How gutted am I?...
Am I as gutted as a freshly gutted bloater, slapped on a marble slab in a fish shop window in Grimsby high street?
No, much, much more gutted than that - by some considerable margin, I'm afraid.
When will we stop being heroic failures?
It's at times like these I remember what Noel Coward once said (possibly) - "My dear, dear boy, it could be a lot worse, you could support Scotland"
That's true. By gum, I feel better all ready.
p.s. - Anyone want to buy 500 small car window St George's flags?
Did he really see that?…….
My brother-in-law insists that whilst driving around in North London last week he saw a van with a sign on the side of it that said - Patel & Patel, Plumbers. You’ve been let down by the cowboys, so why not try the Indians!
Is that an urban myth?
Welcome to my very worst of……
(an occasional series)
Worst ad’ currently on the telly – The very, very fat man with oversized strap on jingly-jangly jowlingtons, advertising his ambulance-chasing services from PA helpline. Always on during the daytime, it’s cheap nasty and very jowly.
Actor’s budget – Bugger all. Just the big guy, who obviously owns the gaff.
Props budget - less than bugger all. An old beach ball with some dodgy felt-tip writing on – and a ‘70’s phone. Plus, the strap on jowls (jumbo size).
Monday, June 21, 2004
Father’s Day pressies – getting what you really want…..
Yesterday I got a really, really fab pressie. It was a great day all round really.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the ironing.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the washing up.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do any cooking.
Because it was Father’s Day, I mostly sat on my arse, drinking beer and watching the footy on the telly.
Come to think of it, most days are Father’s Days…..
Back to my pressie. I hinted, I coughed, I left post it notes around – ‘Must remember to buy Dad ‘Who murdered Geoffrey Chaucer’ by Terry Jones’ for Father’s Day’
It’s a brilliant book, not least giving a superb account of the malevolent murky medieval machinations that I love reading about.
No hints were taken up – only one thing to do, buy it myself – and raid offspring’s piggy banks to pay for it. Magic, dictatorship is alive and well and living in OK Mansions – and you could tell, they were really, really happy for me – honest!
The strange case of the one legged policeman – (does ‘P.C.’ stand for Police Constable anymore)……
West Midlands police have taken on a one-legged police recruit – a career traditionally taken up in the past by bipeds. I just don’t understand it at all – can a one legged man be as active as someone with twice as many legs? It reminded me of that great sketch by Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.
Cook plays a theatrical agent, auditioning for the role of ‘Tarzan’. In hops little Dud’ – he’s only got one leg…
Cook eyes him up and says "Let me get this straight, you’ve come to audition for the role of Tarzan? You, a one legged man is going for a role traditionally undertaken where the minimum requirement in the leg department is two"….
"Correct"
"As soon as you hopped in I looked straight at your right leg and thought to myself, now that’s a lovely leg. That’s a lovely leg for the role of Tarzan. I have nothing against your right leg …. Unfortunately, neither have you".
Yesterday I got a really, really fab pressie. It was a great day all round really.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the ironing.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the washing up.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do any cooking.
Because it was Father’s Day, I mostly sat on my arse, drinking beer and watching the footy on the telly.
Come to think of it, most days are Father’s Days…..
Back to my pressie. I hinted, I coughed, I left post it notes around – ‘Must remember to buy Dad ‘Who murdered Geoffrey Chaucer’ by Terry Jones’ for Father’s Day’
It’s a brilliant book, not least giving a superb account of the malevolent murky medieval machinations that I love reading about.
No hints were taken up – only one thing to do, buy it myself – and raid offspring’s piggy banks to pay for it. Magic, dictatorship is alive and well and living in OK Mansions – and you could tell, they were really, really happy for me – honest!
The strange case of the one legged policeman – (does ‘P.C.’ stand for Police Constable anymore)……
West Midlands police have taken on a one-legged police recruit – a career traditionally taken up in the past by bipeds. I just don’t understand it at all – can a one legged man be as active as someone with twice as many legs? It reminded me of that great sketch by Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.
