It's a Small World

I bet you a pound to a penny that you know somebody who knows somebody whose sister/brother/auntie/dog has a friend who used to be on Corrers or Emmers. It is a statistical certainty, as inescapably true as the fact that most people in Wales have more than the average number of legs*, as pointed out in a letter to The Times by my dear brother Bertie. It is also very probable (a 70.6% chance) that in any class of 30 children there will be two with the same birthday. I mean, imagine a class of 366. What are the chances that all of them will have a different birthday? The odds are astronomically against. Well, this sort of stuff ties my poor head up in knots, for maths and I, as well as Latin and Greek and I, decided at a very early age that we were never going to get married, so we parted company.

Bertie, on the other hand, does Latin, and maths, and statistics, and clever stuff like that; he was a Vicar Choral or Lay Clerk (ie he sang in a cathedral choir) for 20 years, and when he lived in Mauritius he actually had servants. And yes, both of us know people who know people who know people who were on Corrers or Emmers, or even both, for I can’t tell them apart any more, what with all those villains from the Smoke getting in on what used to be an essentially northern act.

The thing about chaps who’ve done time in cathedral choirs is that they tend to look down upon us oafs who’ve lived rough in parish church choirs all our lives. Cathedral choir chaps are always called Nigel or Jeremy or Miles; they never fidget or scratch their bottoms during the sermon; and when they go to the pub (or “hostelry”) they don’t talk about football or ladies, because they are too busy comparing the relative merits of Smidgeon in E-flat and Turgid in F, and, worst of all, they are inclined to drink Pimms, whereas your average parish choir chap is content with a pint of brown and mild and is far more likely to have heard of Mantovani than Monteverdi.

I know I keep mentioning Wales, but please bear with me, all you nice Welsh people whom we English don’t think should be allowed to speak your own language in your own country because we imagine you’re talking about us behind our backs, for there is a good reason.

How often do you hear some bonehead on the telly talk about somewhere being “five times the size of Wales”, or for that matter “ten times the size of Wembley Stadium”? Have you actually measured Wales, or even Wembley Stadium, recently? I haven’t. At least Wembley Stadium is sort of oblong so I supposed I could do a quick calculation, but Wales? Wales is a funny shape, with bits sticking out all over the place, like the Lleyn peninsula and Anglesey. I have absolutely no idea how big Wales is, nor how many Wembley Stadia would fit therein, or why anyone would want to. Why can’t telly people say “a million square miles” or “a thousand acres”, if that’s what they mean? That at least is precise, and I can understand it.

But if we’re going to talk about precision - there are times when it most definitely is NOT wanted. It tickles me when newspapers (especially) feel obliged to convert from one measuring system to another that’s more familiar. It usually produces rubbish like this:

“Mr Crump is reputed to have earned more than $1m (£631,402.49) last year alone.”

Or: “The villain is thought to be 6ft tall (1.8288m)...”

And as for crime figures - well! You can bury anything, or frighten everyone, by the clever - or ignorant, more likely - use of statistics.

“200% rise in burglaries - police baffled.”

Well, that could mean three burglaries compared with one last year in Lancaster (good news) or 3,000 in Knotty End compared with 1,000 (bad news.)

And would somebody please tell telly people that the difference between 50% and 51% is not 1%, but one percentage point? A 1% drop in a bank rate of 4% gives a new rate of 3.96%. A one percentage point drop gives a new rate of 3%.

But to return to the point about all of us knowing someone who knows someone whose auntie/sister/dachshund was once in Corrers (or Emmers). Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? What with all those disasters happening all the time and characters being wiped out at a rate at least equal to the murder rate in Midsomer, the turnover in casts must be enormous and it won’t be long before it’s our turn.

And if you do get on the telly before me - don't forget your handbag, but leave your brain at home. You might need your handbag.

*It only takes one person in Wales to have fewer legs than the customary two to bring the average number of legs per Welsh person to 1.9999999... So Welsh people with two legs have more than the average allowance.