A Sunday Roasting

“Wot’s this, then?”

“It’s my new smartphone, Grandad.”

“Wot’s it do?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like wot?”

“Like, read emails, search Cyberspace.”

“Wot’s Cyberspace - when it’s at home?”

“It’s a superhighway of information available to everyone.”

“Like a motorway?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Where’d they build it?”

“It’s not something you can see. It’s mostly underground. But lately, it’s up in space.”

“They’ve got motorways in space, like the Jetsons?”

“No, they’ve got satellites in stationary orbit that provide access to the superhighway. It’s like a big net of communication systems.”

“So, ‘ow does wots-is-face at thingy get his rockets past ‘em?”

“You mean, Elon Musk at Space X?”

“Yeah, that’s him. How does he get his rockets through the net up there?”

“It’s not like they’re connected to each other, Grandad. Well, they are connected, but not like a fishing net. The connection is invisible.”

“It’s magic, then.”

“No, it’s science. Bloody hell, Grandad!”

“I’m just pullin’ yer plonker, mate. I’m well aware of wot’s up there and all around and underneath us. I mean, my whole garden shed is proof of that, full of useless items bought on eBay.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

I went to a séance, once – in the seventies.”

“No, Grandad, I said science, not séance. Are your hearing aids working?”

“I was sittin’ at this round table holdin’ hands wif this young woman, who was wearing a scarf round her ‘ead. It had a big blue stone in the middle of it, like some Sikh magician. She kept repeating, Is anyone there, is anyone there? Like she was in the dark and had just ‘eard strange voices. I think she must ‘ave been blind, coz the room was fuckin’ packed with people. Poor love. I felt sorry for her, coz no-one answered. Rude gits. They just couldn’t deal with her disability, I suppose. They all looked shit scared of her, like if they muttered anything, she’d scream at ‘em. Then, all of a sudden, the table started to rise up on its own and this bell kept ringing. You know, the type that calls for a butler in all them posh tv shows. I thought, blimey! The Earth’s lost its gravity. So, I jumped on top of it to weigh it down and some geezer hidin’ underneath yelled out such a torrent of foul language, I stood up and left. I mean, what fuckin’ dead spirit wants to hear all that, hey? I know I didn’t, and I’m alive! Still, came home wif a nice souvenir, but your Gran didn’t appreciate me ringing it every time I wanted a cuppa.”

“Grandad?”

“Yes, my son.”

“You went rambling again.”

“Did I? Right. Must be getting’ old. So, tell me more about this smartphone of yours. Can it add?”

“It can.”

“Can it play the radio?”

“Yes, it’s called streaming music.”

“Screaming music?”

“No… Stop making fun of me.”

“Nothin’ but screaming music, these days. If you can call it that. In my day, it was love songs and dancing and fingerin’ Jane Snipper in the back alley of the dance hall.”

“Erm, Grandad. Too much info.”

“Wot, you never fing…”

“Not something I feel comfortable discussing, Grandad.”

“So, wot do you young people do these days to get your jollies?”

“Let’s get back on topic, please.”

“We never ‘ad the luxury or the readies to rent a hotel room.”

“That’s not…”

“Nah, it was either a bunk up in the local cemetery or a quickie in a toilet. You know, every time I ‘ave a sit-down, it brings back memories of those days. Who’d of thought taking a shit could be such a turn on.”

“…You can also play games on it.”

“Wot, the khazi?”

“No, Grandad. My smartphone.”

“Chess?”

“Yes.”

“How long do you ‘ave to wait for the other person to make his move?”

“It’s against a computer. It’s an App you download onto your smartphone.”

“Wot’s an App?”

“It’s short for Application. Like a computer program on your phone.”

“Why can’t you just say, Application, then? Wot’s with all this shortenin’ of words these days. Your generation too lazy to pronounce them? In my day, an Application was something you did to yerself in school.”

“Do I need to know what you did to yourself in school?”

“It was the practice of applying yourself to your school subjects. The teacher’s reports at the end of each term would be filled wif the word. Reggie could apply himself more, or Reginald’s application to his studies would be improved if he applied himself to them with an application of interest. I suppose in today’s lazy language, that would sound like gibberish.

“That’s your opinion.”

