Cliché

It’s quite amusing – at the moment, in the UK, we’ll often see people being interviewed on TV, and hearing things like Look! Boris Johnson is an asshole, or Look! Boris Johnson is Superman, or Look! Boris Johnson is somewhere in the middle. (Maybe that last one not so much!) Look! Pay attention!

Somewhat surprisingly, it seems to have become fashionable among politicians.

Er, anybody who is watching the interview already is paying attention! It is not a big thing, but something I find amusing – seeing the clichés, the little fillers people use to allow their brain to catch up with their mouth.

For years, I remember y’know, and I associate it particularly with footballers, tunnel interviews, although that is probably unfair to footballers!

My daughter uses one cliché after another, she strings them together to the point where they trip naturally off her tongue. You listen to the sentence, you analyse it, you realise that every word is a cliché, and that she hasn’t actually said anything. At one stage, she would prefix her sentences with I’m not being funny, but… I would mischievously interject by saying something along the lines I’m glad you’re not being funny, because this is a serious subject. Slapped legs.

The French have a habit, something I often did myself as my brain was searching for the correct word in what was, after all, a foreign language. A tiny “er….” – just enough to let somebody know that you might be having a pause, but that you haven’t finished speaking completely yet. I hear it in English too, sometimes.

And it is true that you need special skills. Years ago I went on a public speaking course, and it does indeed take training to make the listener think that you have a constant, uninterrupted train of thought. So I appreciate that good TV presenters are more than just eye candy.

But I’ll bet footballers don’t go on such courses. Or politicians, it seems.

Rainy Days and Fridays

I had to go into Salisbury for a haircut today. In olden days, it was a fifteen-minute journey by car, these days I take the bus. The bus winds its way from my village, eventually feeding into the one-way system in the city centre. It drops me off, picks up new passengers, carries on around the one-way system, and comes back out to the villages. The whole process takes about an hour and a half, just one bus serves the route, and the poor old bus driver goes back and forth all day.

The upshot is that I plan my trips to Salisbury in 90-minute increments. As I’m in one of the last villages on the route, and as I have a bit of a hike to the bus stop in any case, a roundtrip into Salisbury usually takes at least 3½ hours.

But I could put it off no longer, though. A grey, dreary morning but I have nevertheless needed a haircut for a few weeks, so today was the day. I had to get one before the weather turns cold, otherwise I wouldn’t bother, and would be a Yeti by spring.

Of course, a haircut doesn’t take 90 minutes, so I sat for a while in Starbucks, watching the world go by. And this is what I came up with:

The cat was crashed out on the bed
So I crept up and tickled his head
He awoke with a start
Gave a really loud… MIAOW!!! 🐱
Loud enough to awaken the dead!

A lady all dressed in check
Had a spider tattoo on her neck
It was not to my taste
So I looked up in haste
And fell flat on my face on the deck!

The wind it was strong on the ridge
The rivet was high at the bridge
The rain, it came down
The grass muddy brown
And my foot, as I walked, just went squidge

Squidge? Okay, they’ll get better. In my defence, it is a real word (I think!) And I didn’t actually fall over, but thank you anyway for your concern 🙂