The Most Gargoylish Friday Ever

In my manic final days in Oxford I raced around trying to do all the things I'd never found time for in the previous 10 months. I bought a pair of brown brogues at Ducker's on the Turl. I read a book in the Radcliffe Camera, the circular, light-filled reading room that is one of the Bodleian Library's signature elements. And I climbed to the top of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin. This is the church:



This is the steeple:


Open the doors and see all the...gargoyles:








Finally, here's my favorite shot:


I wonder: Does that pigeon dream of being a gargoyle? Or does that gargoyle dream of being a pigeon?

And Finally...
I'm slowly lowering my body into the sitz bath that is The Washington Post. Alice Reid, my colleague (and Oxford alum; who knew?), is ably handling this summer's Send a Kid to Camp campaign. That's The Post's annual fund drive for Camp Moss Hollow, a summer camp for underprivileged children. I hope you'll consider making a donation to this worthy cause.

And if you're in the D.C. area, help me out: My columns don't write themselves, you know, so if you have any ideas for when I start columnizing later this summer, drop me a line: kellyj[at]washpost.com. I'm especially interested in questions for Answer Man.

Thanks, and have a great weekend. I think I'll be mowing the lawn again.

Friday Grab Bag: Last Days of Saigon Edition

Ever tried to put 50 pounds of, um, anything in a 20-pound bag? Then you know exactly how our packing is going for our imminent return to the States. We brought too much with us when we came here 10 months ago. We bought a bunch of stuff while we were here. British Air reduced the weight of luggage passengers may bring. And now we're trying to pack.

We're in a triage situation. If it's an article of clothing that hasn't been worn in the last year why should we ship it back? In the giveaway pile it goes. Then there's the fashion eugenics: Tiny hole in a sock or a pair of underwear? Sorry. Your services are no longer needed. Such is the decision made between who will live and who will die.

We're resigned to mailing a few suitcases back but we're also calculating whether it would be cheaper to ship it or buy it new in the U.S. Oh, and we also have to clean the house for the final inspection.

So, grim, panicky hours around here. The Viet Cong are at the door. The chopper's on the roof. The clock is ticking....

BritNews RoundUp
Just some quickies (and, oddly, none from the Daily Mail): The Cerne Abbas Giant, an ancient monument carved in the chalk of a Dorset hill, is in danger of being obscured by vegetation. The problem: Not enough sheep are grazing away the weeds to reveal the white outline of the priapic fellow. Maybe they could get Viagra to sponsor a few sheep.

The BBC says it's not dumbing itself down, even though it bought the rights for a UK version of a popular Japanese game show that pits contestants against each other in madcap exploits. Writes the Telegraph: "BBC executives are said to have been particularly excited by a segment of the show known as 'human tetris.' A celebrity contestant is required to contort himself to fit through a shape cut out of a moving wall while dressed in a tight silver jumpsuit. If he fails to pass through it, he is knocked into a pool of water." (Check out the link with the Telegraph story. Looks like fun.)

A BBC spokeswoman said: "We are obliged to have something for everyone. Some people accuse us of being too highbrow."

Speaking of the BBC, a police helicopter in Cardiff gave chase to an unidentified flying object after nearly colliding with the UFO near a military base. "They are convinced it was a UFO," said a South Wales police spokesman. "It sounds far-fetched, but they know what they saw." What's this have to do with the BBC? Well Cardiff is where the sci-fi shows "Dr. Who" and "Torchwood" are filmed. Surely this can be incorporated into upcoming episodes.

Oh wait, we do have an entry from the Daily Mail: You can slice cheese with Keira Knightley's collarbones. And that's not good.

Gargoyle of the Week
St. Michael's Church in Ballinasloe, Ireland, is made of the gray limestone that runs through that part of Eire like the bones under Keira Knightley's skin:

The church features some particularly muscular gargoyles:


At least I'm not trying to pack a gargoyle, though it seems like we have to squeeze just about everything else into our suitcases. So, back to that. I'll try to pop in over the next few days, before we take a jumbo across the water, but if I can't, thanks for reading and have a great weekend.

Shirt Happens: BritNews RoundUp

What is it with the Daily Mail and underarms? They're obsessed with whether female celebrities have shaved their armpits. Savvy celebrities who hope to avoid the Mail's censure by simply wearing a long-sleeved shirt are out of luck. As the paper reported this week: "Tara Palmer-Tomkinson flashes her sweaty armpits in transparent shirt." No, I have no idea who Tara Palmer-Tomkison is (can a reader help?) but I suggest she invest in a neoprene wet suit before braving the cameras again.

Leicestershire man Neil O'Brien flew into a rage after hearing his girlfriend have sex with another man--when she accidentally phoned O'Brien during the act. "It appears that while they were in bed together - and it is relevant that they were having sex - her mobile phone was knocked on to the floor," said John Hallisey, the man prosecuting O'Brien, who drove to his girlfriend's house and beat her up. "It landed in such a way that it dialed O'Brien's number. The first she knew of what had happened was when she heard him shouting her name."

Moral of the story: Just as when entering a movie theater, church or school recital, always turn off your mobile phone before going in the bedroom.

It sounds as if working at Trefeca College, a religious retreat in Wales, is a bit like being in the 7th grade. At least if you work around Mair Jones, 40, the self-described "Queen of Innuendo." Or, as she might pronounce it: "In-your-end-oh." It seems that Jones delights in twisting every comment, no matter how innocuous, into a sexual pretzel. Said co-worker Stephen Price: "Every conversation would somehow end up being a conversation about sex. I asked for a big ruler and she responded: 'Ooh, you like them big do you?' in obvious reference to a man's penis size. This happened continuously and was part of her repertoire."

On another occasion Jones remarked upon how funny it was that a local landmark was known as Lord Hereford's Knob and a village was called Three Cocks. Price says Jones also gave him a roll of toilet paper covered in pink fairies. Price, who is gay, has accused Jones of sexual harassment. Ha! He said "her ass"!

