Simon Says...

I have sad news. I have decided not to update this blog any longer. The reasons I shall keep short and swift: I am unhappy with MSN's insistence on frequently changing the templates and layouts of their Windows Live pages, which have become (and have been for some time) slow to load, jumpy and unstable, even on Windows software. They have become too complicated, and yet remain too inflexible. Besides, sometimes you just need to start things afresh.

 

But I am not giving up on the Internet life - I have merely moved. My new home - a fresh start, a page that represents the me that writes this now and not the changing, growing, learning me of the past two years - is over at Blogger. Come by, have a look, have a laugh and have a marvel.

 

My new blog can be found at srbishop.blogspot.com

 

Fantastic news: on 4th July, Alan Johnston was released. Click here for the full story.

There are many words, phrases and ideas that never made the cut on this page this year. The following is one such example:

“Cornflakes with a splash of milk, a sprinkling of sugar and some chunky slices of banana is a satisfying combination that makes a cheery start to a morning with a synergism   unequalled by other cereal-based breakfasts. It is not, however, particularly practical on a train.”

2007 is nearly upon us, which means we must bid farewell to this roller coaster of a year we call 2006. We must also, I’m afraid, bid farewell to this blog. It began in 2005 when I was bored, and became a column in 2006 by means of a challenge and a personal test to increase output and writing practice. It has been fun, and never a chore – it has provided a fascinating insight into all manner of topics, styles and audiences. Alas, in 2007 I move on to new topics and audiences: I must put my foot down, do some work and then, just as its getting fun, find a career*.

      Which means farewell blog. May you rest in peace among the 200 million other retired blogs listed by analysts Gartner, and stand as a record of what I was thinking in 2006. Read between the lines you might even see what I was plotting. Yet, before I leave, lets think about what never was. About the things I could have used this place for, but decided against it in a fit of vehemence for the Queen’s English and actual content; or items I never found room for.

      I never got chance to write about a particularly profound moment at 6.45am, December 28^th 2005. Nor about an even more remarkable moment on October 23^rd 4004 BC, though sadly I could never have given an accurate report of that one, so it was abandoned for fear of tongue wagging and piety.

      I never got the chance to write of my love of the 90’s post grunge movement, nor to defend Christian rock (or at least a select subset). I could have told you of my failed challenge of 2006 (for the record, six THOUSAND islands is a few too many to visit on my weekends). I had a wonderful chain of logic planned which incorporated some of my favourite words and, somehow, the Dakota Ojibway Tribal Council. Nor did I ever get to explain how I came across the worst poetry known to man.

      Also on the drawing board was a piece about censorship regarding Noah and his Ark and everybody’s favourite nemesis, the Antisanta. The opening quote to today's entry was a nugget that never made the cut of the train adventures that permeate these pages. In addition I was plotting a comical series around the saga that was (and continues to be) the misfortunate rise, fall and associated ban of hard drugs and scented candles of ‘The Band’. I also never got to publicly confirm my position regarding the ginger one from Girls Aloud.

      Alas, you’ll never get to read such things.

      Thanks for stopping by, for all your comments and support. A special thanks to those who inspired certain column articles. It’s been fun, I’ll see you around.

Oh yes... and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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*Many will have heard my plan to attempt some proper writing. I am a scientist, and I have found over the past few years that people’s knowledge of scientific concepts is pitifully lacking. That’s not to say people are ignorant, merely that the information is not readily available to them – and if they were to delve deeper they may only find impenetrable gobbledegook with yawn-inducing presentation. Even fellow scientists find a lot of it horrendous. This is all a crying shame, as science really is fascinating. It’s the one subject that can make you stand up in awe. Science matters. Unfortunately it is, by and large, ignored because few people are prepared to make it accessible to others and highlight how relevant it is. I’m not saying I’m the man for the job – but I’ll give it a go. My work with Redbrick next term is intended as a start, so keep an eye out and let me know what you think.

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You have been watching: Simon Bishop, assorted works 2005-2006
sbishopAThotmailINTHEUK
*edit: Early 2007. Slowly going through, correcting some horrendous spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and factual nonsense

This week’s New Scientist* has an interesting feature on the effect of the Internet on modern psychology: with a double-page spread of confessions from obsessive wrecks of the computer age. So, before the year is out and things change for good, let’s assess my digital mental health! 

Wikipediholism: Excessive devotion to adding, proofreading and improving the aceness-on-a-stick that is en.wikipedia.org. It is indeed the fountain of all knowledge, but I’m not yet exhibiting symptoms.

