IS THERE MARMITE IN THAILAND?

More travels in West Oxfordshire today. It’s lovely to watch the leaves fall, and even better to crunch through yellow and brown and red. All the while, the sun sinks lower in the afternoon, and lights up those trees in translucent gold. I find myself hoping that heaven is just a bit autumnal, though I admit, that’s a bit like pinning all your holiday hopes on whether or not Thailand has Marmite.

Anyway. Today we went to Millets Farm - which is more funfair, posh cafe, petting zoo and covered market than it is a ‘farm’ these days. But hey, I guess there’s more than one type of milking, isn’t there?

We played crazy golf. I’m not going to tell you who won, only that it was a travesty of sporting justice, and referees ought to have been called. Still, I really like a little crazy golf on holidays.

There’s something so cosy about this time of year. I don’t know what it is - kids barrelling around with pumpkins, the cheery puff of smoke from the steam fair, or the smell of cinnamon and ginger. It all contributes to a warmth and a memory, which, better than finding Marmite in Thailand, might be a little glimpse of heaven after all.

A STATUE OF WINSTON

“And in an age when people are pulling statues down…” said Sir Winston Churchill’s great grandson, rather grandly, “We’re putting one up!”

The small crowd of onlookers cheered. Sammy and I looked at each other, silently contemplating. I have a feeling we know people who would think rather differently to Winston Churchill’s great grandson about whether the world needed another statue of the great man. Or indeed, whether Sir Winston was really even that great in the grand scheme of things.

But this was the grounds of Blenheim Palace, and here in a small circle of gravel under a yew tree, a bronze sculpture of Sir Winston was being unveiled, applauded, and quite appositely, given three cheers.

In fact quite a few of his great grandchildren had come for the ceremony. You could spot them because weirdly, they sort of looked exactly like him. And in ways that I never can quite believe is purely down to the tincture of one’s blood, they also carried an air of long-forgotten aristocracy - and nothing marked out the Spencer-Churchills quite like that did.

We had tagged along. I really wanted to know why there were so many folks in tweed and ties about, and certainly why a young Blenheim Palace employee was testing a small PA system out next to a yew tree and a large object under a cloth. We quickly worked out that it was 150 years since the birth of Winston Churchill, and that clearly the small  collection of lookalikes must have had something to do with it. So we nosily joined in, during our day at Blenheim, looking just about as out-of-place as it gets.

In a way, Churchill straddles two distinct worlds. One, the old Imperial Britain, into which he was born, and the other, the more modern Britain that we live in, the one that gave way to a new Western world of America and Cold War and a flickering East. It’s no wonder he’s divisive. He sits at the fulcrum point between the two, rooted in an archaic sort of belief system, fitting the war for the right of everything to change.

Now here he was in bronze, sculpted as an artist, posed forever painting the view ahead of him. The crowd applauded. The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough bristled with pride, and Sir Winston Churchill’s great grandson safely joked about putting up a statue in a world where people were pulling them down. He knew his audience. Of course he did.

BRAINS PART 5: THE THEATRE

Just for context, and for all those new to the story, a couple of years ago I applied to be on Brain of Britain, the UK’s best radio general knowledge contest. Then this year, I passed the audition, got through, and had a place deferred for 2025. Ever since I’ve known, I’ve been trying to prepare.

And that’s why last night, my pal Luke and I ended up watching the recording of this year’s semi finals of Brain of Britain, right there in the BBC Radio Theatre.

We the audience filed in. Jazz music played over the hubbub while on the stage were the four contestants sitting at a table, in a row opposite the host, Russell Davies, and the producer whose name I think is Stephen.

Each contestant had their name printed in bold letters in front of them, and they sat behind four giant microphones as though they were about to give a press conference.

I was weirdly nervous. I’m still not sure why - I have a whole year (well just under) to go. As we settled into the famous red seats, along with the 200 others in the grey-haired audience, I scanned the panel of four. What, I suddenly wondered, have I let myself in for? They all looked so stern! You know that kind of face that’s so weathered with knowledge, it just looks like it’s cross with you.

When I have that moment, I thought, I’m totally just going to beam like a loonie, just grinning at everyone and seeing what happens.

Lights down. Recording started. They were off.

-

I settled down too, once we were in full-swing. Some things I knew, some things I didn’t. You’d expect nothing less, I imagine. I pictured myself on the stage, looking across at Russell Davies with his pieces of paper. I felt my heart thump in the silences, and I did my best to breathe.