The British press frequently writes about the UK's teenage binge-drinking problem. Who knew it also contributed to it: "Journalist cautioned for giving alcohol to 16-year-olds." According to the Guardian story, the unnamed 28-year-old journalist gave booze to the kids as part of a photo shoot on underage drinking "and told them they could keep the alcohol afterwards." There is a level of irony here that even I can't quite fathom.

Look, up in the sky, it's the Royal Air Force in the news: An RAF fighter pilot has won his battle with the United States Air Force over the size of his handlebar moustache. ("Ooooh, he likes them big, does he? -- Mair Jones.) And the Ministry of Defence is clashing with a company that sells a duvet cover featuring the RAF's distinctive roundel design, accusing it of copyright infringement.

Finally, for those of you who woke up this morning wishing you could see a photo of a piglet wearing Wellington boots, your prayers have been answered. Ditto those of you hoping to see a photo of Lindsay Lohan in flip-flops, used for some reason to illustrate a story on how that choice of footwear can raise your risk of getting cancer.

That Other Place
I'm not the only Washingtonian set loose in an English college town and blogging about it. The DC Editors in Cambridge are a pair of journalists who reside in that village that's 71 roundabouts away from Oxford. They travel even more than I do and their report from Maastricht includes a delightful photo that shows Dutch ingenuity at its best.

Gargoyle of the Week
Here's the steeple on the Exeter College chapel:


You'll notice that hanging from near the base are some very nice examples of the gargoyle carver's art:



They look like they're ready to swoop down and take a chunk out of an undergraduate.

We're swooping to Ireland this weekend, so no blog on Monday. Thanks for reading and have a great weekend.

Friday Grab Bag: BritNews RoundUp

As different as England and America may be--right-hand drive vs. left-hand drive, "colour" vs. "color," Robbie Williams vs. Robin Williams--it's nice to know that we share some basic traits. One of those is the genetic makeup of the women who ladle out school food. In the States we call them "cafeteria ladies." Here they're known as "dinner ladies." Whatever you call them, they appear to be hewn from the same rock: tough, hatchet-faced, hairnetted broads who don't take any guff. Just look at the picture accompanying this story from the Oxford Mail: "Dinner Ladies Hurt in Brawl." I'm sure I recognize them from Rockville High School. Oh, and do read the story. My favorite quote: "There was quite a lot of blood, it has ruined my coat, T-shirt and underwear."

Well, what do you expect? The Britons are a warlike people. Violence burbles under the surface everywhere here, occasionally surfacing in societally-approved ways, like soccer hooliganism and shin kicking. What's shin kicking? A sport that dates back to the 17th century and was celebrated recently in Gloucestershire at the British Shin Kicking Championship. It makes the rituals I saw yesterday in the 1973 movie "The Wicker Man" seem downright quaint.

It used to be that you knew you were at a good wedding if it had shrimp and an open bar. Rolling Stone Ron Wood is upping the ante. According to the Daily Telegraph, he wants dwarfs at his daughter Leah's nuptials: "The rock star, 61, wants actors dressed as 'mischievous, giggling little imps' to play pranks on guests such as snatching the women's hats." If Ron Wood wants a mischievous, giggling little imp why doesn't he just get Charlie Watts?


This just in, courtesy of the Daily Mail: Catherine Zeta-Jones has lost her curves. Says the Mail: "She's a poster-girl for gorgeous curves, but Catherine Zeta-Jones appears to be in danger of losing her bombshell status." It's unclear what organization bestows "bombshell status." It may be English Heritage or the National Trust. It's probably a process akin to getting a historic building "listed." Once a starlet achieves Grade II Listed bombshell status the owner must have permission before making any alterations.

It was only last month that the Daily Mail's eagle-eyed photographers noticed that quiz show hostess Anne Robinson didn't shave her armpits. Robinson's defiant act has started us on the slippery--well, not slippery, I guess--slope towards hirsute underarms. How else to explain former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, who, to quote the Mail, "gave onlookers more than they bargained for as she flashed her hairy armpits after a night out at Cipriani."

One wonders what exactly it is that onlookers "bargain for" as they stand outside a club late at night. A bit of chive on a celebrity's teeth? Some toilet paper stuck to a heel? Nice, yes, but not as memorable--and remunerative, if you're a paparazzo--as an unshaven pit. I suppose the jackpot is a lack of underwear, a tumble getting in the limo, and a sudden loss of bladder control.

Video Gargoyle of the Week
That's right, this week we have a special treat: Gargoyles captured on tape, doing their jobs in their native habitat. On Tuesday we toured the Hook Norton Brewery (details next week) and afterwards walked into the village for lunch. St. Peter's Church is adorned with several of our lithic friends. Here they are in action:



My paper's finished so I should be back next week with a full serving of pent-up blogitude. Until then, thanks for reading and have a great weekend.

Friday Grab Bag: Monkey Brains Mashup

Do we really want monkeys able to control robotic arms with their brains? I mean, do scientists even think these things through? To them, it's all "Wouldn't it be great if monkeys could control robotic arms," giving little thought to how it might all end: bionic monkeys rampaging, Terminator-like, through our streets, smashing our doors down with one swing of their mighty robotic arms.

Much better, I think, for researchers to figure out a way for Sharon Stone to control her brain. So far that's eluded science, which is how she ends up saying things like "bad karma" caused the Chinese earthquake. Of course, first they'll have to find her brain. It won't be easy, but once they locate the small, vestigial organ (last seen, briefly, in "Basic Instinct") they can wire it up so it can control a robotic arm, plucking marshmallows from the end of a skewer and popping them into her, um, mouth.

BritNews RoundUp
From Sharon Stone to Kirsty Wark. Who's she? A presenter on "Newsnight," the BBC's bestest current affairs program. Like Stone, Wark got into a spot of trouble with her legs, at least according to the Daily Mail: "Viewers watching the Newsnight Review show from the French Riviera last Friday were treated to the 53-year-old mother-of-two flashing her legs in a black dress with a hem several inches above the knee." This unleashed a "flood" of complaints to the program's Internet message board, said the paper.

