This means that even the most trivial of topics often become the subject of close scrutiny analysis and (often) heated debate, with the miracle of 3G Internet browsing on our mobiles often, but not always, providing a definitive solution to the issue at hand when the shouting is over.

Yesterdays topic was the oft debated urban myth that water flows down a plughole in different directions depending on what hemisphere of the earth you are on.  The vast majority of the lunchtime crowd, including Spike, Captain Kidd and Teaching Assistant Tom agreed with the hypothesis, leaving poor barman Dom a lone voice in the wilderness crying for the truth to be heard – at least until I arrived.

The internet was consulted, and apocryphal tales from various merchant seamen appeared to back up the theory, as well as that fount of all knowledge – an episode of the Simpsons ‘Bart vs Australia’, Episode 119 first aired on 19/2/1995.

The process that would seem to be the likely candidate for causing this phenomenon appears to be the Coriolis Effect, which in a nutshell is a consequence of the earth spinning on its axis and dragging everything else around with it, with inertia coming into play – it’s complicated.  The Coriolis effect is what causes hurricanes to rotate, and has to be taken into consideration when firing artillery shells, for instance, but it’s effect in small closed systems (like a bathtub emptying when you pull the plug) is negligible at best, and can only really be measured under very strict, controlled circumstances.  Indeed, this Wikipedia articledescribes an experiment where the consequences of the Coriolis effect was actually seen to affect the direction of the vortex formed when the water drains from a container.

However, in that case the fluid had been left to settle for 24 hours, and the temperature was kept constant so that no other forces could be influencing the results – the article begins ‘It is a commonly held myth that the every-day rotation of a bathtub or toilet vortex is due to whether one is in the northern or southern hemisphere.’

I think in terms of water pouring out of the bath or sink, there are far too many factors (for example, the shape of the container, the wildly fluctuating temperature gradients throughout the fluid causing spontaneous convection currents, general movement of the fluid) affecting the flow of water toward the plughole for the Coriolis effect to be a factor in what direction the water will spin round the hole.  Fluid dynamics is perhaps one of the most complex physical processes to model and measure – the fact that the Meteorological Office has access to some of the most powerful supercomputing facilities in the country and still can’t predict the weather accurately over a period of more than a couple of days is testament to that.

So, in a way, everybody is right, as long as they state that when they have personally witnessed the effect, they mention the fact that it was under strict laboratory conditions, with a decent sample rate and on both sides of the equator.

Otherwise, I fear they may be talking bollocks.

End Note

In the course of writing this, I researched the subject quite thoroughly, reviewing both anecdotal data and scientific observation.  I settled on the conclusions of the Wikipedia article as Wikipedia, while some naysayers might doubt the accuracy of some of it’s articles, it is subject to quite meticulous peer review, so I would trust it’s fairly unbiased conclusions as much as anyone elses. 

Anyway, Stephen Fry said it’s bollocks as well, so there!

With Valentines Day and all the plastic sentiment and mushy smushy smoochy that goes with it out of the way for another year, it isn’t long before the harsh reality of sharing your life with your loved one hits back home hard.

It isn’t easy.  It’s an ongoing process of neverending compromise, and true love – far from being that unexplainable lightning bolt that rips through your body when they first brush against your hand, caress your cheeks softly with their lips or stick their tongue down your throat – is the tenacity to ride the wind, to change and develop together, working toward the day in the impossible future when you will be the same and as one.

Along the way, once the initial ‘I can’t bear to be away from you for a minute, can’t sleep can’t eat feel constantly sick when you’re not here’ has worn off, the little things that really annoy you rear their head.  Like the snoring, the dodgy haircut he insists ‘looks cool’, the way she prizes shoes above all things, the noises they make while eating… the list goes on.  I myself am far from perfect – I fart a lot in bed for instance, and I insist on wearing my lovely scarlet boxers that I know she hates whenever I can.  Not to annoy her you understand, I really do love my lovely scarlet boxers.  In fact, I have them on today. But I know, just know that Mrs Funk is waiting patiently for the first hole to be blown in the gusset by a particularly noxious guff, so that she can triumphantly and with great ceremony, put them in the non-recyclable waste – possible with a full accompaniment of toxic waste/bio hazard warning decals.