Cook plays a theatrical agent, auditioning for the role of ‘Tarzan’. In hops little Dud’ – he’s only got one leg…
Cook eyes him up and says "Let me get this straight, you’ve come to audition for the role of Tarzan? You, a one legged man is going for a role traditionally undertaken where the minimum requirement in the leg department is two"….
"Correct"
"As soon as you hopped in I looked straight at your right leg and thought to myself, now that’s a lovely leg. That’s a lovely leg for the role of Tarzan. I have nothing against your right leg …. Unfortunately, neither have you".
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Slow on the uptake in gender realignment…..
Dave works for a company in Leeds and is a big guy. We talk to him now and again, he sorts stuff out for us, he’s a ‘no nonsense’ type of man – early 40’s, quiet - and hairy, in a hairy-hirsute sort of way. His beard and chest hair both look like they’ve all had the baby bio treatment.
Dave has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like he gargles with gravel every single morning.
Dave is a man’s man alright …….. sort of - ish
Yesterday morning, Dave’s answerphone was a bit different though. Something not quite right there, I thought. Same gruff voice, same apology for not being at his desk at the moment but please leave a message….
But, I don’t know..... something’s just not right……. I replace the receiver and dial again.
"Hi, Davina here, sorry I’m not at my desk at the moment…."
Davina has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like she gargles with gravel every single morning……
Davina is still probably as hirsute as ever – but I bet Immac sales in Leeds have gone through the roof.
Davina is a woman’s man alright …….. definitely. .
Dave is dead,
long live Davina……
It’s all a bit of a shock.
Dave works for a company in Leeds and is a big guy. We talk to him now and again, he sorts stuff out for us, he’s a ‘no nonsense’ type of man – early 40’s, quiet - and hairy, in a hairy-hirsute sort of way. His beard and chest hair both look like they’ve all had the baby bio treatment.
Dave has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like he gargles with gravel every single morning.
Dave is a man’s man alright …….. sort of - ish
Yesterday morning, Dave’s answerphone was a bit different though. Something not quite right there, I thought. Same gruff voice, same apology for not being at his desk at the moment but please leave a message….
But, I don’t know..... something’s just not right……. I replace the receiver and dial again.
"Hi, Davina here, sorry I’m not at my desk at the moment…."
Davina has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like she gargles with gravel every single morning……
Davina is still probably as hirsute as ever – but I bet Immac sales in Leeds have gone through the roof.
Davina is a woman’s man alright …….. definitely. .
Dave is dead,
long live Davina……
It’s all a bit of a shock.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Searching for solace in the Solstice ……..
This is my favourite time of the year. I love it. The light, the warmth, the booze, the greeny stuff, the flowery colours and the burst of life – everywhere. How does the rhyme go? Oh to be in England now that strong lager is here…. (or something like that). I’m at my most optimistic, most sagely, willing to give anyone and everyone, pearls of pearly wisdom – whether they want any or not.
It’s all building to the Summer Solstice on June 21st. I love sitting outside at half eleven at night watching the sky go a deep inky azure blue, gazing at bats as they chase Britain’s biggest moth, the gi-normous and bright-orange coloured Elephant Hawk moth.
Then the great day dawns – sometimes I stay up all night, sit outside (with a few scoops obviously) and see just how short the time of complete darkness is – which is very short indeed.
I’m not a druid or anything – or a tree hugger, it’s just the atmosphere that gets to me. I’d like to go down to Stonehenge – just to see it happen, the Sun rising over the heel stone and central Trilithon – it must be a really awesome event. Of course, modern ‘Druids’ and ‘New age travellers’ have ruined it for everyone – who the hell gave those tossers in white hats and gowns the right to have control of the ceremony for most of the 20th Century anyway? Every ‘Midsummer News Report’ would show yer actual troop of local Druids doing the business at Stonehenge. Once in the ‘80’s, Corry’s most overrated and over wooden actor – William ‘Woody’ Roche was there, dressed in his floppy white, flopsum and whitesum gear, inspecting entrails, waving his sticky stick in great comical cosmic circles, casting spells and swinging crystally things about.
That’ll do it then, the Sun will come up again for the next year – it will bathe the planet in life giving warmth – it will sustain billions of life-forms for the next 12 months …. All because Ken Barlow and his magic crystal from Coronation Street in Weatherfield says so.