Blog Streaking: Revealing private details online. Darn. Guilty.

Cyberchondria: Is online research into symptoms convincing you that you have an exotic disease last recorded in the 1800s, despite an actual doctor’s nonchalance and passive diagnosis of the common cold? That’ll be the first signs of cyberchondria, a condition induced by the plethora of non peer-reviewed or out-of-context medical websites accessible to the easily terrified. Not me though. I still trust my GP, even though he only ever gets to treat my toe, which seems to vary colour with the seasons.

Egosurfing: Googling your own name is just the start. Apparently I am a tattoo artist in Australia, a Jesuit chaplain in Glasgow, a partner in a conveyance firm, I worked as a sound mixer for Star Wars Episode II and when I was fifteen I wrote an essay about the death of my brother Henry. So yes, I guess I’m an egosurfer. Before you say it, I have no intention of meeting these people Dave Gorman stupid-boy-project style. That would be ever so slightly obsessive. And fitting, I suppose.

Infornography: Where acquiring and sharing information has become an addiction. I didn’t need a computer to suffer from this… I will always be searching and striving to know everything, no matter what the source!

YouTube Narcissism: Innocent! Never uploaded anything to YouTube. Truth be told, I don’t know how.

Google Stalking: Checking up on old friends. Rest easy readers, I tend not to!

MySpace Impersonation: Pretending to be someone else on the ‘web phenomenon of 2006’. I belonged to this site for a maximum of thirty minutes. I still don’t see the point in it.

Powerpointlessness: Adding one too many flashy slides. Look! I got a laugh out of it alright?!

Photolurking: Flicking through a photo album of someone you’ve never met via Flickr or Ringo. In Christopher Nolan’s first feature film Following, the protagonist follows people as a means to gather material to write about. He wasn’t stalking them, just intrigued to know what they were doing at that instant, a snippet into somebody else’s life history. I’m not advocating stalking, merely explaining why photos of strangers can be utterly fascinating. Life is complex; a photo can be a portal to one moment and one mere thread of this complexity. Flickr is an excellent website and I used to spend far too much time on there. However, my camera is now broken, so I don’t visit quite so often anymore as I’ve nothing to share at present.

Looks like my neurons have accustomed to a good few addictions over the year, though I like to call it a healthy interest.

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*In which "In One Year and Out The Other" on page 40 looks remarkably like my very own "Lang May Your Lum Reek" published in Redbrick on December 8^th. Alas, I won’t sue, I’m just content in the knowledge I beat them to it!

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THIS WEEK IN Sound Two Lights - Five For Fighting Quote "Makes you wonder, how many drunk people are actually in the sea?" Books What I've been reading since I last informed you of my literary divulgences: The Gospel According to Chris Moyles - Chris Moyles A Short History of Nearly Everything - Bill Bryson And ready to jump off the shelf into my subconscious: So You Wanna Be A Rock & Roll Star? - Jacob Slichter Guns, Germs and Steel - Jared Diamond The Ancestors Tale - Richard Dawkins