“Nah, mate. That’s my Applied philosophy. Or is it, my App philosophy?”

“Okay, you’ve made your point.”

“Can you play twenty-one on that thing?”

“You mean, Blackjack?”

“Yeah, but in your Woke world, ain’t that politically incorrect to call it that name?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you’re wot’s called a child of Generation Z, are you not?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I’m a fuckin’ Baby Boomer, Tommo. We started all this generation-naming nonsense. Well, our parents did. Post war, cold nights, no telly, nothin’ else to do but bonk, and that’s how I came abowt.”

“It’s strange thinking about people doing it back then.”

“It’s even stranger thinkin’ ‘bowt your mum and dad doin’ it. I mean, I bet you don’t look at me and yer Gran and think that at some point in our lives we went at it like rabbits, do ya.”

“Can we change the subject, please.”

“I mean, I suppose every generation thinks they invented sex. I know we did. It was so popular, there was a three-month wait at the library to borrow that Karma Sootra book.”

“It’s pronounced, Kama Sutra, Grandad.”

“Oh, so you’ve read it, then?”

“It’s everywhere on the Internet, Grandad. They just call it other things these days, like PornHub.”

“…Not read that one. Must be new. No, the whole topic of sex instruction was so popular in my day, that even WH Smith sold out of the paperback version of the book. Some bright enterprising young artist in Peckham went and copied a few pages in his own style and sold them in the Exchange and Mart classifieds newspaper for a couple of quid apiece. Made a small fortune, then went on to create his own magazine. I think it was called Forum, or sumfin’ like that. Full of saucy letters and articles. Very little photos, but when I was in school, there was a boy that used to rent copies out to his classmates at lunchtime. The teachers could never figure out why there was always a big queue outside the boys’ toilets every lunch. Mr. Boslan used to comment, sayin’ What good is a weak waterworks when there’s a war on? An army marches on its stomach, not its bladder. Poor bugger suffered from shell shock; I think. I mean, the war had been over for twenty-five years. I dunno. Maybe, he was just a fucking nutter, instead.”

“You’re rambling again, Grandad.”

“Yeah, the Karma Sootra was a big deal to the sexual revolution. Everyone wanted to try out the infamous position Fourteen – the Dhenuka.”

“What was Position fourteen?”

“Just good ol’ fashioned Doggy Style, Tommo. Up and in from behind! After all, we’re all just animals, aren’t we?”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Embarassed you, ‘ave I?”

“It’s one thing talking to people your own age about it, then there’s…”

“Heh! Yeah! Yer Grandad.”

“Some things are best left sacred.”

“Then you don’t want to hear abowt the time your gran and me walked in on yer mum and dad in the…”

“NO! Thank you. Let’s move on, shall we? I don’t know how we got here, but I was trying to explain to you what my smartphone can do.”

“Look, Tommo. I’m very much up-to-date wif technology gadgets. What I ‘ave a hard time gettin’ my head around, is figurin’ out those little symbols on the oven controls. I mean, if anyone wants proof of alien life, they just ‘ave to look at the symbols on a modern oven. All I want to do is switch it on, set the temperature, and stick a roast in there.”

“Don’t you have the manual?”

“It’s all in Chinese!”

“That’s unusual. Most manuals are written in several different languages.”

“Not this one, Tommo. Can you read Mandarin?”

“Where did you buy the oven?”

“Where I buy everything else, Tommo. On eBay. No, sorry. I didn’t get this one on eBay. I got it from that – oh, wot’s it called? It’s named after the flying carpet bloke.”

“You mean, Ali Baba?”

“Yeah, that’s it. But it was from the faster one.”

“Ali Express.”

“Yep, that’s the one! Although, I never realised Ali Baba was Chinese. I thought he was from Persia or someplace like that.”

“He was, Grandad. I used to like reading Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves as a boy.”

“Fuckin’ Chinese will steal anything and copy it.”

“That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it, Grandad?”

“You know, in the Eighties, when Ronald Reagan was runnin’ around the White house in America, he banned the sale of any technology to the Chinese. You know why?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you.”

“Because, he knew they would copy it, mass produce it, and sell it back to ‘em at discounted bulk prices. I mean, back before then, their biggest export was fucking tea and fortune cookies, weren’t it.”

