The Punch Line

Boxers and brain damage. Some years ago I watched a talk show on television. The guest was an old boxer. Very witty and full of beautiful anecdotes from the world of boxing. The show also included a Quiz, mostly about sports. He had all the right answers, and then a photo similar to the photo shown below came up.

"Who is Muhammed Ali fighting in this picture?" the question was.

The old boxer looked at it for a long time. A blank expression on his face. Then a smile came on his face, he turned to the host and said:

"The guy in the red shorts."

 

 

The Weather Four Days from now

Here I am, stuck in a small town out in the middle of nowhere. Some old colleagues of my former work place had invited me to a party.

“I’ll go“, I said to my wife, “they probably need somebody sensible to talk to”.

“Better check with them”, was her prompt reaction, “it could also be that it’s a birthday or another special occasion.”

(there’s nobody like a wife to demolish the beautiful illusions about yourself you have spent so much care and time to construct).

It turned out, in fact, that it was a birthday party. I would have to drive some 200 miles across the country. It being winter, I checked the weather forecast. Cold, but sunshine and no precipitation for the next four days.

I set out two days later. I got about halfway when the heavy snowfall made further progress impossible. I checked into a hotel in a small town.

How come they are able to predict by how many centimetres the water level will have risen in 20 years, when they cannot predict the weather four days ahead? It’s impossible. It is too complex. Mechanisms that have not even been thought of yet may come into play. I don’t believe them. No need to be so preoccupied.

I called my wife to complain, and I told her what I thought of the weathermen and the climatic forecasters.

“That they cannot predict it precisely” she said “does not mean that the water will not rise. If they are wrong, it may as well be that it will be much worse than predicted.”

I hope the snow will stop during the night and that I will be able to continue my trip tomorrow.

 

Global Warming

 

 

A Conditional Offer

This happened in the north, on the west coast. Here the wind is always blowing. The winter is long and cold, and the summer is short and cold. The soil is not very fertile, work is hard and life is tough. This makes for a special breed of people.

Anna has lived here all her life. She has always been able to take care of herself and her family. Never received any help from the public authorities.

One day she turns 100, still going strong. With many of the others in the small community the Mayor arrives at her house to congratulate her. He has a bit of a bad conscience. This old lady always coping on her own, never receiving any help. Everybody else seems to take their share.

“Maybe we can do something for you”, he says. “We run a scheme with home services for the elderly, would that be something for you?”. “Hmm” she hesitates, “let me think about for a couple of days and I’ll call you”.

Two days later she calls the Mayor. “I’ve been thinking about your offer. I am willing to take it on two conditions: it has to be within bicycling distance, and my salary has to been paid in black money.”

Not the other Half

My uncle, who died several years ago, had a small shop selling household appliances in a small town in a rural district. He was involved in local politics and had been elected to the local council.

His friends and his party, the very same people, wanted to make the main street into a pedestrian area to make shopping more attractive. The other party in town was against the idea, arguing that people would not come shopping, if they could not park in front of the shops. There was a stalemate – there were not enough votes to pass the proposed project.

My uncle, who had a lively temper and was quite outspoken, was interviewed by the local paper. “Half the members of the local council are pure fools”, he stated – among other things.

Now, this was a bit offensive, also to his friends and fellow members of his party. Polite politics please! They put pressure on him and made him promise to publicly take his statement back.

He published a statement in the very same local paper:

"In a recent interview in this paper I stated that half the members of the local council are pure fools. I regret  my harsh view and would like to apologise.  To make things clear, I hereby correct my former statement:

HALF THE MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL COUNCIL ARE NOT PURE FOOLS."

Just Peace

I took part in a peace demonstration a few years ago. Who doesn’t want peace?

Listening to the speeches and looking at the signs brandished, I realised that it was not just about peace. It was about A Just Peace.

What is a just peace to one side, is most often an unjust peace to the other side. Of course, the demonstration was arranged by only one of the sides. They wanted their demands fulfilled. They wanted what they saw as a just peace. And they were willing to fight to achieve their goals.

Now, you cannot expect decent Europeans to go out demonstrating for war and fighting. You need a peace demonstration to get them on the streets. In this case a demonstration for A Just Peace.

Isn't a Just Peace just another way of saying “we will keep on fighting, until our demands are met”?

Next time I will make sure that I am just demonstrating for peace.

Authentic life

This story I heard from a doctor.

He had been to Afghanistan some years ago. I suppose it was after the end of the Soviet occupation, and before 9/11 and the war on terrorism.

He was working there as a doctor in a medical unit in the countryside somewhere. Together with other doctors and nurses he was offering much needed medical help to the local population. Once they had operated on a young man and saved his life. His family, of course, was very thankful. They were rich and powerful people, and they invited the team of doctors to visit them in their village in the mountains.

The following Saturday early in the morning a powerful four wheel drive truck came to their camp to pick them up. They drove for several hours, the roads gradually becoming more and more rugged while the truck with difficulty made its way through the bare and deserted mountain landscape.

They were talking among themselves, eagerly awaiting their arrival to a spot where maybe no Europeans had been before, to see the authentic Afghan village and the way of life there.

Finally they arrived. The father of the son, whose life they had saved, was the chief of the village. He welcomed them warmly and proposed to show them around the village while a meal was being prepared for them. There was one main street in the village. Traditional houses melting into the background of the mountains. “Come inside” he said, “and let me show you what goods my village has to offer”. They went into a house, expecting to find exotic medicines, magic potions and traditional handicraft items of the sort that must have been made there for thousands of years.

To their surprise he proudly showed them huge amounts of fashion goods from Paris. All the well-known perfume brands, the handbags otherwise found in the expensive shops on the Champs-Elysées, and fashion clothing worthy of any European queen.

They were a bit disappointed. He took them to another house. May this was where they would see the authentic products of the mountain dwellers. But no. Here was everything in the way of modern appliances. The most recent computers, the most recent plasma television screens and everything a European teenage boy could ever dream of (by way of hardware that is).

“Before we sit down to have our the meal” the chief said, “there’s just one more shop you should see”. They went into another house. On the shelves and on the floors there was a large array of guns, pistols and weapons of every kind. “Would you like to buy that?” he asked the doctor, and pointed at a Kalashnikov. The doctor didn’t, but asked “don’t you have anything bigger than that?”.

“We do, of course we do”, he said. He took him out to the back of the house. There was a yard filled with military equipment. He pointed to a Soviet tank. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “It is”, the doctor said, “but I am afraid that British Airways will not allow me to take it on the plane.” “Don’t worry” the chief said. “Give us three months. We will take it apart, have it shipped to Europe, and assemble it for you”.

The meal was a traditional one and very tasty at that.