AFRIKAANS	geseënde Kersfees
ALBANIAN	gëzuar Krishtlindja
ALSATIAN	gleckika Wïanachta
ARABIC	miilaad majiid
ARMENIAN	Chnorhavor Surb tsnund
BASQUE	Eguberri on
BELARUSIAN	З Божым нараджэннем (Z Bozym naradzenniem)
BENGALI	subho baradin
BOSNIAN	sretan Božić
BRETON	Nedeleg laouen
BULGARIAN	весела коледа (vesela koleda)
BURMESE	Christmas nay hma mue pyaw pa
CATALAN	bon Nadal
CHINESE	圣诞快乐 (shèng dàn kuài lè)
CORSICAN	bon Natale
CROAT	sretan Božić
CZECH	veselé Vánoce
DANISH	glædelig jul
DUTCH	vrolijk Kerstfeest
ESPERANTO	gojan Kristnaskon
ESTONIAN	häid jõule
FAROESE	gleðilig jól
FINNISH	hyvää joulua
FRENCH	joyeux Noël
FRIULAN	bon nadal
GALICIAN	bo Nadal
GERMAN	frohe Weihnachten / fröhliche Weihnachten
GREEK	kala christougenna / kala xristougenna
HAITIAN CREOLE	jwaye nowel
HEBREW	christmas sameakh (barely used)
HINDI	Krismas ki subhkamna
HUNGARIAN	boldog Karácsonyt
ICELANDIC	gleðileg jól
ILOCANO	naragsak a paskua
INDONESIAN	selamat Natal
IRISH GAELIC	Nollaig shona
ITALIAN	buon Natale / gioioso Natale
JAPANESE	meri kurisumasu
KABYLIAN	assegass amegass
KOREAN	seun-tan chu-ka-hae-yo
KURDISH	Noela we pîroz be
LAO	souksan van Christmas
LATIN	felix dies Nativitatis
LATVIAN	priecīgus Ziemassvētkus
LITHUANIAN	su Kaledoms
LOW SAXON	vrolik Kersfees
LUXEMBOURGEOIS	schéi Chrëschtdeeg
MACEDONIAN	sreken Bozik
MALAGASY	tratry ny Krismasy / arahabaina tratry ny Krismasy / arahaba tratry ny Krismasy
MALAY	selamat hari natal
MALTESE	milied hieni
MAORI	meri Kirihimete
NORWEGIAN	god jul
OCCITAN	bon Nadal
PERSIAN	eydet mobârak
POLISH	Wesołych Świąt
PORTUGUESE	feliz Natal
ROMANIAN	un Crăciun fericit
RUSSIAN	C Pождеством (S rojdestvom)
SAMOAN	ia manuia le Kerisimasi
SARDINIAN	bona pasca’e Nadale (logudorese) / bona paschixedda (campidanese)
SCOTTISH GAELIC	Nollaig chridheil
SERBIAN	srecan bozic
SHONA	krisimas yakanaka
SINDHI	Chrismas joon wadhayoon
SLOVAK	vesele vianoce
SLOVENIAN	vesel božič / vesele božične praznike
SOBOTA	dobro dedek
SPANISH	feliz Navidad
SWEDISH	god jul
TAGALOG	maligayang pasko
THAI	สุขสันต์วันคริสตร์มาส (souksaan wan Christmas)
TURKISH	Noeliniz kutlu olsun
UDMURT	Shuldyr Ymuśton
UKRAINIAN	Z Rizdvom Hrystovym
VIETNAMESE	Mừng Chúa Giáng Sinh
WALOON ("betchfessîs" spelling)	djoyeus Noyé
WELSH	Nadolig llawen
WEST INDIAN CREOLE	jénwèl

And not forgetting ENGLISH: Merry Christmas!

For those that don't celebrate Christmas... have a wonderful day nonetheless.

For the Brazil lot: SKOL!

For the Joinees: Axwoo!

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Source: www.freelang.net

I have no idea how many people I had ignored beforehand when they had told me that The Feeling were a brilliant live act. I thought their records were enjoyable but that the group overall was largely an insubstantial pop-by-numbers act lacking an element of grunt and fiery passion. Oh how wrong I was. Even if they were, I now appreciate that there is nothing wrong with a pop-by-numbers act. As long as it’s fun, who cares?

      Dan Gillespie Sells of The Feeling is a front man who knows the rules. He sang to the back, the front, the sides, the people out the back and, more importantly, straight into my soul. The band owned the entire stage, encouraging a jubilantly fine voiced crowd to join them on all the singles and the sublime Rosé. A cheesy cover of Video Killed The Radio Star did nothing but make the building bounce that little bit harder. The Feeling blew me away. Could anything better their set? Had the evening reached its apotheosis?

      Sadly, yes. 

      Two scheduled acts remained, but before those I shall explain the additional features of the evening. Between the final acts a shock new award (the Xfm Hall Of Fame) was awarded to The Clash and a brilliant but suitably short three-song stint was performed by Jack Black’s comedy duo Tenacious D. As Mick Jones accepted the award for The Clash, his humbled and avuncular speech reminded us all of two painfully obvious details. Firstly, among a sea of egos present that evening, he was the one and only person fitting the bill of ‘legend’. Secondly, by not forgetting his manners and showing genuine gratitude to the organisers, he was highlighting an unnecessary element of impertinence exhibited by many of his contemporaries, all of whom should have been watching from the sidelines, stunned into reverence by his appearance.