I’ve been to Stonehenge a couple of times – and have been truly humbled. There's a rope around it now, courtesy of English Heritage. The last time I was there, a young American dude took exception to the fact that this barrier was impeding his progress and stepped over it. He made his short-baggy trousered, tasteless Hawaiian shirted way towards the great stones. All of a sudden, out of the very depths of the monument a little wiry man jumped out waving his hands about a lot. The goblin of the monument was making a statement to this New World traveller…. "Go on, bugger off out of it, yer bloody bugger" And he did.
Then it’s over. Post June the 22nd means that the nights start drawing in – it’s down hill all the way until those damp, dreary days of darkest December, when the Winter Solstice is reached.
June 22nd also means that my eldest Son starts to pack for Glasto’ – and the inevitable annual assault on my wallet that goes with it…. Ho hum.
This is my favourite time of the year. I love it. The light, the warmth, the booze, the greeny stuff, the flowery colours and the burst of life – everywhere. How does the rhyme go? Oh to be in England now that strong lager is here…. (or something like that). I’m at my most optimistic, most sagely, willing to give anyone and everyone, pearls of pearly wisdom – whether they want any or not.
It’s all building to the Summer Solstice on June 21st. I love sitting outside at half eleven at night watching the sky go a deep inky azure blue, gazing at bats as they chase Britain’s biggest moth, the gi-normous and bright-orange coloured Elephant Hawk moth.
Then the great day dawns – sometimes I stay up all night, sit outside (with a few scoops obviously) and see just how short the time of complete darkness is – which is very short indeed.
I’m not a druid or anything – or a tree hugger, it’s just the atmosphere that gets to me. I’d like to go down to Stonehenge – just to see it happen, the Sun rising over the heel stone and central Trilithon – it must be a really awesome event. Of course, modern ‘Druids’ and ‘New age travellers’ have ruined it for everyone – who the hell gave those tossers in white hats and gowns the right to have control of the ceremony for most of the 20th Century anyway? Every ‘Midsummer News Report’ would show yer actual troop of local Druids doing the business at Stonehenge. Once in the ‘80’s, Corry’s most overrated and over wooden actor – William ‘Woody’ Roche was there, dressed in his floppy white, flopsum and whitesum gear, inspecting entrails, waving his sticky stick in great comical cosmic circles, casting spells and swinging crystally things about.
That’ll do it then, the Sun will come up again for the next year – it will bathe the planet in life giving warmth – it will sustain billions of life-forms for the next 12 months …. All because Ken Barlow and his magic crystal from Coronation Street in Weatherfield says so.
I’ve been to Stonehenge a couple of times – and have been truly humbled. There's a rope around it now, courtesy of English Heritage. The last time I was there, a young American dude took exception to the fact that this barrier was impeding his progress and stepped over it. He made his short-baggy trousered, tasteless Hawaiian shirted way towards the great stones. All of a sudden, out of the very depths of the monument a little wiry man jumped out waving his hands about a lot. The goblin of the monument was making a statement to this New World traveller…. "Go on, bugger off out of it, yer bloody bugger" And he did.
Then it’s over. Post June the 22nd means that the nights start drawing in – it’s down hill all the way until those damp, dreary days of darkest December, when the Winter Solstice is reached.
June 22nd also means that my eldest Son starts to pack for Glasto’ – and the inevitable annual assault on my wallet that goes with it…. Ho hum.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Ronnie meets Jonny as he rides outta town……
Well, they’ve buried Bonzo’s partner, Ronnie Reagan. It’s a great loss for the almost human, almost understandable cute sidekick to the more intelligent chimp’ genre of movie – there’s only Clint ‘n’ Clyde left now to carry on the flame of baboonery…
It’s a bit of a shock, cut down in his prime at the age of 93 – just goes to prove that living fast and loose will surely get you, in the end. Aside from the acting, Ronnie also did a part time job during his retirement – well that’s understandable, my Dad also took a job signing in members to his local working men’s club when he too jacked the 9-5 in. Everyone needs pin money – even former B movie film actors.
