Conspiracy Theory

I have been wondering recently about how we end up with so many conspiracy theories in the world. Who starts them all?

There was a time when I would happily dismiss them out of hand but I have felt the need to suddenly develop one of my own. It concerns the growing problem of my missing loose change.

Not so long ago I wouldn’t have even considered copper-coloured coins as real money. As always I would have ended the day with my usual rituals which included emptying the contents of my trouser pockets into a container next to my bed; usually dropping several one-pence pieces and annoying my wife.

This shrapnel would sit there day after day and serve as testament to the fact that, even though we have four daughters, we can never truly say that we have NO money.

Recently, however, the coinage has shown signs of reduction to the point that I often have to refill the tin each night with a new offering. Thus begins my conspiracy theory. These ideas usually follow a similar patter of strange logic that I will attempt to stick with.

Firstly, they try to get general agreement that something is wrong with a given subject. In this regard I have spoken to other dads and they all concur that loose change is an issue in their houses too. Ah ha!

Secondly, the theorists ridicule any other rational reason given for whatever it is that troubles them. To meet with this requirement I have openly mocked my wife’s suggestions that the problem lies with either inflation or that my lack of sharpness on the memory front is to blame. She actually had the nerve to suggest that I might have mislaid my money. Honestly!

Thirdly, the conspiracy mongers blame something that most people have limited knowledge of. This brings me to the main focus of my conspiracy theory. I happened through the entrance of our local supermarket last week and noticed a machine that I hadn’t seen before. It had a screen on which a large £ sign was displayed with numbers counting upward. Stood near to the hole at the front of the equipment, two teenagers were emptying coins from a plastic carrier bag. As it nosily digested the money it stopped counting at £12.33 and the youngsters walked away with a slip of paper.

Intrigued I went in for a closer look and saw that this was a machine dedicated to counting loose change and converting it into a voucher that could be spent in the store.

And so here, ladies and gentlemen, is my conspiracy theory: Inflation, Pa! Memory Loss; Not a chance! Our kids are taking our hard earned copper coins and turning them into something they can actually spend at a supermarket without the cashier being annoyed with them.

Let us proceed further; the next stage in the theorist’s method is to get others on board with the idea. I have so far managed to get three other dads to agree to be present at our inaugural meeting. True, I had to promise two of them that we would meet in a pub whilst the other one thinks he is joining a darts team. Other than that they are all fully committed to the cause.

The final stage of the process is to link your theory to all other suggested conspiracies by raising issues that can’t be fully answered and therefore I have a few questions: Was any loose change found on the grassy knoll in Dallas in 1963? Were any teenagers spotted carrying plastic bags full of coins in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947? Has any research been done on the correlation between UFO sightings and missing two pence pieces? The mystery is out there.

I mentioned all of this to my wife and she gave me one of her ‘Why did I marry him’ looks before trying to re-focus on my suggested memory loss.

Before I invest too much time into this whole area I do have one more thought; What if all the conspiracy theories are made up by the same people and thereby in themselves a conspiracy. It’s just a theory.

At school I had my self-esteem dented, along with countless others, by being less than average at a number of sports. Even though most teachers would try to offer encouragement by reminding us that it was the 'taking part' that mattered, the more influential voices were of course other kids.

The number of times during cricket practice I heard the phrase 'you are a waste of space Molineaux'.

Fortunately, I was six foot tall and 12 stone as I entered the first year of high school and therefore rugby became my saving grace. I managed to use my size to my advantage until all the other boys caught up with my growing pattern during our fourth year.

I am glad to say that since leaving education no one has ever accused me of being a waste of space; not to my face anyway.

All of this was brought back to mind when my youngest daughter made a comment about my inability to produce sentences that they can understand whilst texting on my mobile phone.

It was during this conversation about all things communicative that daughter number four said that I was 'a waste of credit'. She insisted that she wasn’t commenting on my worth as a father or indeed a human being; just a reflection about my lack of ability with phone technology.

Needless to say the comment brought back all those years of shame; scoring an own goal at football, running out the star player during a cricket match, tripping up just before the tape in the 400 meters, nearly taking someone’s eye out in a game of squash (I will expand on this further at a later date). Not an all together impressive record. If it wasn’t for the rugby I would have no trophies at all.

