Versed past the post

Cheltenham race course was the venue for Mr Gnome's epiphanic encounter with tip-toptasic troubadour Ian McMillan.

The almost shockingly gifted McMillan, accompained by his equally talented orchestra, was performing a selection of songs and verses at the Greenbelt Arts Festival.

Funny. Moving. Witty. Clever. Droll. Tuneful. Punchy. Wistful. Robust. Funny.

Ian McMillan celebrates the hidden stories of those whose stories are rarely told - and makes you laugh, think and, in my case, dash away the occasional manly tear.

Mr McMillan offered an improvised poem (to jauntily soulful accompaniment from the orchestra) based on three topics called out by members of the audience: 'myself', 'British summer weather' and, inevitably, 'gnome'.

The moving epic that emerged, Homerically, from Mr McMillan's lyre depicted Mr Gnome fleeing inclement weather across a wide vista encompassing the delights of both Ibiza and Cleethorpes.

A gnomapotheosis.

The applause was rapturous.

Hurrah for the magnificent Mr McMillan.

And, all you poets out there, Mr Gnome modestly acknowledges his ability to inspire, which is, I guess, a talent - to a Muse.

By the way, this event was sponsored by the Church Times.

K? See!

Mr Gnome realizes, to his chagrin, that he rarely 'bigs it up' for individual human beings.

Not any more.

He is determined to probe a wide variety of human types and raise a rousing 'Hurrah!' for any tip-top folk that come into his zone of awareness.

And who better to start with than the remarkable KC pictured (in slightly more youthful days) above? (Specs appeal, or what?)

Chef de cuisine, raconteur, computer wizard and all-round good egg, the reticent and industrious KC falls effortlessly into the category of 'once met, never forgotten'.

Hardworking, charming and good-humoured, KC has, naturally, much in common with Mr Gnome - with the exception of stature.

KC is tall. Very tall. If you encounter him, remark on his tallness - he'll like you all the more.

No surprise to discover that KC is a 'radio man' with a strong leaning towards the 'high end' of BBC Radio 5 Live. Mr Gnome is forever grateful for the nudge that led to his discovery of broadcaster par excellence, the great Rhod Sharpe, the insomniac's friend.

One could go on....

Hard to believe it, but KC is about to celebrate his fortieth birthday.

Hurrah!

Apple of his i

The Gnome can't help it: he's overcome with pleasure at his proximity to the new i-Phone.

Ownership? Far from it. A kind friend graciously permitted the impromptu pose.

Mr Gnome isn't a massive materialist. Flashy cars, for instance, do nothing to warm his heart.

But, no surprise, he weakens when he encounters small-scale elegance and fitness-for-use.

The i-Phone has these in abundance.

It's only a matter of time before Mr Gnome is blogging from one of these beautiful implements.

Er, and of money....

Century

Here we all are enjoying ourselves on the beach: my parents, their three sons, our two older cousins - and Stumpy the Welsh corgi.

Location? Definitely Devon, possibly Dawlish Warren.

The year? It has to be around 1956 or '57.

I'm guessing the younger members of the party have been in the sea, 'bathing' as my mother would have called it. But absolutely not before a minimum of one hour has elapsed from the end of our picnic lunch.

Two of us are keeping off the afternoon chill with our new zip-up jackets: they were called 'windcheaters'.

Dad, who clearly has not been in the water, is dressed up in tweed jacket, shirt, tie and pullover.

Our teenage cousins are in the height of Fifties chic - the choker of pop-together beads was the absolute dernier cri....

Meanwhile, check out the totally typical beachwear of the background figures.

Our mother, I feel, is looking a wee bit strained. Hardly surprising.

She would have organised the outing, prepared the picnic and driven all eight of us to the seaside, jammed into the bench-seat Ford Zephyr - and all at the age of approximately fifty, when many women are relaxing into the grandma role.

My father, already far from well, did not outlive the 1950s.

My mother, born in 1908, died ten years ago.

Tuesday 19 August would have been her one hundredth birthday.

A minor destruction

So easy these days to check up on train times by calling National Rail Inquiries.

No complaints from Mr Gnome (pictured yesterday on a somewhat moist platform at Bridgend, Wales) about this tip-top service.

Prompt attention yesterday from polite operator with crystalline diction and a friendly manner.

He was anxious to offer some extra info alongside the train times that were the object of my call.

There were, he said, 'destructions on the line near Worcester'.

Yikes. I feared the worst.

He continued breezily: 'But this is a minor destruction and should be cleared within the hour.'

Phew. That's my kind of destruction.

At which point the penny dropped: my informant was Malapropping.

He must have meant 'disruptions'.

Hear and now

Tootling home yesterday from a wedding in wet south Wales and letting the train take the strain.

Two gentlemen my age board at Cardiff and sit at the table section that I've previously had to myself.

They chat animatedly to one another using signing.

Next stop Newport, where train is flooded with English football fans who are male, loud and very well tanked up..

They fill the three seats across the aisle from us, until then occupied by a lone young woman.

They greet her and seem to think that the manner in which they address her is charming in a breezily laddish way. It's not. She politely extricates herself and moves elsewhere.

A fan asks one of my seat companions to move over so that he can sit across the aisle from his chums. Fan eventually realises that the gentleman is deaf and is reluctant to move because he will no longer be seated directly opposite the friend with whom he's signing.

Anyway, the gentleman shrugs, smiles and makes the requested move.

Journey continues. Fans discuss the match, with occasional forays into their work and their love lives. All at high volume and larded with the inevitable f-word.

We dip into the Severn Tunnel, the din unabated.

My companion opposite must have picked up my vibe. He is busy with his phone, keying in a message. Then he grins at me, and holds up the phone, displaying the message shown above.

We bond.

Write and wrong

Mr G has a reputation for being a bit of stickler, particularly with regard to spelling and the use of the apostrophe.

But stickling can easily become pompous pedantry - a brush with which Mr G hopes he'll never be tarred.

Hence his wish to celebrate, rather than snipe at, these recently spotted 'signs and wonders'.

Mr G thought about popping in to the GLAMOUROUS SHOW BAR to discuss the small matter of the superfluous 'u'.

But he reconsidered and moved on.

Does the extra letter detract from the sparkling neon invitation of Birmingham's answer to La Cage Aux Folles?

It doesn't.

Same goes for a cheery Warwickshire chip shop, sprinkling its apostrophes with an open-hearted abandon that defies criticism.

It's a case of 'So wrong that it's right.'

Three hearty cheer's for Chip's & Fishe's - and a breezy 'U Hoo!' for the GSB.