How would you like to be the Daily Mail person in charge of scouring the BBC's message boards. Don't think there isn't such a person. How else to explain the story headlined "BBC viewers attack Bill Oddie's 'smutty' and 'almost perverse' Springwatch innuendoes." Springwatch is a nature show. Oddie is a birdwatcher and former comedian. The show in question featured footage of birds and insects mating, with commentary from Oddie that included him saying "Oh be gentle with me" as two stag beetles copulated. Wrote one viewer: "I am sick to death of the constant innuendo being offered by Bill every time a scene of mating appears."

One shudders to think what Bill Oddie would say when describing the mating habits of the great tit. Great tits are in the news after a nest was found inside an ashtray on a Scottish nature reserve. And let's hope Oddie never gets his hands on an Australian trouser snake of the sort that bit a tourist on the wild and rugged Cape York Peninsula of Queensland. Actually it bit the tourist on his, well, let's just say it bit him "down under." The tourist had stopped for a toilet break when the deadly brown snake lunged at him, sinking its fangs into his, um, didgeridoo. According to the Telegraph: "The man, whose nationality was not released, was extremely fortunate to be alive but also 'shocked and embarrassed' about where he had been bitten, an ambulance spokesman said."

Moving to New Zealand, where 27-year-old William Singalargh was found guilty of assault and offensive behavior after asking a 15-year-old if he wanted to "wear a hedgehog helmet" and then throwing a hedgehog at him. The Telegraph story is a marvel of understatement, allowing the facts to speak for themselves: "Singalargh was holding a hedgehog and asked the boy: 'Do you want to wear a hedgehog helmet?' When the boy indicated that he would rather not, Singalargh threw the animal, leaving a large red welt and four quills lodged in the teenager’s hip."

"Wearing a hedgehog helmet." Why does that sound dirty, like something Bill Oddie might say?

At times like these it's nice to return to good old human sex, or at least what passes for it in England. The Sun reports that a Watford dentist shares office space with his girlfriend, "Tiny," who offers sex shows upstairs while he fills cavities downstairs. Actually, it sounds like she fills cavities, too. (Rimshot, please.)

Gargoyle of the Week


Now that's a proper gargoyle. I snapped him at Keble College, where My Lovely Wife and I lunched as guests of Malte and Jette. You'll notice the sky was blue, something that happens occasionally around Oxford, though not today. I suppose if it was always sunny they wouldn't need gargoyles and then what would I do every Friday? Sundial of the week?

Thanks for reading during this spotty week. My paper still isn't completely finished but it's almost done. And that means I'm almost done, too. In preparation for my return to Washington and the unpacking of my mothballed column I invite the Washingtonians among you to submit questions to Answer Man. That's the weekly feature in which I answer questions about the D.C. area. E-mail them to me at john[at]voxford.com. Thanks and have a great weekend.

Friday Grab Bag: BritNews RoundUp

Is Bella the mongrel the world's oldest living dog? The Daily Mail says she may be 169 years old "in doggie years." But what's this: The Daily Telegraph says Bella is "more than 200 years in canine years." 169? 200? Which one is correct? British owner David Richardson said he's had the Labrador mix for 26 years and she was about three when he got her, making her 29. And anyway, shouldn't that be in human years, not dog years? This Purina dog year calculator only goes up to 19. And Snopes.com poo-poos the very idea that an easy conversion from dog to human is possible.

According to the Mail Richardson thought he was going to lose Bella recently, and "with a heavy heart" he made an appointment with the vet to put her down and dug a grave in her favourite spot in the garden of his home in Chesterfield, Derbyshire. "However, after a sleepless and tearful night Mr Richardson decided he couldn't go through with it. He cancelled the vet's appointment and as if by magic Bella appeared as good as new as he filled in the grave."

Yeah, nothing inspires a dog's miraculous recover than watching its master dig its grave. As David Richardson has no documentation on Bella, she will not be officially recognized as the world's oldest dog.

While we're on the subject of dogs, police in Buckinghamshire had to rescue two women who went into a river to rescue a dog. One of the women was visually impaired. The dog was her guide dog. Perhaps it should consider a change of career.

"For reasons that remain somewhat unclear" the Jackson 5 appears to be moving to Devon. They've rented a house there anyway, apparently for a reality TV show. Jackie and Tito are already there. The rest of the clan, including the King of Pop himself, are said to be on the way. Perhaps Michael can teach the local Morris dancers some new moves.

It's been a while since we've had a story of a man having intercourse with an inanimate object. The drought is over. Edward Smith is the subject of a Channel Five documentary on "mechaphilia": people who love, and I mean really love, cars. According to the Telegraph, Smith "who lives with his current 'girlfriend' – a white Volkswagen Beetle named Vanilla, insisted that he was not 'sick' and had no desire to change his ways. 'I appreciate beauty and I go a little bit beyond appreciating the beauty of a car only to the point of what I feel is an expression of love,' he said."

It does make you think twice about Herbie the Love Bug.

Oh, in case you wondered: According to the Sun, Christina Aguilera has big breasts. I love how the Sun calls her "Xtina"--just like "Xmas"--but shouldn't that really be "Xina"?

Gargoyle of the Week


What's that you say? That's not a gargoyle, it's a planter or a birdbath or something? Well, sure, it is now, but the person who e-mailed me this picture said it has lead piping through it, suggesting it once performed a gargoylish function: sluicing rainwater away from a building. For reasons that will soon be clear, my source will remain anonymous. Let's just call him T.B. Player of Wolvercote. He explains how he came to possess it: "In '60s I worked for a uni science department out of an old converted house in South Parks Road (next to Rhodes House). This thing just lay in the garden with weeds over it. I asked various important people if I could have it but they were too busy. So one night I went down in my trusty Morris Minor and stole it. She's been with me ever since and now resides in the back garden of my current abode."

I wouldn't mind taking a gargoyle home with me when we return to the United States--which isexactly a month from today, as it happens. But we're already over our baggage allowance.

Blogging will probably be a little light next week. I really must finish my research paper. Have a great (holiday) weekend and thanks for reading.