As things go being a waste of credit does not seem to be too bad a deal after all there are far harsher ways of judging people. She could have told me that I was a waste of chocolate because I tend to eat far too quickly to really enjoy the taste. Or perhaps a waste of movies owing to my inability to sit through a film without complaining about how loud the music is compared to the dialogue (am I the only one to notice). Maybe she could have accused me of being a waste of music because I tend to dance like a slightly disappointed gorilla.

At school being a waste of space at sport was guaranteed to convey the complete frustration one lad would have with a team member. But it was one comment in particular that provoked the keenest reaction in me. Just before a match I overheard a teacher comment on my abilities on the rugby field. I had hoped that since the previous season I had captained the side to the schools first ever trophy that I was about to over hear some praise. Unfortunately, the comment went along the lines of ‘Molineaux! He is just big, that’s all. He doesn’t even use his strength well.’

I went out onto the field determined to prove him wrong and subsequently got sent off for hitting one of the opposition for standing near me or looking stupid or some other minor offence. Proving that I did know how to use my strength but perhaps not my mind.

As I walked to the touch line I could hear one of my fellow team members reminding me that even in rugby I could occasionally be ‘a waste of space’.

On my way towards the changing rooms I attempted to take one of the pieces of citrus fruit customarily given at half time. ‘Leave it Molineaux’ said our sports teacher ‘You are a waste of orange too’. Not meaning to mention mobile phone network providers, I wonder if he was predicting that I would one day be a ‘waste of credit’.

New Years Resolution

Following the ceremonial eating of the last Christmas chocolate and the subsequent guilt, and its associated lack of self worth, I have decided to make a New Year’s resolution.



My family will, of course, place bets on how many days (or hours) my resolve will last but I will, in true 'only man in the house style', ignore them and press on.



I can’t decide whether to go for a positive resolution or a negative one because, as everyone knows, they fall into two groups. I could choose to word my new purposefulness as either ‘I will stop eating bad food’ or ‘I will start eating good food’.



Herein lies the problem; the jury is still out on what can be labelled as good or bad food. If I listen to the scientists I find that, although apples can be included as part of my 5-a-day fruit and veg requirement, the acid can also have a detrimental effect on my gums. Alternatively I could take notice of the health pages in the gossip magazines that I DON’T read for 5 minutes every morning before I leave the house. Actually, I read them just to make sure that my daughters are not being fed a distorted view of the world. The advice is generally woven around the idea that everything should be done in balance but, following an inner ear problem that was mistreated when I was a child, this too is a problem.



Perhaps the new-age multiple-choice gurus can offer an answer to my plight. They normally start by getting you to measure your current state by monitoring the condition of some random part of your body. ‘Know your knees, know yourself’ they tend to exclaim, whilst provided a handy map of the surface area of your patella in order that you might discover whether your mother ate mascarpone cheese during the fourth month of carrying you in her womb. They will then make an absolute statement about how this has lead to your inability to control your weight, without producing a scrap of evidence for such a claim. Pointing out that most people’s knees make an audible crack when they try to move to a standing position they will drive their persuasion home and you will find that you are unable resist.



So what, in the name of all that is chocolate, am I suppose to do if I cant even be sure which foods are good and which are bad.



The truth is that I am no more interested in eating less than I am in phoning in to answer one of those day time questions that appear just before the adverts on day time television. You know the type; ‘Name a Christmas character beginning with S who wears red and has a long white beard?’ Is it:

a) Santa, b) Satin or C) Santana



Even if I do try to win I won’t be sure that the producers haven’t switched off the phone lines before my entry is logged yet still charge me for the call. I wonder if the same things happened when you entered by post card; there might be sacks hidden around the country. This could be why I didn’t receive my Blue Peter badge in 1968 when I entered a painting competition.



My need to start a New Year’s Resolution is driven by two things: I have eaten so much chocolate I couldn't face anymore and, I have spent so much on food that I have no more money left even if I wanted to continue to over indulge. I need to remember for next year that Christmas lunch is just Sunday Dinner with party hats; that way I might not buy as much.



So after I have read the magazines articles on growing your own vegetables and seen the ‘Too fat to open your eyelids’ edition of Tricia, I check the condition of my knees and fall asleep on the sofa. With a chocolate smudge on my new white shirt and sweet wrappers resting on the ridge of my stomach I dream of successfully making and keeping a New Year’s resolution.