“That’s a generalisation, Grandad… and a little racist.”

“Wot!? Am I wrong?”

“It’s how you explain it.”

“Oh, sorry. I forgot that you are a child of the Woke generation. How ‘ave we gotten to the point of un-labelling everything. We can call someone Chinese, but we can’t say Chinaman. I mean, it’s getting to where we can’t call ourselves English anymore. It’s those people west of France or East of Wales, or South of Scotland.”

“You’re being ridiculous now, Grandad.”

“You know wot’s ridiculous? These fucking symbols on the oven.”

“Okay, let me see. Yeah, I can see how someone like you could get confused.”

“Someone like me?”

“You know, the bigoted East of Wales person.”

“That’s facetiousness, Tommo. I thought I taught you better.”

“You did, Grandad. That was just toned down sarcasm.”

“Cheeky little fucker aren’t you. Keep it up and I’ll tell you about your mum and dad in the…”

 “Okay, okay! Let’s look at these symbols, shall we?”

“Thank you, Tommo. You’re a good lad. I’ve got the Sunday roast ready to go, okay? Your Gran left me explicit instructions to have it ready by the time she gets back from visiting her sister. Now, wot’s that one with the line going across the bottom of the square that makes it look like a grumpy face?”

“That means it’s the bottom heating element.”

“And the one that looks like it, but with an added line at the top, making it look like he has to take a shit?”

“Top and bottom element.”

“The one wif the line at the bottom, two sad eyes, and a third sideways eye above them, like a dot on an Indian woman’s forehead?”

“It means bottom element and fan assisted. The dot you’re referring to – by the way - is called, a Bindi, Grandad. Traditionally worn to indicate that an Indian woman is married. Although, these days, it’s used as a beauty mark.”

“Bindi? I thought that was Crocodile Dundee’s daughter.”

“No, her father was Steve Irwin, Grandad. The Crocodile Hunter.”

“Wot abowt this one? The puff of air looking symbol below and to the right of the fan-assisted one? See? I’m learning!”

“That means steam is used to assist cooking. Probably good for cooking your roast.”

“That’s the one, then! Even if it looks like a cartoon fart. Right, the rest of the tutorial can wait. Now, how do I set the temperature?”

“Just turn the knob on the right to the preferred setting.”

“Wot’s the preferred setting?”

“Dunno, Granddad.”

“I can see who does all the cooking in your house.”

“I live alone.”

“Exactly! You need a live-in girlfriend, mate.”

“You mean that I should get a girlfriend to move in, so she can do all the cooking?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I can cook, you know.”

“Then wot’s the temperature setting for a Sunday roast, Bachelor of the Decade?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve got a smartphone, yes? Let’s see how smart it is. Look it up.”

“Okay… SIRI!”

“Wot are you doing?”

“I’m asking my phone.”

“Too many words for your clipped generational existence to type it in?”

“…What is the perfect temperature to set for a Sunday roast?”

“Wot she say?”

“She says, here are some links to What is the perfect temperature to set for a Sunday roast.”

“You know, Tommo. I sometimes think that we’re all just aliens living in an alien world, using alien technology that is alien to common sense. Forget the search. Don’t look any further, your Gran’s left a note.”

“What did she say?”

“Push the button with the image of a turkey on it.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake. That was too easy.”

“Too right, Tommo. You took the words right out of my mouth. Fancy a pint down the local while this is cooking?”

“How do you know how long to cook it for?”

“Your Gran’s left a link to a web site that monitors the oven. Says here, that it’s connected to the Internet with a camera inside and will alert you when it’s time to take it out.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, Turns out the fucking Chinese seem to have improved all that technology they stole. Clever little buggers, aren’t they.”

“Grandad! Now you’re assuming that they’re all small.”

“I’ll leave that to the statisticians, Tommo… Now, put that address in your smartphone and let’s get down the pub for a Sunday pint.”

“Don’t you have a smartphone, Grandad?”

“Wot do I wan’t wif a smartphone, Tommo? Conversation killer, mate. Nah, you bring yours and I promise not to mention what we caught your mum and dad doing in the living room.”

“I’m not listening, I’m not listening.”

“Yeah, that’s the trouble with Gen Z. Too busy talking…”