-

I got 17/46 in the first competition  and then 26/54 in the second. It’s not terrible for a semi final, and I’ve got some time to improve.

But crucially I’ve also got a great picture of what to expect. It was so worth doing the research.

As in everything with life, I really think things are there to be enjoyed, and I was so glad we went. Listen, I’m not going to win - from the standard I’ve seen (and from the numbers!) I know this quite well - so I think my reason for doing this is almost pure enjoyment, tinged with a little self-confidence-booster. It’s a bit like a bungee jump I suppose - only for people who’d rather read an atlas or learn the periodic table than actually jump off a bridge.

And yes, I’m one of those people. Of course! I love the thrill of learning and discovering. I just hope I can smile about it, before, during, and afterwards.

LIGHT-HEARTED OF LONDON

I’m in the London office today, for reasons that I’ll explain later.

I haven’t changed my mind about London. It’s cold and busy, and everything moves just that little bit too quickly. There are roadworks happening outside the building, and that’s resulted in the constant churning of a pneumatic drill down below, accompanied by the occasional builder’s yell. You only get that sound in cities where the noise reverberates from tall buildings, just as you only get that particular light on the shaded stone of narrow streets.

The train was packed. The tube, worse. I found myself shuffling off the station platform at Paddington, a nameless face, staring into the rucksack of the person in front. To be honest, we might as well have all been in shackles.

Anyway. It wasn’t all soulless. I helped a nice Indian lady find her way to Cannon Street.

“I’m on the same route,” I smiled, “You can stick with me.”

She was relieved. In fact she sat right next to me on the District Line and we chatted for a bit. I stayed with her at Edgware Road an extra four minutes, just so she got the right train, then both of us crammed into the tube - on its way, first to my stop, and then I hope, to hers. I gave her a nod as I left the carriage and made my way up to the frosty Capital.

The London Office. It is confusing. I forgot that you have to swipe your pass in the lift. The bearded gentleman let me go all the way up to level 4 and then back down to 0 without mentioning it.

Then, when I had finally got in and clambered under the desk to plug in my laptop, I realised I couldn’t connect to a wireless keyboard for some reason. There’s nobody else here yet. I just got on with it - though it is essentially dawning on me that I’ve come into London to work on my own this morning. There are at least two ironies lurking there.

Finally, I went to make a tea. No kettle. You know why? As I suspected, it’s all done by instant hot tap. Only, the two taps didn’t seem likely candidates. One’s over a sink like a normal kitchen tap, and the other, arching out of the marble counter has three settings: ambient, chilled, and sparkling.

None of those sound like they’d make a great cup of tea, do they? I mean, can you imagine?

In the end I asked someone, who showed me that the kitchen tap was the thing I was looking for. Only, you have to double pump one of its handles, then twist it to get actual boiling water out of it. I don’t think I’d have figured that out. I’d still be there, cup in hand, Twinings tea bag in the other. The guy who showed me seemed short on patience too. I wonder if living and working in London reduces your ability to be light-hearted?

Light-hearted. I don’t mean flippant, but I do think this is what I want to be here - and in both senses of ‘light’ too: not heavy and not dark. This city seems both of those things.

I’m here because later I’m going to be in the audience for one of the Brain of Britain semifinals - the show I’ll be on (but perhaps not as far as the semifinal) next year. I want to know exactly what I’m in for. And later, that means heading over to that there BBC to sit in the radio theatre.

I realised yesterday that quizzing is mostly about memory. That’s a thought I’m sure I’ll come back to, but when I dissociated the notion that it has anything to do with intellect or cleverness, I quite quickly realised that it was easier to hold it lightly. So, here I am then, trying to be light-hearted of London.

Though I must admit, that pneumatic drill is going to get old really quickly.

ATLAS AND SYSIPHUS

“Do you think it’s a case of ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’?” asked someone yesterday. 

Isn’t that supposed to rhyme? I thought.

But I was pausing my reply for another reason, one that was forming as I stood there. Eventually I said,

“Well it sort of depends on who the person is…”

He smiled, knowingly. I mean, instinctively, we all know it don’t we? Share your problem with the wrong person and it creates seventeen more problems. I know my maths is out, but more often than not, a problem shared is a problem squared.