BritNews RoundUp: It's the Pits

Let's jump straight to the news that's been sweeping the United Kingdom this week:

You will recall that "The Weakest Link's" Anne Robinson was lampooned in the Daily Mail not long ago for having a "trout pout," the unfortunate byproduct of poor cosmetic surgery. The good news is that Robinson's trout pout is gone. The bad news is the Mail's long camera lenses have been trained on her armpits. The pit-arazzi snapped the gameshow hostess arriving last week at a party and the Mail announced she "had apparently overlooked a step in her preening routine, giving onlookers more than they bargained for with her unsightly hairy armpits."

I know what you're thinking: Well it's all well and good to zoom in on Anne Robinson's underarmular regions, but what about Sarah Jessica Parker's pits? Does she do the Gillette tango? Wisely, Parker decided not to expose her underarms to Fleet Street's ravenous photogs on a recent trip to England. But she forgot to wear oven mitts, prompting this headline in the Mail: "Veins and the City: Sarah Jessica Parker reveals her old woman's hands on a night out in London."

I'm sure it's just a matter of time before someone invents a hand-held CAT scan so we can be treated to: "Pirates of the Duodenum: Keira Knightley Can't Hide Her Polyp Heartbreak."

Sorry about that. Cleanse your mental palate with this sweet story about a golden retriever in Cheshire who is nursing her six puppies and six kittens. All together now: awwwwwwww. Don't like puppies and kittens? How about cygnets?

Okay, that's enough sugar. Who can explain the English affection for corporal punishment? Perhaps it has something to do with the boarding school culture. It's all a harmless bit of fun (well, not harmless) until it shades over into sexual predation. Which takes us to the trial of an Oxford man charged with asking teenage girls to kick him in the groin. "They each kicked him a number of times," said the prosecutor in the case against David Aston. "Eventually he asked them to stop because it was hurting." I'll bet.

Among the many great lines from Monty Python is the one that goes: "I fart in your general direction." I'm not an expert in gas dynamics, but "general direction" seems about as specific as you can get with a fart. Unless you're David Nye, a Kent office manager who regularly "lifted his right cheek" and broke wind at his employee Theresa Bailey, 43. Mother-of-three Bailey was awarded 5,000 pounds by an employment tribunal for the abuse she had to suffer at the firm. Nye is being scouted by Britain's Precision Farting Team.

I don't think I can really add anything to this headline from the Telegraph: "Lost cat spotted on webcam by woman in US," unless it's "Lost cat spotted on webcam by lonely, obsessive woman in US."

Finally, the expression "fat cat" isn't just a metaphor. Nor is "fat guinea pig" or "fat squirrel." Meet the world's most obese animals.

Gargoyle of the Week
According to its web site, Oxford's Merton College has "been on the cutting edge of teaching & research for over 700 years." Wow. I wonder what sort of research they were doing back then. "Advances in witch detection" "Cupping or leeches: Which is best for curing excesses of yellow bile?" "Lead into gold: We're nearly there."

Or maybe "Gargoyle Engineering 101." Writer and blogger Sarah Laurence toured Merton last week and sent me this example:


Is he giving the international symbol for the Heimlich maneuver?

Chew your food carefully, shave your underarms (or not; really, it's up to you) and have a good weekend.

May Day in Oxford: Beat It

Yesterday was the first of May in Oxford. It was probably the first of May where you live, too, unless you live in North Korea or Turkmenistan, where it's probably called something like Glorious Premiere Spring Dawning of Our Great Infallible Leader.

May Day starts here with pre-pubescent choristers singing from atop the Magdalen College tower. Most Oxford students have partied the previous night and the streets are full of plastered boys in tuxes and swerving barefoot girls in cocktail dresses. The Kelly family cycled to the city center at 6 a.m. to witness the festivities. Magdalen Bridge was closed to stop the morning's other tradition: jumping off it into the river below. In past years there have been icky, Joe Theismanesque injuries caused by the unholy intersection of drunk undergrads, pitiless gravity and shallow water. No one jumped while the bridge was closed and guarded, but soon after it opened and the crowds dispersed, we saw four guys go in. Here's one:


I know that merely by posting this I am encouraging unsafe behavior. But it did look like fun, and the first guy who jumped looked incredibly suave in his soaked dinner jacket:

But then again, anything looks better when done in a tuxedo, even bicycling down the street at 7 a.m. while drinking a pint of beer:



There are much better May Day photos at Sarah Laurence's Blog.

Oliver Loaf, Or: Please Sir I Want Some More

I confess I have a soft spot for Jamie Oliver, the chef so beloved by middle Britain. His livery lips, his unruly thatch of hair, his speech impediment--I could just eat him up. And soon, I will.

Oxford is all a-flutter over the impending arrival of a new restaurant conceived by Oliver. It will be known as Jamie's Italian. And what exactly will the cuisine be like? Well, I took this photo of the site, which is being renovated now:


A "twist of Jamie." It sounds cannibalistic. But it's the obvious next step in the deification of celebrity hash-slingers. First you could buy their cook books. Then you could buy their skillets. Then you could buy their ingredients. Now you can buy them, little bits of their bodies to sprinkle into your sauces and salad dressings, like a pinch of a saint's relic. A twist of Jamie. Some Oliver oil.

Or maybe I'm thinking this way because we saw the wonderfully odd French movie "Delicatessen" last night.

BritNews RoundUp
Did you see Emily Wax's delightful Washington Post story about the Redskins cheerleaders traveling to India to perform at cricket matches? Now comes the backlash. The Guardian reports that the pom-pom shakers have angered conservative politicians and drawn lewd comments from male oglers. "I think in the Indian context [cheerleaders] are seen as slightly sleazy which is not a reflection on the women but the perception [from Indian men]. So lewd comments, I am sorry to say, do not surprise me at all," Mukul Kesavan, a cricket writer, told the Guardian. Slightly sleazy? Cheerleaders? No.

Meet Britain's worst driver: Jamie Manderson has never had a driver's license and yet he notched his first driving offenses as a teenager, getting banned at age 15. This week he was jailed for eight months after earning his 51st driving-related conviction. Rob Ross, Manderson's lawyer, told the court: "He still has a problem with motor cars. He always will." In the past, Ross, who describes his client as a "likeable idiot", has said Manderson suffers from "a serious addiction to cars."