Mrs Funk, by contrast, is perfect in every way

When it isn’t right though, it isn’t right, and all too often a relationship can come to that point where it’s time to part ways.  It’s rarely a pleasant experience, for either party.  Especially the one who didn’t realise it had all gone so so wrong, in their fools paradise, where the bluebirds still fill the air with a sweet sweet sound when the light of their life walks into view, shimmering in the soft focus of love and desire.  No, it’s quite possibly a bit worse for them when the dagger falls.

Ending a relationship, especially one that’s been ongoing for a while, is difficult.  Fortunately, for the cowards in the world, technology gives us a multitude of tools to use, so that we don’t have to look that person in the eye and say ‘Its Over’.  EMail and text messages are probably favourite, with the more ’social networky’ and indeed exhibitionist of us possibly choosing a good, public wall message on Facebook.  Or a Tweet on Twitter?  Or a good old phone call.  Ultimately though, the best and bravest among us will always opt for a face to face meeting.

However, as Chandler said in Episode 2 of the first series (I think – get checking Friends geeks) – ‘there’s always that awkward moment, just after you hand over the note’…

Of course, in terms of guilty pleasures, this is fairly minor, with not too much of an embarassment factor when people actually find out about it.  Indeed, when I discussed it in confidence with my close friend Fanackapan, he himself admitted a similar fondness for the wacky adventures of the lovable gang of New Yorkers. 

We spent many a precious minute together after that, extolling the undoubted virtues of Rachel, the cockiness of Monica and the kookyness of Phoebe.  We described and re-enacted our favourite scenes by the bins at Cartwright Hall, and wistfully drank coffee at the Cat ‘n’ Cup, trying fruitlessly to recreate the atmosphere of Central Perk. 

Heady days, as I’m sure you can imagine.  With this common bond between us, we even revealed one or two other, secret, guilty pleasures in which we indulge.

However, as the woman for whom Fanackapan was cat sitting over Christmas discovered while tidying up the bedroom on her return, Fanackapan isn’t always too good at keeping his guilty pleasures secret…

Despite the doom and gloom of sustained economic recession and unprecedented snowfalls, 2010 dawned with the majority of the Kings Arms regulars nursing a hangover from a storming New Years Eve, both at the Snooty Fox in Oakworth where local band Keep The Drummer Happy played a gig, and at the Kings itself, where customers were entertained by Scarlett Heights.

Since then, at least 2 of the young ladies who frequent the Kings have passed their driving test, so the roads in 2010 will arguably be a more dangerous place than before.

Hemlines and hairlines rise and fall in accordance with the barometer of fashion. However, nowhere, not even in the darkest depths of a dystopian nightmare would you ever class Mr Woo a fashion icon. Nevertheless, since Mr Woo braved the clippers and took his lustrous locks down to a shockingly short crew cut, a surprising number of his bar customers at the Kings have followed suit…

First to fall was Fanackapan, who eschewed the delights of ‘that bird from the hairdressers rubbing her breasts on my head while vigorously scrubbing my scalp’ in favour of an impromtu number 2 in the Kings Arms smoking shelter, courtesy of Mr Woos and his portable clippers. He was closely followed by Dribbly, who decided that a quick snip at Mr Woos Clip Joint would be far easier than driving to the hairdressers at Asda. I even thought that the follicly challenged Scottish Lawyer had succumbed to Mr Woos charms, however I was mistaken.

It was an easy mistake to make though!

What with Christmas shopping (in my mind at least – the actual physical act of shopping is something I prefer not to contemplate until the last minute), departmental disruption at my top secret hush hush job for the government, and the last outstanding tasks to be completed on the couple of websites I am currently working on for various people, I haven’t had much time in the last few days for Old Heatonian.

It’s starting to be a busy old time socially as well – Saturday saw the Grumpy Club decamp from it’s regular haunt in the Kings and get a coach over to Skipton, where we drank a few beers while the girls went and did a bit of shopping round the market, then moved on to the Tempest Arms to tuck into the first Christmas dinner of the season…

After a bit of a false start, involving a late coach (admirably driven by Jeff the driver) and Captain Kidd getting in to the wrong minibus, (frowning as he counted the seats and noted that there weren’t enough available for our party, presumably secretly chuffed though that he had managed to nab one for himself), we were on our way.

On enquiring why the bus had been late, Mark the organiser asked Jeff where he had come from. With a heavy South African accent, Jeff replied ‘Cape Town’, to much mirth, merriment and rubbing of split sides as Mark exclaimed ‘No wonder you were bloody late – we thought you’d got caught up on Manningham Lane’.  Really, you couldn’t make this stuff up!