He is right though. I do need someone to talk to. I’ve let everything build up. I’m pretty sure us men are dab hands at that - solitary load-carrying chaps, cheerily telling our mates ‘everything’s fine’ which might be true… but also lacking the subtle nuance that while we’re ‘fine’, we’re also extremely close to everything not being fine - and that detail really matters. Dab hands.

This makes me imagine Atlas and Sysiphus catching up over a coffee. One with the world on his shoulders; one whose job it is to push a boulder uphill forever. Alright mate? Yeah not too bad. You?

How do you know who the right person to ‘halve your problem’ is? That’s sometimes a little tricky. 

“Cor, you don’t do small talk do you?” said my pal, chuckling. No, I said, arching. Life’s too short for chit chat. There’s a place for it, of course, but it can only ever be a means to an end, surely? Otherwise Atlas and Sysiphus would be sitting there forever, twirling stirrers into their lattes, complaining about Zeus again while the boulders tumble and the sky falls in.

I want to be real, I think. 

TOO EARLY FOR SPARKLY PAC-MAN

Is Christmas taking over the second half of the year? I mean, it seems to be on the mind of almost all the advertisers and supermarket planners.

Sure, Halloween’s big at the moment. Understandable in October, but as big as it is for purchasing parents, it’s a flash in the pan next to Christmas. I bet the numbers back me up.

There are shelves ram-packed with chocolates, and stocking fillers, and gift ideas, and shower sets, and magazines for people who believe they’re actually going to have time for baking. The racks of sparkly jumpers glisten with sequins as you walk by, and penguins and polar bears and santas all wink at you from socks and pyjamas and mugs and wrapped-up advent calendars.

Now. I love it. Don’t misunderstand me. Halloween can get in the bin, and Christmas can come in and stay by the fireside as far as I’m concerned, but the obsession with it, months beforehand… I find that so overwhelming. And frankly a bit unnecessary.

We found a jumper that said ‘Tis the Season’ in beautiful gold, shimmering on black.

“If that said ‘Unto us a Child is born,” I said to Sammy, holding it open, “You’d love that.”

She agreed. Sometimes I wonder whether there are two Christmases and the big, sparkly, presenty one somehow chomped up the little humble one and nobody really noticed. Of course there’s no Christmas jumper in Sainsbury’s with ‘Unto us a Child is born’ written on it! For one thing, it just looks like a pregnancy reveal… in sequins.

Anyway, that’s tired old ground. I’m just saying that this year, the festivities seem to have ramped up even before the spooky pumpkins have had a chance, and I reckon it’s way too much and far too soon. As soon as All Saints’ Day dawns and November flickers through the window, I fear it might be full-on Xmas insanity, with Wham on every radio station and baubles in every window.

And though I love it, that seems like a shame - because while Christmas gets earlier, summer squeezes Autumn from the other end, and the most beautiful time of year is sort of lost between the barbecue and the tinsel, pulped out by a gigantic sparkly Pac-Man wearing the name of a thing it gobbled up decades ago.

I sound like a curmudgeon. Heaven forbid it. I’m just not quite ready to feel that festive yet. And even when I do I kind of hope I’ll be whispering ‘Unto us a Child is born’ along with all the others who truly love a little, humble Christmas.

UNIVERSITY TOWN OR NOT

I’ve not gone to Oxford today, which is a shame because it’s almost the perfect autumn day for it.

Whenever I walk from the bus stop to the train station, I always peek down the side streets that lead, I know, to the leafy colleges and spires, and every week I wish I had just a little more time for a great adventure…

Just a little more time.

I nearly studied at Oxford, you know. I applied to Keble College. I wonder what kind of life I’d have had if that had all worked out; if I hadn’t messed up my A Levels? Would this bustling city of academics and tourists have been my university town? Would my memories swirl around Oxford now like my heart sometimes swirls around Bath? What would I be doing now? Would I even be here?

You can never know. But it does scare me to think that my entire life might have swung on the balance of a few silly decisions made by a 16-year-old. If I’d known then…

Well. Anyway. Out here in the future, in the wilds of Twenty-First-Century me, I’m feeling a bit rough, and so I’ve not gone to the Oxford office, university town or not. I’ve stayed at home.

TIN OPENERS

We’re having trouble with tin openers. I don’t know why. Up until recently we had a good’n. It clicked sweetly to the lip of a tin can, and then with one smooth action you could twist it around the top, until the lid simply peeled off.