I haven't been able to find a decent video online (someone must have bought the rights to film it in 3-D Imax) but even the still photos are pretty amazing: More than 1,600 Belgian students dropped Mentos into Coke bottles yesterday, creating the world's largest eruption of sticky sweet geysers.

The same arguments over the HPV vaccine are being fought here as in the States. There's that puritanical tinge to it--the vaccination to shield girls from cervical cancer will just encourage them to have sex--but England being England, there's also an anti-science bent. This, after all, is the country that swooned over the MMR vaccine, when middle class mums with too much time on their hands started to believe a discredited researcher who said the jab caused autism. (It doesn't.) The Daily Mail helped fan those flames. Now the paper says one in three British girls offered the HPV vaccine in a trial have refused it. Or is it one in five, as the Guardian reports? Oh let's just average those and call it 25 percent.

The making of a new James Bond movie is greeted here with the same sort of excitement and glee as the news that a member of the royal family is pregnant. It's an excuse for Fleet Street to run all sorts of stories, starting with the annointing of the new Bond girls, roles that are roughly equivalent to those of the vestal virgins in ancient Rome. The latest movie, "Quantum of Solace," is providing lots of news, especially since they keep crashing those expensive cars. The third accident in five days has people talking of a "Bond curse." Maybe that's what you get when you give your female characters names like "Papilloma Jabb."

Finally, everybody hates J.K. Rowling. And when I say "everybody," I mean all the other authors at her publishing house, who feel the imprint pays far too much attention to that darned Harry Potter.

Gargoyle of the Week


This fellow peers down from a university building on the Banbury Road, the master of all he surveys.

I survey the weekend coming up. Have a good one and thanks for reading.

Extra Kinky Sex Please, We're British

The headline in last Sunday's News of the World said it all: "F1 Boss Has Sick Nazi Orgy With 5 Hookers." Some translation may be in order: "F1" is Formula One, the auto-racing league that's big business everywhere but the United States. The league's president is Max Mosley, a wealthy Englishman who just happens to be the son of notorious British fascist Oswald Mosley. That's what makes a Nazi orgy all the more piquant. As for what sort of behavior makes a Nazi orgy sick (as opposed to healthy?), well, I'd rather not speculate.

But I don't need to. The News of the World details it all: how the 67-year-old Mosley spent five hours (!) whipping prostitutes, being whipped by them and, almost pedantically, engaging in sex acts. Some of the hookers were in striped outfits reminiscent of concentration camp victims. Mosley barked at them in German.

Mosley couldn't deny that this had taken place, since the tabloid had photos and posted a video of selected highlights on its web site (since taken down, interestingly, though you can find sanitized excerpts on YouTube). In his defense Mosley said he spoke German not because he was engaged in some sick, twisted Nazi fantasy, but because two of the prostitutes were German. Ah, that explains it all. He was just putting them at ease. (The really sick ones speak in Esperanto. "Frappi mi nu!" Or, "Hit me now!")

The battered F1 chief isn't taking this lying down. Or, rather, he did take his battering lying down, but now he's fighting back. This was a covert sting, he said. And perhaps he's right. I can see a bunch of News of the Screws editors kicking around ideas on who to entrap and how, and being enormously pleased with themselves at coming up with the concentration camp theme. Perhaps Max had ordered the randy schoolgirl fantasy package ("I'm sorry, Headmaster, I won't lose my homework again") but when confronted with Elsa She-Wolf of the SS he just went with the flow.

Mosley got a little early support from the Telegraph's motor racing writer, Kevin Garside, who said it shouldn't matter what Max got up to in private with his privates. But even he has backed down after Mosley's latest maneuvers. After the Toyota, Honda, BMW and Mercedes racing teams wrote a letter criticizing the F1 chief, Mosley responded by saying he wasn't surprised BMW and Mercedes would sound off, given their history "particularly before and during the Second World War." You'd think Mosley would've approved of that history.

So, a wonderful British sex scandal, involving what all good British sex scandals involve: wealth, aristocracy, the delicate sting of the lash, along with a side order of fascism.

I'm fascinated by the way Mrs. Mosley--for there is a Mrs. Mosley--is depicted in the News of the World article. Jean, his "devoted wife" of 48 years, is a saint. Guess where they met? At a fascist rally. Lovely couple.

BritNews RoundUp: Model Behavior
It would be hard to compete with that story, but I offer Naomi Campbell, who yesterday was arrested at Heathrow Airport after one of her bags was lost. She allegedly spit at a cop who had come to calm her down. This took place at Heathrow's Terminal 5 which was unveiled last week with much fanfare and then quickly descended into a sort of Dantean hell. Mere hours after it opened flights were being canceled because the baggage system was all screwed up. By mid-week more than 20,000 bags had been lost and travelers were told they could bring only carry-on luggage.

The British love a disaster of their own making--they wallow in their failures*--but this one was colossal. What's worse, we leave tomorrow for a week in Rome. Guess where we're flying from: Terminal 5.

*(A side note: When we visited Dover last week we toured the secret bunkers from which much World War 2 strategy was planned. It was from there that the Dunkirk retreat was overseen. I had always thought of Dunkirk as a disaster, a broken army barely escaping from the Nazis. But at Dover the evacuation of 300,000 soldiers is celebrated as a great victory. I can sort of see it, since it allowed the British to keep fighting long enough for us to come and save the day.)

As bad as it is for Max Mosley and Naomi Campbell and Terminal 5 travelers, it could be worse. They could be Mischa Barton and be fighting the heartache of "dimpled thighs." According to the Daily Mail, "the slender 22-year-old's extremely pale thighs already appear to have some issues with cellulite." The horror.

How much do you love your spouse? Would you save him/her from a crocodile? Norm Moreen did. The Australian didn't just watch as his wife, Wendy Pethereen, was grabbed by an 8-foot-long beast. He jumped in the water, poked out its eyes and rescued her. How long before crocodiles evolve goggles?

