As much as I’m trying to fool myself that I’m busy with all this trivial stuff, like the Corned Beef Hash Challenge, Barry Teeth’s upcoming world tour, the Most Excellent Train Adventure….I very much dislike myself at the moment. Despise, actually.
So I have no guilt in admitting to enjoying the misfortunes of other people. Two very recent examples deserve repeating.
1. Google Tattoo Mistake
A friend (who I will call Jimmy) who visits the Woolpack regularly has several tattoos, two of which are his daughter’s name, rendered in Arabic script. Or so he thought.
There’s a lecturer called Mo who’s started visiting The Woolpack too, who is very well-educated, of middle-eastern descent, and who can therefore read and write Arabic. A lovely bloke.
Jimmy decided to show Mo his tattoos, to verify their meaning. Mo wasn’t initially 100% sure that he’d read the inscription correctly, so he copied it down and took it away to confirm.
What Jimmy believed read “Lauren” (name changed to protect the innocent), actually reads “No results found”.
Jimmy had asked his sister-in-law to look up Lauren on an internet translation link. She’d typed in Lauren and faithfully copied down the result that came up on screen. Unfortunately Lauren isn’t a name currently in Arabic usage, so (in Arabic) the translator replied “No results found”.
Fortunately Jimmy thinks the whole thing is rather hilarious, good chap that he is. Mo hasn’t stopped laughing since Monday.
2. Earth Mother Family Vehicle Debacle
I’ve reported previously my head-scratching reaction every time Sam’s mum (self-styled earth mother) and her boyfriend obtain another ancient, polluting 4X4. The latest Land Rover was the third, with two Range Rovers in between - three of which are still decorating the King’s Lynn landscape in clapped out form.
A few weeks ago Sam mentioned that the “new” Land Rover was going clonk clonk clonk all day when they went out somewhere. Oh dear.
On Wednesday after I dropped Sam back there I noticed an RAF serviceman walking along the road, no hat on and hands in pockets, and noted how scruffy he looked, how standards were falling, and how I’d bawl him out if he was one of my boys. When I got a little nearer it became obvious that it was Sam’s mum’s boyfriend.
Putting two and two together I’d assume that he was so late arriving home - sans 4X4 - because said 4X4 has conked out somewhere and he had to get a lift. Another one bites the dust.
It’s utterly comical, despite the awful environmental kicking that’s being handed out in the name of over-inflated self-image.
Yep, schadenfreude rocks right now!
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