      The penultimate act of the evening was The Kooks, the new pet band of commercial radio. There’s no denying the band have had phenomenal success in 2006, rarely off the airwaves or the pages of esteemed music publications. There is also no denying that they are rubbish. For starters, the mix was wrong. Not the fault of the band per se but equally a professional error. As a consequence the bassist pointed an accusing finger and persistently looked gormlessly into the wings in the hope of finding someone to rectify the issue, while the drummer shouted and swore at his crew to crank up his earpiece, despite the basic fact that it shouldn’t matter if he couldn’t hear himself – any accomplished band should have been following him. To top it off, lead singer Luke Pritchard declared a jovial “I fink my guitar’s out of tune” at the end of the first, saccharine and uninspired song. Well now! If he had the slightest sense of professionalism and - though lets not be too demanding – talent, that would never be an issue. All it takes is a few buttons, twiddling some headstocks and an ear for pitch, this skill being instinctual, one would assume, for a musician!

      While I’m at it, his trousers were far too tight, his guitar was too high and his posing was entirely inappropriate for someone wielding an acoustic guitar rather than an over distorted Les Paul (especially when he was unable to strum in more than one direction). I do not know the legitimacy of rumours that The Kooks are a manufactured outfit, but the evidence did not bode well. An eclectic sound is not enough to capture the heart and soul, and a front man arrogance style that has been done before - and is probably copyrighted - can and did alienate the audience rather than draw them in. The Kooks were thoroughly disappointing, on too many levels.

      So did Kasabian save the day? In part, yes, but again I was disappointed. Well no, that’s not the word. ‘Frustrated’ is more appropriate. I hadn’t seen Kasabian live before, but I know they have a strong following, and in the depth of their songs I could tell why. Each track had real promise. Unfortunately, the mix was once again incorrect, this time far too heavily drum-orientated, and the riffs and ambience characteristic of their records were almost completely buried. At least the drummer seemed to be enjoying himself though, which was one up on The Kooks.

      In addition, Kasabian’s front man Tom Meighan was drunk. To be fair, it had been a long evening, and he tried oh so hard to keep the audience happy, but all in all it just didn’t gel. Which is a shame, because I know it could have done, and my post-set apathy was an unwelcome and preventable emotion. That said, when the crowd got behind them, like on the huge singles Clubfoot and LSF, the spark was flaring all over the place.

      So it was a mixed bag, an ambivalent showing; a day when the heavy hitters were vanquished by the underdogs. There remains a worthy few who still live by the rules.

The Bands:
Captain
Boy Kill Boy
The Automatic
The Feeling
The Kooks
Tenacious D
Kasabian

A very famous singer once said that a while a great front man sings to the people at the back of the audience, the best front men sing to one particular individual. If they really are the best of the trade, every single person in that audience will come away believing that they are that lucky individual. It’s like when you write a love song and every girl in the audience wishes it were about them, but on a larger scale: no matter what the theme of the song, it inexorably matters to that person. Ironically, having seen a fair few live acts in the last few years, I would not say that that particular performer was the best example of their own ethos. Nonetheless, it is a worthy rule to live by.

      There are other rules that make a good front man. An arrogant swagger is important, as it provides a focal character to the point of the audience’s attention, as is an element of style, and of course talent. An element of etiquette and respect to your audience wouldn’t go amiss either. However, none of these factors are prerequisites to fame and success, as an element of individuality and the ability to act naturally are also paramount.

      The Xfm Winter Wonderland at the Brixton Academy on December 9^th was a showcase of up-and-coming bands, plus some heavyweights of the past few years from the indie and rock crowds interspersed by surprise guest appearances from legends of old and, quite bizarrely, Tenacious D. I admit now that I am a musical snob, but my opinions that follow are as valid as any. Besides, anyone who cares anything about music will already have formed a few biases and preferences, so I’m not alone. I attended the show with only two demands: the bands I didn’t know must impress me, and those I did know must blow me away. Ambitious and far-fetched demands perhaps, but necessary. No successful act can ever justify a disappointing or lacklustre performance.

     

Having arrived slightly late, the first act we caught were Captain, a five-piece from London whose name I had heard of, but whose set was entirely unfamiliar. In the austere shadow of Brixton’s castellated décor the band held their own and I was suitably impressed. As the crowd below thickened, the music filled the remaining empty spaces, with guitar frills and keyboard trills, and left the crowd geared up for the evening. So top marks to Captain as an unknown act.

      Next up, a late addition of Just Jack, a loquacious Londoner telling tall tales and rueful rhymes to the acoustic guitar, double bass, percussion and backing vocalist assembled in a perfect semicircle behind him. It was all very amiable and fun, but in such a setting the words can be hard to follow and three songs were quite enough to maintain the buoyancy of the show, particularly due to his unfamiliar content. A worthy extra act nonetheless.