It might be time for Glenn Crawley to get a new hobby. The 52-year-old from Newquay in Cornwall enjoys sailing. That's a problem, since he doesn't really know how to sail. He has needed rescuing by the local lifeboat team so many times that authorities have banned him from launching his 16-foot craft until he learns to sail. Said Crawley: "I'm just being victimised because I go out there and push the limits - that's what I enjoy doing."

Gargoyle of the Week


This rather agitated fellow clings to the wall of the Career Services building on the Banbury Road. Can't find a job? Don't worry. I will eat you.

Arrivederci
Blogging may be a little sporadic next week, as the family will be taking a Roman holiday. And we're visiting Pompeii, though I hear it's kind of run down.

Upper Class Twitter

I've done something I swore I'd never do: I've joined Twitter.

The fact that I don't know if the correct expression is "joined Twitter" or "signed up for Twitter" or just "Twittered" shows how unhip I am. (I do know that in the future every word will be a noun, a verb, an adjective and an adverb: "I Twittered the Twittery Twitter Twitterly.)

For those unfamiliar with it, Twitter is an application that lets users answer the question "What are you doing" by sending brief messages in just about any format: Web page, e-mail, instant message, phone text message. I've been skeptical about Twitter (do we really need to be more connected than we already are?) but decided to give it a try. I can see some benefits already. It's a good way to broadcast information that doesn't rise to the level of an e-mail or a blog post.

(I met Twitter co-founder Biz Stone at an event in Oxford last year. He's a Silicon Valley wunderkind and people wanted to touch the hem of his garment as he walked past.)

If you're a Twitterer you can find me at JohnKelly. And for a really good introduction to Twitter, check out a new(ish) blog that's part of PBS. It's called PBS Engage and it covers social media. Clicking there will take you to a link to a nifty YouTube video that explains Twitter.

As Patrick McGoohan might say, "Be Twitting you."

BritNews RoundUp
What can one say, really, about David Batchelor, the Scottish man charged with indecent exposure after walking down the street with his thong on backwards? For starters, it's not a surprise he's not only named Batchelor, he is one. The 58-year-old had left his house to feed the pigeons, not understanding that wearing a backwards thong might startle passersby, which included some schoolgirls. Not that Batchelor felt sexually attracted to them. If he'd really wanted sex, he told police, "I would just go down town and get a whore."

Feeding the pigeons. In a backwards thong. In Scotland.

Speaking of whores, The Post's Kevin Sullivan had a nice story this week about a Brit denied entry into the United States on the grounds of "moral turpitude." Sebastian Horsley is an artist, reformed drug abuser, frequenter of prostitutes, and general all-around debaucher. When he arrived in Newark to celebrate the American publication of his book "Dandy in the Underworld" he was questioned by U.S. authorities and put on a plane back to Blighty. "I'm an artist," Horsley said. "Depravity is part of the job description."

The news media here has been full of stories about French president Nicolas Sarkozy's state visit. It's an excuse to write about his wife, the lovely Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, whose Italo-Gallic pout and letter-opener cheekbones have been gracing front pages everywhere. The contrast with Britain's rather stodgy first family has been telling. The Browns are Weetabix to the Sarkozy's sugar-dusted crepes suzette. Sarah Brown has been described as "matronly" but she comes off better than poor Gordon, whose awkward attempt at a European cheek kiss is deconstructed in the Daily Mail, complete with close-up photos of the maneuver. Gordon resembles a blind grouper trying to swallow a fishing lure, or as the Mail's Robert Hardman puts it, "Mr. Brown looked like a man walking into a lamppost while checking his watch."

And finally, a New Zealand man has been charged with wasting police time after calling authorities to say he was being raped by a wombat. He said he suffered no ill effects from the assault except that the experience left him speaking with an Australian accent. As you know, the wombat is a marsupial native to Australia but not found in New Zealand. My suggestion for getting his accent back? Get real friendly with a kiwi bird.

Gargoyle of the Week
There was little doubt where I would get this week's gargoyle: Canterbury Cathedral, of course, where we were for Easter services.


This fellow looks like he's really proud of his teeth and wants to be sure everyone can see them.

The rain is beating against the windows here, which must mean I'm in England. I think a trip to the library might be in order. Whatever you're doing this weekend, enjoy it.

They Love You Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

On Wednesday night Oxford experienced Bootleg Beatlemania. It wasn't nearly as manic as the original Beatlemania, but then again the crowd had a lot of gray hair, bad hips and extra flab. Still, I love a good Beatles tribute band and the Bootlegs are big business, complete with multiple costume changes, projected images and four extra musicians (adding French horn, cello, fire extinguisher, etc.).

I think that just as there are Elvis impersonators who are better at early "That's All Right Mama" -era Elvis, and Elvis impersonators who are better at late "In the Ghetto"-era Elvis, so too Beatles tribute acts excel at different stages of the Fab Four's career. The Bootlegs' first set was a little wan. Most of the early hits dragged, except for "She Loves You," which was almost the burst of energy it must have been when people first heard it more than 40 years ago.

Where they were really good, however, was with the post-"Rubber Soul" Beatles. As the hair lengthened and the clothes got more colorful, the evening got more interesting. These were songs the Beatles never did live, of course, so it was cool to see how to pull it off. Kudos, especially, to "Ringo" and "George."

"Paul" and "John" were good too, though "John" looked haggard (it was the last gig of a long tour) and "Paul" had the slightly scary visage of a professional McCartney impersonator. It looked as if he'd gone under the knife and emerged as the permanently boyish Sir Paul, never able to take that bemused-cum-astonished look off his face. They all traded snarky repartee. After the four classical musicians played the Indian-tinged "Within You, Without You" "George" came onstage and said "Fancy a curry?" "John" said, "I fancy a Japanese," then added, "Yoko can't be here. She's playing with her origami."

They did a bunch of songs I wouldn't have expected, from "Do You Want to Know a Secret" to "Your Mother Should Know" and "Across the Universe." But I love the Bootleg Beatles for a song they didn't play: I can't tell you nice it was not to hear "Yesterday."

BritNews RoundUp
What would you do if you heard an ATM was giving out double what you requested? Try to withdraw a hundred bucks and it would give you two-hundred. If you were one of dozens of people in Hull, you would line up and hope you'd get to the front of the queue before the machine ran out.