Of course, now he’s gone to the great roundup in the sky, he’s acquired all the kudos normally reserved for the truly great and good. This means that just about everyone in America who can proffer an opinion now reckons that Ronzo was most probably the most cerebral thinker since Norm’ - the fat guy who sat at the end of the bar in ‘Cheers’ last waxed lyrical….
The romantic clack within the States will no doubt be pushing for the deification of St Ronnie of Bonzania – just like when John Wayne was preparing for his last hurrah.
As ‘The Duke’ was sliding off his saddle (.."they got me, Bronco *gasp* tell Mary I love her… tell Mary I love her"….. "Duke, Duke, tell Mary you love her, what?"), all his ‘A’ list movie mates lobbied Congress for a Congressional Gold Medal to be struck before he bit the dust. It didn’t seem to matter that this is mainly given to war heroes, inventors, authors and the like. John Wayne qualified because he had defended The Alamo, killed Japs in Iwo Jima and despatched a whole nation of Redskins – too stupid to get outta the way of his trusty Winchester repeater…. He played war hero – therefore he was war hero.
All of a sudden, miracles are being attributed to his great Reaganess. For instance why was his hair always black – even though he was as old as young Mr Grace?…. how could Ron throw his voice to his wife – so it looked as though it was Nancy who was doing the talking?….. how did Ronnie give the illusion of insanity so convincingly?
I guess we’ll never know. (The hell we will)….
Well, they’ve buried Bonzo’s partner, Ronnie Reagan. It’s a great loss for the almost human, almost understandable cute sidekick to the more intelligent chimp’ genre of movie – there’s only Clint ‘n’ Clyde left now to carry on the flame of baboonery…
It’s a bit of a shock, cut down in his prime at the age of 93 – just goes to prove that living fast and loose will surely get you, in the end. Aside from the acting, Ronnie also did a part time job during his retirement – well that’s understandable, my Dad also took a job signing in members to his local working men’s club when he too jacked the 9-5 in. Everyone needs pin money – even former B movie film actors.
Of course, now he’s gone to the great roundup in the sky, he’s acquired all the kudos normally reserved for the truly great and good. This means that just about everyone in America who can proffer an opinion now reckons that Ronzo was most probably the most cerebral thinker since Norm’ - the fat guy who sat at the end of the bar in ‘Cheers’ last waxed lyrical….
The romantic clack within the States will no doubt be pushing for the deification of St Ronnie of Bonzania – just like when John Wayne was preparing for his last hurrah.
As ‘The Duke’ was sliding off his saddle (.."they got me, Bronco *gasp* tell Mary I love her… tell Mary I love her"….. "Duke, Duke, tell Mary you love her, what?"), all his ‘A’ list movie mates lobbied Congress for a Congressional Gold Medal to be struck before he bit the dust. It didn’t seem to matter that this is mainly given to war heroes, inventors, authors and the like. John Wayne qualified because he had defended The Alamo, killed Japs in Iwo Jima and despatched a whole nation of Redskins – too stupid to get outta the way of his trusty Winchester repeater…. He played war hero – therefore he was war hero.
All of a sudden, miracles are being attributed to his great Reaganess. For instance why was his hair always black – even though he was as old as young Mr Grace?…. how could Ron throw his voice to his wife – so it looked as though it was Nancy who was doing the talking?….. how did Ronnie give the illusion of insanity so convincingly?
I guess we’ll never know. (The hell we will)….
Friday, June 11, 2004
For and against….
During my time away last week, my veg’ has suffered a bit and the stuff in the greenhouse is looking a bit stringy – time to give it some TLC – and retrieve some of that verdant hueage. There’s only one thing that will revive the toms, courgettes, rocket, spinach and fennel – pelletised chicken manure. Nothing finer than stuff out of hens bums for giving your sad plants a kick up the jacksy – it’s nature’s very own ‘red bull’… chuck it around the base of the plant, stand back and wait for the fireworks – simple. Whilst chicken manure is fab for plants – it’s rubbish for your sex life. For some reason, Mrs A has a bit of a problem with me having my hands wrist-deep in chicken shit - then later wanting to getting all frisky……
So there you have it, should I carry on with my plant fertilisation programme thus guaranteeing a bumper show and crop – and if I do, it will surely kaibosh any chance of humpy rumpy pumpy with the Missus – at least until the end of the growing season. Or should I chuck the toms on the compost and buy from Tescos, with my nice clean hands, thus reinstating my non tantric, super-frantic, groping sex life? ……
Fruit and veg’ or meat and two veg’?