      Boy Kill Boy took to the stage next. I was aware of this band’s huge following, but couldn’t name any of their own songs. They were nothing special: accomplished, professional and in every way a good band, but my ambivalence derives from the lack of a spark in their material, each song was good but very similar to the last. To give them credit, things got better with time and Shoot Me Down was a cracker of a ballad. I was grinning a lot by the end of the set.

      “One Hit Wonder” is a horrendous phrase. Unfortunately, it tends to be written in very tiny letters alongside The Automatic, who had energy, talent and a load of confetti-filled balloons floating around the audience for the entire of their set. Despite this, all anyone really wanted to hear was Monster. The band more than surpassed my expectations. They maintained a wall of sound and weren’t prepared to let it fall for a second, except for the pause in which the bassist revealed a flute for use in a truly bizarre, tumultuous and vehement cover of Kanye West’s Gold Digger, and the calm before the storming opening riff of Monster itself. Full credit to The Automatic: those guys had balls. They played Monster midset. A one hit wonder would struggle to finish a show after playing their big song, but not these guys, who built up that wall again and raced to the finish line to an enormous applause. They would have been the highlight of the evening, had it not been for…
...continued soon

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January 1^st, 2006:
After a comment regarding my recent subconscious fashion switch to all things brown, I am sitting in a Glaswegian flat wearing pink. It has been an unadventurous day, with the group recovering from the events of last night, firstly oversleeping and then collectively rising as far as the television to engage their tired and addled brains on the sinuous monologues of Eddie Izzard and Billy Connolly and the peace of Garden State. 

      In this strange environment, a flat adorned in strange letters (can anyone explain mamona?), the preface to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and a world map with little pins sticking out, I find myself reading a menu for a pub in London. It says that the Dog and Duck, on the corner of Bateman Street and Frith Street in Soho, is a grade II listed building with a rich history of writers, the Duke of Monmouth and absinthe. It seems good value for London.

      Tomorrow we plan to catch the Retro into town and head up to Loch Lomond as a last sighting of Scotland before returning back to Devon.

December 9^th, 2007:
I am sat on the first floor of 18 Bateman Street, Soho, London. Out of the window to my right I can see a sign hanging down the side of the building, its blue and gold leaf artwork depicting a faunal face-off below the words The Dog And Duck. What a strange turnaround this year has been.

      My housemate Martyn and I are in London for the Xfm Winter Wonderland gig, featuring a plethora of NME favourites, trendy kids and up-and-coming acts. We arrived just before midday and headed out to the Natural History Museum, which was amazing. I cannot believe I’d never been before. We could have spent far longer in there. To be honest, we could have gotten lost in there in the shadow of the blue whale and friends. Alas, hunger got the better of us and took us to Tottenham Court Road, and this fantastically ornate and historic public house.

      We are sat in the upstairs George Orwell bar, and at this very instant I’m once again reading the menu. And you know what? I was right. It is good value for London. The menu tells of the pub’s origins in the grounds of the Duke of Monmouth’s mansion, the name derived from Soho’s old hunting reputation: the area was once royal hunting grounds and the name “Soho” is an old hunting call. The pub gained a reputation among the likes of choice clientele such as Constable, Mozart and indeed Orwell, who had a liking for absinthe dripped through a sugar cube.

      So here I am, nearing the end of 2006, feeling like I’ve gone in a big circle, anecdotally if not geographically. Which is a good job, as I could never survive the National Express to Glasgow.

Thursday: the fifth day of a Sunday-first week, named after the Norse god of thunder. Or, as Arthur Dent put it: “This must be a Thursday. I could never get the hang of Thursdays.”

      I haven’t gone mad. I know that that is a strange gambit for an article published on a Sunday, but hopefully the collective nous will realise I’m harking back to the glory days of my ranting and writings. The days when I published every week on a Thursday, back in the days of copiously pointless content, oscillating between the fascinating and the trite, abusing power over the collective soul one week then confounding them the next. Those days are nearly over, but not quite – Thursdays have been bereft of content since my dissertation consumed me, but I’ve a few ideas left to share. 2006 has been a long year. Much has changed. 

      In the past week I published an article about the history of the calendar and New Year in the final issue of Redbrick of 2006. This is not a shameless plug; I merely found the topic so interesting that this entry is a bit of an overflow. The article delved into Roman history, but here I delve into Greek and Norse mythology as well, via the Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy when I can.     