I am on record as saying I wish we could laminate our dog, Charlie. It would solve his biggest annoyance: the mountains of hair he sheds every day. If only I was as creative as Beth Willis, who has knit woolly jumpers from the hair of her beloved (and now dead) dogs. I wonder if she has fleas.

Gargoyle of the Week
Sitting next to me at the Bootleg Beatles and lustily singing along was my fellow Reuters Fellow Abel. He tells me that one of the best Beatles tribute bands--The Beats--comes from his country, Argentina.

Abel gets around, spending almost every weekend in another city or country, making the most of his time in this hemisphere. Knowing my affection for grotesque carved stone, when he was in Wales last weekend he snapped a few animals adorning Cardiff Castle:





Those last ones look like raccoons in pajamas. Do they have those in Wales?

Muchos gracias, Abel! And have a great weekend everyone.

Friday Grab Bag: Drink Up Edition

Britain's new budget is out and starting Sunday a pint at the pub is going to be more expensive. Yesterday Chancellor of the Exchequer Alistair Darling announced an increase in the alcohol tax, a move he says is designed to stem the tide of binge-drinking.

Binge-drinking is a popular topic for the media here; newspapers are full of stories about plastered teenagers and vomiting shop assistants. I'm not out on the streets when the clubs close so I don't see the worst of it, but there are enough empty cans of cider and bottles of vodka in the park when I walk my dog each morning that I believe it's an issue. I don't see how this tax is going to address that, though.

The 4 pence increase on a pint of beer will probably be absorbed by supermarkets, where a pint averages 99p. The cost is unlikely to go up. Pubs are skating on thin ice, though. In a pub a pint costs 2.60. I expect that will rise. With their wafer-thing profit margins, pubs can't afford to eat it the 4p.

Just as frequent as binge-drinking stories are pub-closing stories. I don't sympathize with publicans who blame the smoking ban, but I do feel sorry that the new tax will hit them. I'd rather see store-bought alcohol get taxed more, with tax breaks for pubs. The government should encourage people to drink in the warm, lovely atmosphere of a pub, rather than on a park bench.

BritNews RoundUp
In her last movie, "The Golden Compass," Nicole Kidman's character had a "daemon," the animal manifestation of her soul. It was a nasty little monkey, but according to Britain's best-selling paper, the Daily Mail, another animal might be more appropriate. According to the paper, Kidman has used so much botox that she has the face of a bat. The Mail thoughtfully includes a pair of photos for comparison. That's Kidman on the left. (And if Kidman's daemon should be a bat, Britt Eklund's should be a trout, as this Mail story from a few months ago suggests.)

Poor Daily Mail. Lisa Marie Presley is suing the paper for calling her fat in an article last week. The story was really quite bitchy, illustrated with photos of Presley chowing down in a mall food court and featuring a faux "we're concerned she's eating herself to death, the way her father did" tone to it. I'd link to the piece but it's no longer on the paper's web site. I think that sort of screams guilt and I don't know why they're backing down. Presley is fat, but she has reason to be: She's pregnant.

If her strange prenatal cravings include asparagus, she might consult Jemima Packington, Britain's only "asparamancer." She uses stalks of asparagus the way others might use goose entrails or the I Ching. According to the Daily Telegraph: "Ms. Packington, from Worcester, throws the asparagus spears onto the floor and makes her predictions based on how they land." I predict you will watch this BBC video of her at work. I hope it doesn't make your pee smell funny.

Last month's news from Italy was that Italian men are no longer allowed to touch their genitals for luck. This month comes news that Italian women who commit adultery are allowed to lie about it. That was the ruling from Italy's highest court, who said that a 48-year-old woman referred to only as "Carla" did not make a false statement when she told police she did not lend her mobile phone to her lover. She was only protecting her honor. I love this line from the BBC's story: "She had lent her telephone to her secret lover, Giovanni, who then used it to call Carla's estranged husband, Vincenzo, and insult him." And Giovanni was probably making rude hand gestures while he was doing it.

The Mirror is looking for Britain's "sexiest fish and chip shop girl." I'm sure all that grease does wonders for the complexion.

I'll be spending today in London, or as participants in a survey by the TripAdvisor web site describe it: Europe's dirtiest and most expensive city.

Gargoyle of the Week


Okay, this isn't a gargoyle. It's a human face that seems to emerge from a house in Wolvercote, just north of Oxford. It's an odd little architectural feature, one of two visages that peer out of the light blue house:


To be honest, the faces are a little creepy, and I would worry that late at night, a little tipsy, they might give me a start. Of course, I can barely afford to get tipsy these days, let alone drunk.

But don't let that stop you. Have a great weekend and don't forget to tip your waitress.

Friday Grab Bag: Spare the Rod Edition

The tabloid press in Britain love nothing more than a good penis-severing tale--and, really, who doesn't?

Early stories this week on the Sun web site about Londoner Alan Reed said his penis had been removed by unknown assailants while Reed vacationed in the Dominican Republic. The Daily Mail on the other hand--claiming the first interview with Reed's fiancee--maintained that his penis had "only" been slashed. Facts are often hard to come by in the frenzied first hours of a major news event and no one wanted to be caught napping on this major manhood-related story.

The dust has now settled, though, and we can assess the damage. "Man's penis was 'attacked'" reads the headline in the Sun. "A British holidaymaker is recovering in hospital after strangers apparently attacked his penis, leaving him in agonising pain from two large gashes," reads the lede. Police chief Robert Contreras said: “We are investigating this as an assault but it’s a very strange one and something that’s not at all commonplace in our country.” (Good thing. That would be awful for tourism: Come to the Dominican Republic and leave your penis with us.)

Not so fast, says the Daily Mail in its story, headlined "British Bobbitt: 'I will soon be back in full working order.'" Apparently Reed may have fallen on or swum over "razor-sharp coral" and injured himself unknowingly.