During my time away last week, my veg’ has suffered a bit and the stuff in the greenhouse is looking a bit stringy – time to give it some TLC – and retrieve some of that verdant hueage. There’s only one thing that will revive the toms, courgettes, rocket, spinach and fennel – pelletised chicken manure. Nothing finer than stuff out of hens bums for giving your sad plants a kick up the jacksy – it’s nature’s very own ‘red bull’… chuck it around the base of the plant, stand back and wait for the fireworks – simple. Whilst chicken manure is fab for plants – it’s rubbish for your sex life. For some reason, Mrs A has a bit of a problem with me having my hands wrist-deep in chicken shit - then later wanting to getting all frisky……
So there you have it, should I carry on with my plant fertilisation programme thus guaranteeing a bumper show and crop – and if I do, it will surely kaibosh any chance of humpy rumpy pumpy with the Missus – at least until the end of the growing season. Or should I chuck the toms on the compost and buy from Tescos, with my nice clean hands, thus reinstating my non tantric, super-frantic, groping sex life? ……
Fruit and veg’ or meat and two veg’?
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Faster than a speeding bullet….
After my travails and travels last week I have been getting back to the garden…. Well, mostly sitting on my IKEA orange plastic seat (Hey, style guru or what?) on the grass, cat on my lap, beer in my hand, Zepp’ on the CD and gazing up at the sky, trying to make objects out of the fluffy white clouds…..
It’s amazing what a bit of imagination and a couple of cans of super strength lager can achieve. All of a sudden, I’m seeing fluffy cars, bouncy castles, a portrait of Terry Wogan with his toupee sliding off, a five mile wide teddy bear spun from finest white gossamer and ……. A bird. This bird isn’t white though, and it isn’t meandering across the sky with all the urgency of a Network Rail service. This thing is doing a passable impression of Clark Kent’s alter ego in a bit of a hurry - because he only has 30 seconds to save the Earth.
The bird, black silhouette against the sky, has pressed the turbo supercharger and is hurtling towards the ground at an angle of about 40 degrees. Wings tucked well in to improve streamlining, he’s as straight as an arrow and it’s clear this feathered dude is on a mission.
As I watch, it dawns on me what I’m looking at.
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon!
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon doing its most famous aerial manoeuvre – The Stoop. This is where the falcon cruises at a high altitude looking for its favourite dish of the day – and it’s always pigeon that’s on the menu. Once spotted, using its fantastic eyesight with in-built telephoto lens set-up, it folds its wings – and drops.
The pigeon is usually history. The peregrine slams into it at full speed. The terrific impact means instant death for the rat of the skies. Sometimes its head is torn off with the body shock – and I’m watching it all happen.
This miracle of evolution has just screamed past me at a speed of up to 200 mph. The fastest bird in the sky - bar none…. Unbelievable.
Unfortunately, not living in the country means that the feathered bullet is soon hidden from view by number 28’s roof. So I don’t see the end of the drama.
One thing’s for sure though, Dick Dastardly, Muttley and all the rest of the Vulture Squadron could have learned a lot from what I’ve just watched….
Stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon now,
Nab him, grab him, stab him ………..
Or you could just get a Peregrine Falcon to take his head off, Dickey baby.
The Transit of Venus…..
Well, how was it for you?
For me it was mostly anti-climactic, in an ‘is that it’ kind of way. The ‘marvelling’ part of my brain did marvel though at how very small Venus was against the hugely vast, vastly huge vastness of The Sun.
"Hmmm, isn’t Venus very small against the massive flabby bulk of The Sun, how marvellous"……
Just as well really. The Sun burns 4 tonnes of fuel a second – a second! That’s 345,600 tonnes a day! Every day (including night!).
What a waste of fuel – especially in the Summer when it’s warm, what is needed is someone to turn down the solar thermostat at this time of the year – thereby saving fuel for when it’s really needed - in the depths of Winter…..