Thursday is, quite literally, Thor’s day. The equivalent of the Roman god Jupiter, from whom the latin languages obtain their Thursday equivalent (Jeudi in French, Jueves in Spanish), Thor was the son of Odin and Jörd, a child of the mother Earth. Thor married Sif, with whom he fathered Thrud and Lóriỗi, but he also fathered Magni and Modi in a secret tryst with the giantess Járnsaxa. His role of God of Thunder is derived from his war hammer Mjolnir (with boomerang properties), the strike of which caused thunderclaps as he used it to kill giants.

      One story I found particularly interesting regarding this character was that of the series of challenges proposed by the giant king, Útgarỗa-Loki. Firstly, Thor’s fastest servant was challenged to race Thought itself, but nothing is faster than thought, which can stretch across the greatest imaginable distances, realms and times at any instant. Secondly, Thor accepted an eating competition with a servant of the King – but the servant was a personification of Fire, and nothing can equal the consumption rate of fire. A drinking challenge followed, but unbeknown to our protagonist, the horn from which he drank was connected to the ocean. Thor's drinking caused the tides. His final challenge was to wrestle an old woman, yet nobody can defeat Old Age itself.

      Thursday is also an important day in religious parody. Apparently the world was created Last Thursday, and will be destroyed Next Thursday. Those who were nice to cats will be saved. You have been warned.

Sometimes people take things just a little too far. Rivalries consume the very fabric of that person’s being; having the upper hand consumes them up until the point one of two things happens: either they kill each other, as in the rather brilliant film The Prestige, or someone else steps in and points out quite how utterly ridiculous they are all being.

      It is this latter phenomenon that summarizes the topic of today’s entry. Petty territorial and patriotic rivalries are the stuff of legends. For example, Paddy McCarthy once wrote of the apathetic mockery between the residents of neighbouring counties Cork and Kerry, the mockery of Cork and Kerry by the rest of Ireland and the whole of Ireland by, well, the rest of the world. The same applies to mainland Britain: the North/South divide comes to mind, as does the national pastime of mocking Scousers, Geordies and the Welsh. However, the one rivalry to which the term ‘apathetic’ no longer applies, and is in fact relegated to the bottom of the overgrown garden of the English language in a precipitous shower of expletives by the hectoring adjective ‘vehemently’, is that between the Cornish and the people of Devon.

      Historically there have been many polarizing issues affecting such a bitter rivalry. We choose to ignore the national obsession with mocking the Westcountry in favour of our own battles. After all, we have Somerset as a buffer to such irreverence, and can concentrate on the matters at hand. The matters being, of course, who owns what.

      I’m not talking land here. Clearly, Plymouth is in Devon. Any fool can see that. Rather, I refer to tradition. Pasties, for example, were a Cornish invention, designed to feed the tin miners without giving them tin poisoning. The people of Devon were willing to concede them this, provided it were accepted that the cream tea was a Devon invention, conceived way back in the days when the county was archaically and inaccurately referred to as a shire. This much we know; those were the facts. However, arguments persist even today regarding the etiquette of cream tea eating. Does one, for example, place the clotted cream on the jam, or the jam on the cream?

      A recent discovery, however, suggests that everything we know is wrong.

      Well not everything. Nobody has yet formed any kind of quadratic expression to calculate the physical and emotional repercussions of putting the jam on the cream, but someone has disputed the Cornish claim to the pasty. On Monday 13^th November, the BBC followed up an article on the Observer website, revealing the discovery of evidence that the pasty was in fact invented in… Devon.

      Until recently, the earliest Cornish record of a pasty was in a 1746 recipe book. However, with “great joy”, historian Dr Todd Gray from the Friends of Devon has uncovered a document in the Plymouth and West Devon Record Office taking the delicacy back a further 200 years, and just the other side of the border. In 1510, it would seem, a “15d” pasty was listed as an expense at an important civic event in the Audit Book and Receivers Accounts for the Borough of Plymouth. Claret was also listed in the expenses. Naturally, the Cornish have become miffed and more than a little peeved at such a revelation, but as a member of the Devon diaspora up here in the Midlands, I can’t help but find it a little funny.

      However, as I outlined at the start, some people take things a little too far. The BBC contacted a Mr Les Morton of The Official Encyclopaedia of the Cornish Pasty (yes, apparently there is one), who claims he has seen cave paintings depicting women eating pasties while the men were hunting stag at The Lizard, Britain’s most southerly point. This is not - as one would assume - a practical joke, but in fact a record of Cornwall’s claim on the food dating back to 8,000BC. As I said, God Bless the Cornish.