What's clear is that Reed was drunk out his mind at the island resort and has no memory of what happened before waking up in his hotel room soaked in blood. "I've told the police what I can, but to be honest it's not a lot," said Reed. "The whole thing is just one big blank." Luckily, his groin isn't.

Reed may want to avoid vacationing in Italy, not because of knife-wielding assailants or razor-sharp coral but because of a ruling by that country's highest court. Men may no longer touch their genitals in public, a superstitious act that is meant to ward off bad luck. According to the Guardian: "The judges said such actions risked generating 'awkwardness, disgust and disapproval in the average man,' unexpectedly perhaps failing to mention the average woman."

Cocaine has been washing up in Cornwall. Bales of the drug may have been dumped from a boat chased by U.S. or U.K. drug enforcement agents and may have ridden the current all the way from the Caribbean. Some are marked with the word "Colombia" and have a street value of 1 million pounds. The cocaine makes an interesting change from the oil and trash that normally washes up in Cornwall.

Meet Cindy, a cavalier King Charles spaniel who, according to the BBC, can balance objects on all four paws while lying down. "Put the effort in, get your dog some intelligence, get it to understand [and] you will have yourself a better, more fun dog." said owner Ron Bucknell, 75. Having watched the video, I'm not convinced.

From stupid dog tricks to stupid police tricks: Two police officers in Wales were forced to resign after superiors learned they had been using their patrol car to drive to beach resorts. They were members of a group nicknamed the "Seaside Five" who competed to see who could drive furthest from the station. They were caught after their car broke down far from where they should have been. Their mobile phones were examined and found to contain beach photographs, including "a picture of the group riding a log flume." I just love that image. Can't you see all five of them stuffed in a log flume, their hands up in the air, their helmets on?

Wherever women's breasts may threaten public safety we will find the Daily Mail. British television hostess Susannah Constantine had a near-wardrobe malfunction while in New Zealand and the Mail was there to document it: "The 44-year-old's lacy bra appeared to be making a bid for freedom while her cleavage spilled over in all the wrong places," hissed the paper.

But wait, what's this? The Mail is fighting a two-front war. No longer content just to scrutinize women's bosoms it has identified a new threat: "Are backs the new cleavage?" asks the paper. Is no one safe? Vigilance, vigilance....

Gargoyle of the Week: When Pigs Fly


Well, boars actually. Knowing my affection for gargoyles, my daughter Gwyneth snapped this porcine example while in Barcelona with her Spanish class.

Explained Gwyneth: "It was taken in the Cathedral of Saint Eulalia where there is a courtyard where 13 white geese are kept because Eulalia was apparently 13 when she became a martyr during the Roman occupation under Diocletian. Not to be confused with the other Saint Eulalia from another part of Spain. One of them was killed by being rolled down a street stuck in a barrel with knives sticking into it, but sources vary on which one it was."

A barrel with knives sticking into it? Those Romans were nothing if not inventive.

Thanks for reading. Keep sending your cards and letters and have a great weekend.

Friday Grab Bag: All Gargoyle Edition

I'm "on travel," as they say, temporarily away from the keyboard. So this is just a quickie to satisfy the gargoylish among us. All these stone figures are on Magdalen College, which must be one of the most gargoylie colleges around.

We should have a caption contest for all these gargoyles. My suggestion for the one above: "Here, let me help you floss."


He needs some moisturizer for his knees.


What is that monkey doing into that downspout?


Girlgoyles!

Thanks for reading. I´ll be back next week. ¡Adios!

Friday Grab Bag: In the Toilet Edition

I probably shouldn't go around whipping out my digital camera in public toilets, but I had to snap a photo of that sign. It's in the men's room in Oxford's Social Science Library on Manor Road. I just love that opening line: "There have been a lot of comments about the state of these toilets." You can just imagine the exasperated shrug that accompanied it. (For the record, the bathroom seemed fine while I was in there, though it is a bit small. It reminded me of a Japanese capsule hotel.)

Just Shoot Me
Then there's this display of books at the W.H. Smith's store on Cornmarket:


Tragic Life Stories! Buy One Get One Half Price! Get all your suicidal reading at a discount! And you've gotta love those titles: "Damaged," "Shame," "Alone," "Crying in the Dark"

I'm working on a book called "In-Grown Toenail" that I hope will make me a fortune.

BritNews RoundUp
What's the first rule of bigamy? I mean, after remembering to have more than one spouse. It's to keep your lives entirely separate. It just ain't gonna work otherwise. But Randolf Edge didn't quite grasp that, according to this story in the Daily Mail: "Bigamist caught out when he invited the same guest to BOTH his 'weddings.'" Whoops. By the way, I love the name of his two wives: Patience Carey and Edna Winkle.

I once stopped at the tourist office at Bradford on Avon just to ask how many visitors confused it with Stratford-Upon-Avon. About two or three a year, they said. Perhaps those are the same people who confused Newcastle-under-Lyme with Newcastle Upon Tyne. British bureaucrats accidentally gave 2.5 million pounds to the local government of the former when it was intended for the latter. Whoops.

I don't know how else to put this: Elephants in Australia are having pre-marital sex. A 9-year-old pachyderm at the Taronga Zoo is knocked up and animal activists are upset. It is, said a critic, "the equivalent of allowing your 12-year-old daughter to become pregnant." I like the comment a reader posted: "Where is the father in all this?"

I will resist the urge to comment on the elephant's name: Thong Dee.

Speaking of animals, how about this hardhitting expose from the BBC: "Secret lives of badgers revealed." The late-night boozing! The pre-marital sex! The welfare fraud!

Andrew Cooper, producer of a new BBC documentary on the critters, said: "Before we began filming I knew that there was a gap in our knowledge about badgers. When I spoke to one badger expert, I said to him: 'How much do we know about their life underground?,' and he simply held up a blank piece of paper."

But now, thanks to the nosy BBC, the badgers have no secrets.

Gargoyle(s) of the Week
Gargoyle-on-gargoyle action!


These gargoyles--the gargoyles that dare not speak their name--adorn the side of Magdalen College. Although, on second thought, maybe that one on the left is a woman.

Have a great weekend and thanks for reading. Here's hoping your life story isn't too tragic.