BARACK Omigod, CEO of the United States of Amnesia, has decreed that it's now OK to go Cuba and bring back suitcases full of cigars.
Thus has ended the standoff which began in the 1960s. My dear friend Paul H Scott was then in the Foreign Office and was sent to Havana at the very moment when it appeared we were heading for nuclear Armageddon. As he wrote in his autobiography, "the hawks in the Pentagon were becoming impatient". Said hawks wanted to know that the Russians were removing their missiles as Khrushchev had promised. If they weren't, then they - and we - would get what for. Not to be too alarmist, but the end of the world was terribly nigh. Mr Scott got into his car and drove around a few sites where he saw the Russians carting the missiles back on to trailers, which information he relayed to the powers-that-be. "It has been said," he concluded with his usual sangfroid, "that my report, by calming nerves in Washington, may have prevented a nuclear war."
What a hero!
WHILE in Cuba, Mr Scott looked forward to meet Fidelma Castro, which he eventually did at a soiree at the Soviet embassy. Fed up waiting for him to appear, our man in Havana decided to depart. As he did so, who should come towards him but the grand cheroot himself, throwing his arms around Mr Scott as if they were long-lost buddies. "Stop, stop, you have got the wrong man," said Mr S, where upon Fidelma exclaimed: "Well, who are you then?" Thereafter the pair got on like Morecambe and Wise. Mr Scott had an open-topped red sports car which Fidelma much admired and at which he would wave whenever he passed it in his own ancient rust bucket. Mr Scott used to wonder if he should offer it to him for the sake of international harmony, but wisely decided not to.
MEN, reports a rag, can expect to get socks in their stockings tomorrow, "despite the rise of the onesie". The idea that onesies can replace socks is plain stupid. While I have seen onesies worn with wellington boots I have never seen them worn with proper shoes, including my trademark brogues. Hence the ubiquity of socks. According to one "analyst", so many socks are given as presents because of a "lack of imagination". This is nonsense. The reason why socks are popular as presents is because so many of them go awol. If we could find out where, then the bottom would surely drop out of the hosiery market. As it is, there is a better chance of putting men on Pluto than there is of discovering where all the missing socks go.
CHRISTMAS Day. Virtually nothing to do since I have followed the advice of Jamie Oliver to the letter. My advice to you, dear readers, is always to read a recipe to the end before embarking upon it. Once I didn't and discovered to my chagrin that the dish I was preparing needed to be marinaded in its own juices for a fortnight. It is on such occasions that tins of corned beef come in handy. Watching Mr Ollie cook I am struck by the stupendous number of ingredients he uses. He puts more stuff on the skin of his goose that normal beings do on their plate. Carrots can't simply be boiled, they must be glazed and sweated while the spuds should be put in the oven beneath the goose, where there are deluged by fat. All in all, I reckon, what with buying the bits and pieces, the preparation, the cooking and the eating, the digesting and the burping, the dish-washing and drying, it takes the best part of a year to make a memorable Christmas dinner.
I'VE been reading a few fellow diarists on the subject of presents. Brian Eno, musician extraordinaire, recalls how he was once given by his partner a book from the British Medical Association about drugs and medicine while he gave her one about minerals and vitamins. Riveting reading, I'm sure. Books were also favoured in the household of my recently departed amigo, Tony Benn. One year, Mr B recorded, his wife Caroline gave him and their children each a copy of The Communist Manifesto, which, now one comes to think of it, was a bit excessive.
THE phone goes. I let it ring a few times then, being incontinently polite, I pick it up. No-one seems to be at the other end. "Casanova's Chinese Restaurant," I say. "How may we help you? Ours is the best sweet and sour black pudding in town."
"Is that the homeowner?" asks a woman with a regional accent. "Who wants to know?" I say. "This is just a quick call, sir. Have you got a minute? I'm calling from Hurricane Double-Glazing and we have a special offer which may interest you." "May it?" I say. "Is that because you're assuming that I am the homeowner?" "Well, yes," says the woman. "Aren't you?"
"I'm afraid not. It's a cautionary tale. If you can spare a few minutes I'll try to keep it short. The homeowner to whom you refer is a friend of mine. It was a dark and windy night when he was taken from us." "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Was it sudden?"
"You could say that. The bailiffs arrived without warning, looking for payment from one of your rival double-glazing companies. My friend protested, verbally at first, then physically. Egos were bruised and noses were broken and eventually the cops arrived and took my friend away in a straitjacket.
"That was six months ago. He's behind bars now and would love his cell windows to be double-glazed. Could you fix it for him? He says he's freezing to death. I'm looking after his place for him. You wouldn't believe it but he has six ferrets, which he allowed to roam at will around the house."
I stop talking to gauge the woman's reaction, but there is none. She has put the phone down. My guess is she won't be cold-calling again any time soon.
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