I’ll get me coat.
After my travails and travels last week I have been getting back to the garden…. Well, mostly sitting on my IKEA orange plastic seat (Hey, style guru or what?) on the grass, cat on my lap, beer in my hand, Zepp’ on the CD and gazing up at the sky, trying to make objects out of the fluffy white clouds…..
It’s amazing what a bit of imagination and a couple of cans of super strength lager can achieve. All of a sudden, I’m seeing fluffy cars, bouncy castles, a portrait of Terry Wogan with his toupee sliding off, a five mile wide teddy bear spun from finest white gossamer and ……. A bird. This bird isn’t white though, and it isn’t meandering across the sky with all the urgency of a Network Rail service. This thing is doing a passable impression of Clark Kent’s alter ego in a bit of a hurry - because he only has 30 seconds to save the Earth.
The bird, black silhouette against the sky, has pressed the turbo supercharger and is hurtling towards the ground at an angle of about 40 degrees. Wings tucked well in to improve streamlining, he’s as straight as an arrow and it’s clear this feathered dude is on a mission.
As I watch, it dawns on me what I’m looking at.
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon!
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon doing its most famous aerial manoeuvre – The Stoop. This is where the falcon cruises at a high altitude looking for its favourite dish of the day – and it’s always pigeon that’s on the menu. Once spotted, using its fantastic eyesight with in-built telephoto lens set-up, it folds its wings – and drops.
The pigeon is usually history. The peregrine slams into it at full speed. The terrific impact means instant death for the rat of the skies. Sometimes its head is torn off with the body shock – and I’m watching it all happen.
This miracle of evolution has just screamed past me at a speed of up to 200 mph. The fastest bird in the sky - bar none…. Unbelievable.
Unfortunately, not living in the country means that the feathered bullet is soon hidden from view by number 28’s roof. So I don’t see the end of the drama.
One thing’s for sure though, Dick Dastardly, Muttley and all the rest of the Vulture Squadron could have learned a lot from what I’ve just watched….
Stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon now,
Nab him, grab him, stab him ………..
Or you could just get a Peregrine Falcon to take his head off, Dickey baby.
The Transit of Venus…..
Well, how was it for you?
For me it was mostly anti-climactic, in an ‘is that it’ kind of way. The ‘marvelling’ part of my brain did marvel though at how very small Venus was against the hugely vast, vastly huge vastness of The Sun.
"Hmmm, isn’t Venus very small against the massive flabby bulk of The Sun, how marvellous"……
Just as well really. The Sun burns 4 tonnes of fuel a second – a second! That’s 345,600 tonnes a day! Every day (including night!).
What a waste of fuel – especially in the Summer when it’s warm, what is needed is someone to turn down the solar thermostat at this time of the year – thereby saving fuel for when it’s really needed - in the depths of Winter…..
I’ll get me coat.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Thank God for experts like Mr ‘Ronnie Road-Safety’, otherwise I’d probably leave the house and walk straight under a bus……
A road safety expert from the AA was on the radio yesterday. He was warning those people that are sporting the latest craze in flag waving to beware. Apparently, it’s potentially very, very, very very dangerous to have one of those little St George’s flags fluttering from your rear window.
I listened. Would he say it? Would he say it? Would he say "Those flags are very, very, very dangerous – and if you’re not careful they’ll have someone’s eye out"
He didn’t say it – bugger! He did say however that you could kill someone with one – which isn’t nearly so much fun as having your eye flagged.
Yes, apparently Ronnie Road-Safety is worried that an ill-fitting flag can droop down just at the time when you are looking out of a rear side window – maybe when joining a motorway thus obscuring your view. So the 80mph barrelling 40 tonne juggernaut – like something out of the movie ‘Duel’ that you are about to get in the way of is probably driven by Jocky McTavish. He’ll be an English hating Scotsman and will no doubt take a dim view to you getting in his way. The resultant distressing and violent collision will inevitably follow. Who knows, the flag may get damaged as well….
Mr Road-Safety also had concerns that the flag could fall off at high speed and hit someone. Bloody hell yes, I bet that’s lethal – a bit of tat weighing several ounces flying through the air at 70 mph. I’m surprised that the road sides aren’t littered with flag-poleaxed pedestrians…..
