite in the same context as today - to 'cry beef' meant to raise the alarm and a 'blood' was a troublemaker. I've saved my two personal favourites for last though. A gentleman who appeared well dressed but is in fact an unsavoury character underneath is known as a 'Beau-nasty', which is inspired. Finally to the place nobody returns from in a jiffy - a coffin, or as thieves' cant would have it... an eternity box.

Tonight A Sweetshop Saved My Life

<< Lifesavers: 'U' in 'Flavour' not pictured

Tonight we went into Big London for a lovely meal at TGI Fridays (should've gone to Nando's) and then stumbled upon the world's coolest shop - it had sweets from far and wide (well, mostly America) including several delights that appeared in world's coolest show Seinfeld. There were the junior mints that ended up in a surgical wound, as well as the Jujyfruits Elaine bought on the way to see her boyfriend in hospital. They also had Lifesavers, a sweet I was aware of, but didn't fully understand:

Lifesavers are the American version of Polos.

One advantage of the American version is they're also not made by stinky old Nestlé - they're made by Wrigleys, who probably ain't perfect. I thought they were either gobstoppers, or like Fisherman's Friends. God knows why. Lifesavers, like their British cousins, come in minty and fruity varieties, although I can't see a diarrhoea-inducing sugar-free version anywhere. What am I thinking? Sugar free? In America?! Also, they're called Lifesavers because they're the shape of a rubber ring. Obvious really.

The wonderful shop also had gone-but-not-forgotten cereal Lucky Charms, featuring a maniacal leprachaun who knows you're after his lucky charms, and looks like he'd kill you before he'd let you get hold of 'em. It was that, and the £7 price tag, that put me off. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a 5th Avenue bar with my name on it.

The Sundays

<< The Gethin Jones: "Single and looking", since you ask

It's 6.15 on a Sunday evening - up and down the nation, the denizens of this fair isle are slumped, half-comatose in a pile of Sunday supplements as Songs of Praise kicks into gear. It is officially the worst time of the entire week. Somehow, as Sunday evening nears its conclusion, the Sunday blues recede at the same rate as the minutes of freedom remaining. Even Monday morning, despite its dreadful opening 5 minutes, when you wake up and literally pray for death, doesn't feel as bad. Maybe it's the expectation, or the weird light at this time of day, or the godawful telly, but Sunday teatime stinks. Today has been OK, although that may have something to do with having an entire month off work. Tomorrow will be the first full day I've worked since Boris Johnson got elected - I guess I couldn't hide away forever.

By the way, if you're wondering what the word 'denizens' means, it means this:

A denizen is an inhabitant of a particular place.

This is a pretty simplistic definition - a denizen is a loose noun that can refer to plants, animals or people that reside in a particular location, and was used in this country primarily to define immigrants that had been awarded citizenship - cos we couldn't just call them citizens, that would be too easy. This is an odd fact, as I'm not convinced I didn't know it, but it came to us via the intellectual juggernaut that is Zelda: Twilight Princess, and I couldn't recall what it meant until I looked it up.

The only other time I can remember this quandary occurring was back on New Years' Day, at the start of this crazy adventure - thanks to a fact relayed by Gethin Jones, he of Blue Peter and Strictly Come Dancing. Oddly, Claire just found out that her friend from uni has started going out with a guy called Gethin Jones, who she used to go to school with. Now here's the weird part - she actually went to school with the Gethin Jones (he of Blue Peter and Strictly etc) - but this guy isn't that Gethin Jones. If you follow me. This would be perhaps the world's weirdest coincidence, except that she lives in Cardiff, where everyone is called either Gethin Jones, or Sian Lloyd (incidentally, don't try and argue, you know it's true).

My intention, should we ever meet this fellow, is to pretend that he is really Gethin Jones (he of etc.). I'll ask him how he felt about losing out to Matt di Angelo in the Strictly semi-finals, despite being easily the better performer on the night. I'll ask why he's ducked out of the limelight since leaving Blue Peter. I'm sure that'll go down really well. Right, I'm off to play Deal or no Deal - the board game. A shot in the arm for the Sundays if ever there was one.