IF YOU are all sitting comfortably, I would like to address you this week on the subject of Life's Snags And How To Meet Them. You are intrigued. One or two of you are running away. But do not be alarmed. The title of this lecture is not mine. It is the name of a book by that Baden-Powell, the moustachioed chap who, in order of importance, wore shorts and founded the Scouts.
I predict that, in the course of this lecture or divertissement, I will take the opportunity once more to mention North Berwick, where I purchased the tome. There is, indeed, a slight chance I will speak of North Berwick more than the book, but no-on
e said life was easy.
I bought the book second-hand at Pennyfarthing for ten quid. It was either that or a birdbath for £50. I'd have gone for the birdbath, but didn't want to lug it about town. Many amateur people obsessed with journalism speak about the importance of research and, in this respect, I am hampered by the fact that, at the time of writing, I cannot find the book. However, I made some notes from it a couple of months ago and, while I am unable to lay my hands on these either, I think a few glib observations from memory will suffice for the scope of my hypothesis here today.
Without spoiling the plot, it turns out that the answer to life's snags is whistling. I have alluded elsewhere to this phenomenon. It was prevalent among my Dad's generation who, guided by a popular song of the time, gave a little whistle when life was getting them down. You still hear old guys do it when they're nervous about something, such as having to walk down the street or buy a newspaper.
Other than that, the book contains plentiful asides from BP's dealings with African potentates with a penchant for decapitation. Kneedless to say, the knobbly-kneed comedian refers to Britain as England, but he was a product of his time, and could not help being stupid in this regard. He also wrote a book about pigsticking, another product of being unevolved. I must say, too, the book's cartoons are awfully violent.
I was uncomfortable perusing it in a pub, near Pennyfarthing, and dreaded anybody asking me what I was reading. I feared they'd then announce to everyone in the bar: "Hoy, there's a bloke here reading a book by that sadistic loonie that founded the Scouts." Voices: "Hound him out of the bar! He must be an imperialist nutter too!"
Luckily, I was not reading BP's most famous title: Scouting For Boys (which I do have somewhere). Life's Snags was a nice-looking book, as I recall. I've a couple of these period pieces on a similar theme, such as Difficulties: An Attempt To Help, by Seymour Hicks (oh, Seymour, your name is so poetic, your last syllable so sumptuously dumpy); and Arthur Mee's Letters To Boys. Of a similar mustiness, in searching for Life's Snags, I found Atlas of Ancient and Classical Geography, Happy Times In Norway, and Scholar Gypsies by John Buchan. I've a wee collection on this latter theme, too – Victorian suburban pining for the wandering life on the road. However, I cannot find these either. This inability to find books I know are in the hoose is starting to bother me. I went through every bookshelf three times recently, trying to find The F-Plan Diet, which I'd bought on a whim on the internut for a penny. I only wanted to know what the F stood for.
And so to the rest of North Berwick, the best place to get away from life's snags. As usual, I visited the shop at the Scottish Seabird Centre and spent ages yakking to the gals there, principally with a riveting account of plans to paint my garden shed. Lone Cowboys like me take every chance to talk to those who cannot escape. At least I didn't mention the mug for sale whose design featured toffs shooting at birds. In a seabird centre, you'd have thought elementary consumer psychology might have told them some customers preferred their birds alive. There was a mug in the same range with the word "Ibrox" on it, leading me to believe that the producers of this crockery were actually evil.
But I didn't let this spoil my day. The town is so beautifully floral, thanks to the good efforts of North Berwick in Bloom, and you could almost eat your dinner off the urinal in the famous public lavatories. After perambulating on the sand, I got onto the train, which always makes me a little nervous – will I get a seat? will there be mad people on board? – and found myself whistling. It seemed to help.