Ronnie reckoned that the best and safest thing to do was to take the flag off the window and leave it at home. "Take it off the window and place it on the table in your house, or even in the bin, very, very carefully – then move away very, very slowly"
With such dangerous accoutrements removed from your motor, you’ll be safe to then get in your 0-60 in 6 seconds gti get out of the way, I’m coming through souped up roadster weighing up to a couple of tonnes and hurtle down the motorway at 80…….
Well thanks for that Ron, but are you sure you’re not Scottish, Welsh, Irish – or even French?
A road safety expert from the AA was on the radio yesterday. He was warning those people that are sporting the latest craze in flag waving to beware. Apparently, it’s potentially very, very, very very dangerous to have one of those little St George’s flags fluttering from your rear window.
I listened. Would he say it? Would he say it? Would he say "Those flags are very, very, very dangerous – and if you’re not careful they’ll have someone’s eye out"
He didn’t say it – bugger! He did say however that you could kill someone with one – which isn’t nearly so much fun as having your eye flagged.
Yes, apparently Ronnie Road-Safety is worried that an ill-fitting flag can droop down just at the time when you are looking out of a rear side window – maybe when joining a motorway thus obscuring your view. So the 80mph barrelling 40 tonne juggernaut – like something out of the movie ‘Duel’ that you are about to get in the way of is probably driven by Jocky McTavish. He’ll be an English hating Scotsman and will no doubt take a dim view to you getting in his way. The resultant distressing and violent collision will inevitably follow. Who knows, the flag may get damaged as well….
Mr Road-Safety also had concerns that the flag could fall off at high speed and hit someone. Bloody hell yes, I bet that’s lethal – a bit of tat weighing several ounces flying through the air at 70 mph. I’m surprised that the road sides aren’t littered with flag-poleaxed pedestrians…..
Ronnie reckoned that the best and safest thing to do was to take the flag off the window and leave it at home. "Take it off the window and place it on the table in your house, or even in the bin, very, very carefully – then move away very, very slowly"
With such dangerous accoutrements removed from your motor, you’ll be safe to then get in your 0-60 in 6 seconds gti get out of the way, I’m coming through souped up roadster weighing up to a couple of tonnes and hurtle down the motorway at 80…….
Well thanks for that Ron, but are you sure you’re not Scottish, Welsh, Irish – or even French?
Monday, June 07, 2004
A promise……
If Gordon Ramsey ever comes up and bawls his head off, blaspheming and chundering at me just 2 inches from my face, I’ll bloody well lay him out, one punch, an upper cut right on the button – Promise. Then I’ll ram a fish knife in his eye.
There you go Gord’ stick that on your menu yer bullying twat - Michelin Stars are no defence against a nutter with cutlery……..
Postal voting…..
Well hoo-bleeding-ray. John Prescott, some snivelling, servile yes men, some rip-off dodgy printers, Postman Pat and his utterly shite postal non service - and a huge dollop of lady luck have conspired to finally, finally deliver my postal voting slip on Friday. And what a choice. And what a lot of instructions. And what a lot of liberties taken with the British electorate.
I’m not kidding, if my postal vote hadn’t arrived by Saturday morning, I was fully intending to chuck myself under the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby horse race in protest……
But fortunately, the form did arrive and this day has been taken up with reading the instructions on how to deliver said vote successfully. Simplicity itself - not.
‘Alfie the swingometer’ has thought of another and possibly even more simple way of registering my displeasure (is that possible?).. Simply go along to a ‘polling station’ – maybe this could be situated in a local school, possibly? Go into a little booth made of hardboard and curtain with your little slip giving a list of the usual suspects – and plonk a cross against the geezer’s name you least hate. Once done, simply fold it up and slip it into a little black voting box. Now how simple and easy is that? - But I don’t suppose it will ever catch on, it doesn’t involve a load of nosey control freak busy bodies and the organisational skills of a pie eating cretin called John Prescott does it?……
The Big Brother law of diminishing returns…..
I predict that by the year 2010 and the ever increasing need to chase audience figures and invent ever more bizarre ways of titillating the fickle British public, BB will have its first ritual murder. The public will vote on who will be killed next – until everyone, even Davina is totally, totally dead.
