Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 8th February 2009 - Week 18

e-mail: rodney@rodneyedwards.co.uk

THIS IS SNOW WAY TO RUN A COUNTRY

IT’S OFFICIAL! The temperamental beast that is Planet Earth finally went stark-raving mad this week.

Iran was giving the Western World the jitters by managing to launch a rocket into Space using nothing more than a toilet roll holder, tin foil and sticky back plastic, in Austrailia an odd man was caught smuggling some pigeons on a plane, while Britain was getting itself into a right old tizzy over a bit of snow. In February.

The UK has spent years dealing with the peril of terrorism but the second its hit by the odd snowflake, it goes to pot and everything stops. Nobody has a notion what to do because everyone is dying to get out the back to make a snow angel by lying the lawn. And so the country stops functioning correctly. Pity help us then, should a penguin laden with explosives throw itself in front of a snow plough the next time there’s a slight blizzard.

Schools were closed down, flights were cancelled, buses were stopped and TV’s Phillip Schofield stayed at home building snowmen. Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles put wacky jokes and comedy aside to pass on traffic and travel updates and ITN’s Mary Nightingale left her fancy studio to read the news from Trafalgar Square – under the backdrop of a couple of louts throwing snowballs at Nelson’s Column.

Meanwhile in Northern Ireland we looked on in resentment on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday as more and more of our regional neighbours were left trapped inside their makeshift igloos. Many of whom, slipped on this mad bout of widespread ice, broke a couple of legs here and there and basically got off work. Now, I’ll be honest - I’ve thrown myself down the stairs to avoid work before and haven’t even managed to break as much as a nail. Where was all the snow UTV’s Frank Mitchell said (in so many words) was going to kill us? I put another duvet on the bed especially. Then it happened.

After hearing about it since last Sunday, Thursday was the moment Northern Ireland became well and truly doused in fluffy snowflakes and ice patches the width of Vanessa Feltz’s backside. Up to 10 centimetres of snow fell in parts of Northern Ireland and caused disruption pretty much everywhere, including Translink which warned of delays to services - which is a bit like having a coldsore because both aggravations will regularly occur anyway just to get on your nerves, even without a wintry snap.

And there was me thinking the closest thing I was getting to a big chill was scraping the frost off a box of the microwavable pizza box with a chisel. Instead I spent much of the day trying to stop my mate one-eyed Joe writing profanities with a tin of de-icer across my windscreen and throwing snow balls at my neighbour’s cat. A far cry from Wan Pablo, my Antrim based Spanish pen pal who spent over two hours in his van trying to get to work – a mere 12 miles away. He blames the Road Service, says his old twisty back road wasn’t salted. And he’s not the only one complaining.

Despite the obvious mild elation from school kids and skivers at the country becoming a picturesque winter wonderland, the fickle temperament of Mother Nature proves that when it comes to a bit of snow, Road Service is a wee bit rubbish at dealing with it.

OK – they do their bit but they still miss many lethal ice-infested roads. Fermanagh’s most rural zones never see the gritters because there aren’t enough people living in each isolated area to meet the criteria for a bit of salt. Try telling that to one-eyed Joe who went straight into a tree in Bellanaleck after skidding on black ice the length of Lough Erne on Friday.

This claptrap about only gritting “built-up areas” is putting lives at risk.

So just for the record, I’m compiling a list of all the places across Northern Ireland that NEVER get salted so I know to avoid them the next time it snows. E-mail in your suggestions and I’ll print the top five in next week’s column.

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CUPID’S BIG DAY IS JUST PLAIN STUPID

In these tight economic times, remember; if you lend someone £20, and you never see them again, it was probably worth it.

Valentine’s Day comes to disturb us once again, this Saturday. With shabby poetry, extortionate prices and lots of pink fluff in the coldest, dampest of months, it’s the time of the year when it’s reasonably acceptable to light candles and throw up in card shops (but obviously, not at the same time).

And with so much vomit-inducing gobbledygook on display, no one can really blame you for regurgitating your breakfast at the sight of a card with a sheep on the front complete with a nauseating awful verse that reads something like: “How we gain yearly, from the love we share dearly” – along with an equally as brain-rottenly ludicrous pun on the word ‘ewe’.

And what about the insufferable restaurants filled with smug morons sitting at their hoity-toity tables, with gallons of mature wine and laps weighed down with decorative napkins aplenty. The sort of individuals you just know booked their tables back in 1999 – whereas you couldn’t have been bothered. That’s why you’re spitting feathers as you make your way to KFC with the missus before they’re out of spicy chicken wings. The little lady meanwhile, begins growling - bearing all the hallmarks of a woman ready to fire Colonel Harland Sanders’ grub at your head. She’s not happy, you’re not happy and so this futile occurrence continues once more – and the only way for reconciliation and harmony before midnight is to buy some wilting flowers at the Texaco garage.

What a useless day of the year. I’m not a violent person but if I ever meet that little idiot Cupid, I’m going to ram his head in with a box of Thornton’s Chocolates and shove his pitchfork where novelty heart shaped cards can’t reach.

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GAZEBOED AS A SKUNK

Comedian Michael McIntyre says that substituting pretty much any word for “drunk” can effortlessly portray being under the influence – e.g: I was “caravaned” the other night or I was completely “deck-chaired”.

Which leads me to this bit of riotous guidance I overheard in the local chippy the other night. One of the girls shovelling chips behind the counter turned to her mate on the subject of drinking and said: “Do what I do - before I go out on the booze, I eat cheesy chips – it lines me stomach.”

I mean, who eats cheesy chips?

Anyway, I tried this suggestion and got utterly gazeboed.

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PARIS IS A SOLE TRADER

Paris Hilton, possibly the world’s most useless woman has claimed she’s going to singlehandedly save the economy by buying lots of shoes.

The £20 million airhead heiress of the Hilton Hotel Empire was in London this week when she pledged her shopping power to stimulate the global downturn.

“It’s really scary about the economy right now. So the way I’m playing my part in helping is doing a lot of shopping wherever I go.” said Hilton, who makes Orlaith McAlister look like a modern day Mother Theresa.

Hilton has promised to buy copious amounts of footwear which for the proprietors of recession hit Barratts and Priceless Shoes is too little too late.

Still, I hear flights out of the UK have soared since she arrived.

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