Anyway, at first we were a man down, as Captain Kidds mysterious other half had been called away to more pressing issues in London. However, with the prospect of a free meal wafted under his nose, it didn’t take long for Fanackapan to agree to take her place.

Predictably, Fanackapan spent a good hour before setting off searching frantically for suitable clothing, rejecting a modern business like skirt/jacket/blouse ensemble in favour of a more casual jeans and t-shirt, which went well with his dishevelled blonde wig and lipstick as red as newly spilled blood.

The meal was excellent, and the company superb, although the Captain didn’t seem too impressed by the stand in ‘wife’ we had arranged for him. Most members of the party were pleasantly merry by the time we set off back to Bradford.

Fanackapan melted the hearts of a couple of elderly ladies – Mark had complained to them that Fanackapan was his son and he didn’t know what to do with him – they replied, saying that it was ‘probably just a phase he was going through’ and that he looked ‘perfectly delightful’ as he was.

He didn’t, however, look as delightful later on, with blood streaming out of his nose and his arse hanging out of the window of the bus…

To Be Continued…

For example, the other day I was travelling back to Bradford on the train from Leeds.  The journey was going well, I had a magazine to read to fill the half hour of mindless tedium as the train powered it’s way along the line, when suddenly, out of the blue, I heard someone throwing up a few seats behind me.  Once my initial feelings of disgust had dispersed, my next thought was ‘Oops, looks like Mr Woo is out on another blind date’!

It really came as no surprise to me to find Fanackapan dressed up as a woman at his place of work on Sunday.  His – shall we say – enthusiasm for wearing clothes of a more feminine nature is growing daily, to the point where I for one am becoming deeply concerned…

The mere sight of him, resplendent in 1940’s housewife style blouse and skirt/cardigan number brought immediate images of what his room must be like,  cluttered with sock stuffed bargain basement bras and corner shop fishnet tights, the pungent aroma of Veet attacking your nostrils as you pick your way through the litter of discarded Freemans catalogues and Miss Selfridge flyers.

You catch sight of yourself in the full length mirror, and note the tell tale signs of lipstick kisses on the glass.  His precious collection of guitars stand to attention in the corner, draped lovingly with chiffon and silk and second hand knitwear.

A gallery of heroes on the wall – Eric Clapton glowers down, sandwiched between poor dead Danny La Rue and Lily Savage.

I really need to stop thinking about this stuff!

A number of villagers made the journey over to see them, and despite the heavy fog by the Flappit, most of us found our way over there first time.  However the Bedmaker – possibly confused by memories of our recent visit to the beer festival, went the long way round with a quick stop off in Oxenhope.

Overall, the gig was the barnstormer we have come to expect from this young band, with only the decidedly weak rendition of  ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ marring an otherwise faultless set.  The second half of the gig in particular really got the audience moving as the band belted out a range of hits, including an almost sublime cover of ‘Seven Nation Army’, which, I promise you, will be awesome next time round. 

Other highlights included what I am increasingly considering the bands signature track – Fleetwood Macs ‘The Chain’, a song which the band appear to have reworked slightly to great advantage – and the complete absence of ‘Moby Dick’ (hurrah!).

The departure of Eddie ‘Ben the Bass’ Swales to pastures new at York University must have initially seemed a mighty blow to the fledgling group, but the new ‘Ben’ has filled his shoes admirably and I for one can’t wait for the next show, which unconfirmed rumours suggest may be New Years Eve at an as yet undisclosed venue.  Keep watching www.ktdh.co.uk for details (website should be finally up and running over the next few days).

A celebrity only has to die, or split up with his/her partner, or do something particularly outrageous these days, and before you know it the inbox of you and your friends’ phone is inundated with quips, puns and howlers of varying degrees of hilarity and often downright cruelty.

Who makes these jokes up?  Perhaps it is a plot by the phone operators to increase traffic on the networks and thus increase profits – after all, SMS messages can become expensive.  As Fanackapan found out recentlywhen he inadvertently sent a 4 message joke out to his circulation list (around 50 recipients) and helplessly watched his credit dwindle to nothing.

Even natural disasters are rarely immune to this phenomenon, which brings me to my point:

Why have there been no jokes whatsoever about Cockermouth?

I’d have thought they’d be flooding in by now…!