Then it stopped working. We had a look at it, but all we could guess was that the teeth weren’t catching the can properly. We both had a go. When I turned the handle, the blade just whirled around in empty space and the tin remained unpunctured.

I think it was custard. Sammy will correct me; it might have been tuna, but let’s say a) that it was custard and b) that I know the difference. Custard it was. And custard dribbled from the can as I jagged the angled tin opener into the side of the tin, making the best of a blade that wouldn’t turn.

We’ve bought two new tin openers since then. You know, I’m not entirely sure we’re doing it properly - now the opener keeps getting stuck halfway around the can, and leaving sharp bits, and stringy shards of metal. I’m also sure your hand isn’t supposed to feel like you’ve been flexing industrial-sized jump leads either.

Ring pulls are probably the answer aren’t they? But they don’t manufacture them on everything (it seems) and for those things we’re still going to need a device. Perhaps a really fancy electric one? I guess you just attach it and push a button? Then, like some sort of Japanese robot, it raises the dripping lid towards you and beeps. Maybe a Christmas present? Maybe that’s ridiculous, and I should just get on with life without pouring custard on my jacket potato.

TIME DOESN’T EXIST

“Time,” I said, a little pompously, sitting up straight, “Doesn’t really exist.” I was thinking out loud, but Sammy noted how I’d sat up as though it were something grand and important. She always loves to listen to my theories: rolling away so she can hear better, raising a keenly arched eyebrow to show her intrigue, or just carrying on making the tea in the other room, only stopping to contribute a ‘Yes dear’ or other helpful interjection. She didn’t ask what I meant.

It’s like this. We all get twenty four hours a day. The King, the postman, Mary Berry, and that madman who launched a car into space - all of us, rich, poor, scrunching letters through the door - just twenty four hours, lived one second per second. We all have time.

And if we all have time, then also none of us don’t have time. All we have is choices. So there’s no such thing as time; there are only priorities.

In other words, “I don’t have time” always only ever means, “I’ve chosen something else.” It’s harsh, I know but time - having time, spending time, wasting time - is just a matter of choices.

I find this difficult. I didn’t talk to Sammy about why, only that figuring out what’s important is very hard - and all conflict, great and small, is the result of people differing about what really matters. That’s what I find difficult - lots of things matter! Some of the things I thought mattered don’t matter even half as much as the things I didn’t think matter, and it turns out they actually do! So I flow with the process - switching and changing my mind. Prioritising is like sailing a terrible ocean sometimes.

Anyway. That was today’s grand thought. I’ve chosen to write it out, having bolted upright with the idea and pontificating to my wife. She’s chosen to make breakfast, which, I ought to help with, instead of going on about things that perhaps matter a great deal less.

EARTH WILL DO

Jupiter spins around once on its axis every 9 hours. That’s pretty quick for a big old boss, isn’t it? I mean the Jupiter day is short! Being about 600 million kilometres further out than us, the great gas giant takes over 11 years to make one full orbit of the sun. 

So, if you can picture it, ol’ Jupes spins almost three times faster than us, and takes almost 11 years longer to get there. By Jove.

I can identify. That sounds like a lot of my life actually - working at a thousand miles an hour, travelling at walking pace.

Meanwhile, Venus spins on its axis every 243 days - and not even in the right direction. It rotates backwards compared to its neighbours, and it takes 8 months to do a full a 360. You have to wait a long time for a Venusian sunset. In addition to slowly spinning backwards like some of sort of diva, Venus also takes 225 days to orbit the sun. So there, a day is longer than a year.

I can identify with that too. Sometimes the day can’t end soon enough, and it really feels like you’ve got seven months to go before you’re allowed to crawl into bed. The only thing missing is Christmas - which on Venus would happen twice a day, I assume. I quite like the idea of Breakfast Christmas. That’s a thought for another day.

Back here on Earth, the numbers are better, but the climate is woeful today. It feels as though it’s spent two days either raining, about to rain, or having just rained, which has done little to help the passage of time. I’m not saying I want to be tumbling through clouds of freezing hydrogen gas by the way, or standing on a rocky shore with liquid methane lapping at my space-suit. Earth will do nicely thanks. I think I just want a little dry spell when I don’t have to carry an umbrella, or run for the house like Linford Christie.