On canine intellect and high fiving 20-08-09

I am in Glasgow Airport. Suffice to say, I won’t be coming here for my honeymoon.
The Lockerbie bomber is coming through here shortly on his way home to Libya, so there are several policemen around and a police dog, I hate dogs, which is of the wrong breed I think, and on the side of the dog it says “Please don’t distract me”. I find this hilarious on a number of levels.
For one thing, the use of the word “me” implies that they think someone, somewhere might be stupid enough to believe that the dog itself wrote this message. Ridiculous! I suppose this means that if it just stoically said “Please do not distract this horrid, vicious hound from its godforsaken calling” they think we would be less emotionally affected by it. I also like the idea of distracting dogs from their work in general, presumably with some kind of high-tempo piano tune or tap-dancing routine, which is something that wouldn’t even have occurred to me had there not been an explicit instruction on the side of the dog telling me not to distract it.
In the event they have only aroused in me a determination to somehow distract the dog from its unspecified task and thus slightly reduce the efficiency of the universe.
There’s also a small and useless football store leaning against a wall, featuring lots of Celtic gear but only in a yellow and black bee-like design.
My dad used to keep bees, large numbers of them, in the orchard. They made honey. Then they all left. The daft white masked spacesuit has hung unused on a hook ever since.
I went home last weekend. My sister Cathy and her husband were there, back from Sydney where they live, and also their child names ‘Noah’ who is very small indeed. I will write more on this topic later.
Specifically I am in Frankie and Benny’s and I noticed that my pizza was burnt underneath, quite a lot, to the point that I was forced to take the moral high ground, assure them (when asked) that my food was fine, scrape off the topping and eat it, then turn over the burnt base and display it to the world. I still didn’t get a free dessert, although they did give me a £5 voucher off my next visit, which was rather presumptuous of them. Now they are looking at me funnily, as though I should have left before now.
I have just left and sat somewhere else.
Things to do in a lift when everyone’s being uncomfortably quiet and you’re Paul Harland: half-suppress a giggle while looking at the ceiling, look anywhere but other people’s eyes, pull out one’s blackberry and perform flicking stunts, don’t drop blackberry because the lift might stop just when you’re bending down to pick it up, don’t mention the weather in post-ironic tones, don’t stare back at the small child staring at you, don’t ‘beep’ in anticipation of lift beeping, don’t bruno oneself in the narrow side-mirror, do completely ignore any attempt by others to initiate conversation, thus maximising their subsequent discomfort, do maximise female’s discomfort by starting out facing the door, but then halfway down turn around so that you are face to face with her, do not under any circumstances do jazz hands or elbow-down break dancing.
Last night I stayed on floor 9 of the Jurys Inn, no apostrophe there because they are muppets.
I dislike dogs. I also dislike high-fiving, though less than dogs.
High fiving is a ridiculous activity that leaves all involved feeling uncomfortable and slightly ashamed. It is designed to occur in the aftermath of some sporting achievement or other small victory, but to me it never feels a remotely sensible thing to do. If I have potted a ball in an inconsequential game of pool, making the short but painful journey around the table to high-five my partner seems a pointless and totally unrewarding detour, culminating in a gentle and somewhat gay hand-slap. As my hand rises to engage in a high-five I am a mixture of shame, self-consciousness and unwillingness. I suppose it does not fit with my macho image. I invariably need to be told to high-five, by someone enthusiastically saying ‘High-five!’, which appears to disprove any spontaneity that may be imagined to exist. This is coercion.
On the other hand, were I to score a winning goal in the world netball final, high-fiving would be totally below my aspirations by way of celebration. I would most likely be engaging in some vigorous hugging with my team mates, not camply high-fiving them so that our chests don’t quite meet.
The other thing about high-fiving is that it’s very easy to miss, creating a limp and regrettable tap, possibly involving nail-jabbing and pain, such that the entire objective, namely generation of a loud clapping sound, is lost.
I am now back in High Wycombe. I had to repeat the name of this place to everyone I met in Scotland. Next time I may just say London. On Saturday is an intriguing ‘Sri Lankan’ day on the Mead, a park near here, apparently consisting of cricket and curry, neatly distilling any simplistic stereotypes we might have of Sri Lankan culture. I am looking forward to this.
I have set up a small sideline business dealing in small pots of body lotion nicked from hotels. Contact me for prices.