Then it will fold - for good. Roll on 2010……
If Gordon Ramsey ever comes up and bawls his head off, blaspheming and chundering at me just 2 inches from my face, I’ll bloody well lay him out, one punch, an upper cut right on the button – Promise. Then I’ll ram a fish knife in his eye.
There you go Gord’ stick that on your menu yer bullying twat - Michelin Stars are no defence against a nutter with cutlery……..
Postal voting…..
Well hoo-bleeding-ray. John Prescott, some snivelling, servile yes men, some rip-off dodgy printers, Postman Pat and his utterly shite postal non service - and a huge dollop of lady luck have conspired to finally, finally deliver my postal voting slip on Friday. And what a choice. And what a lot of instructions. And what a lot of liberties taken with the British electorate.
I’m not kidding, if my postal vote hadn’t arrived by Saturday morning, I was fully intending to chuck myself under the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby horse race in protest……
But fortunately, the form did arrive and this day has been taken up with reading the instructions on how to deliver said vote successfully. Simplicity itself - not.
‘Alfie the swingometer’ has thought of another and possibly even more simple way of registering my displeasure (is that possible?).. Simply go along to a ‘polling station’ – maybe this could be situated in a local school, possibly? Go into a little booth made of hardboard and curtain with your little slip giving a list of the usual suspects – and plonk a cross against the geezer’s name you least hate. Once done, simply fold it up and slip it into a little black voting box. Now how simple and easy is that? - But I don’t suppose it will ever catch on, it doesn’t involve a load of nosey control freak busy bodies and the organisational skills of a pie eating cretin called John Prescott does it?……
The Big Brother law of diminishing returns…..
I predict that by the year 2010 and the ever increasing need to chase audience figures and invent ever more bizarre ways of titillating the fickle British public, BB will have its first ritual murder. The public will vote on who will be killed next – until everyone, even Davina is totally, totally dead.
Then it will fold - for good. Roll on 2010……
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Field Notes…
Alfie the OK has this week mostly been ‘Alfie the travelling the country, art directing pictures of aircraft bits and pieces in various stages of manufacture’.
Today, he is in Llantrisant, South Wales, photographing even more bits of aircraft. He has asked me to pass on his apologies for the somewhat thin to non existent content of his web site this week. As luck would have it, the factory Alfie is at today is situated right next to the Royal Mint – manufacturer of the nation’s coinage.
If you are in that part of the country, be sure to give him a wave – he will most probably be round the back of that secure building going through the skips looking for any rejects and seconds.
He assures me he will be back tomorrow to resume his posts – unless of course he manages to find several hundred thousand rejects, in which case he will be posting from Rio….
Thank you,
Edward the Compressor.
Alfie the OK has this week mostly been ‘Alfie the travelling the country, art directing pictures of aircraft bits and pieces in various stages of manufacture’.
Today, he is in Llantrisant, South Wales, photographing even more bits of aircraft. He has asked me to pass on his apologies for the somewhat thin to non existent content of his web site this week. As luck would have it, the factory Alfie is at today is situated right next to the Royal Mint – manufacturer of the nation’s coinage.
If you are in that part of the country, be sure to give him a wave – he will most probably be round the back of that secure building going through the skips looking for any rejects and seconds.
He assures me he will be back tomorrow to resume his posts – unless of course he manages to find several hundred thousand rejects, in which case he will be posting from Rio….
Thank you,
Edward the Compressor.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Spruce Goose revisited…………
Very exciting times at work at the moment……. Over the last few weeks I’ve been travelling the length and breadth of the Country art directing some photography for the new, yet to fly and size of a Continent Airbus airliner – the A380.
This thing is bloody massive, in a Sprucey-Goosey, Howard Hughesey sort of way. The biggest civil aircraft ever planned - it makes a ‘jumbo’ looks like a weedy adolescent in comparison – it’ll take over 550 passengers, easy and resides in several time zones at any one time (nearly).
When we first arrived at one of the designated factories and saw wing struts being milled out of solid slabs of Aluminium on a milling machine 80 metres long, I was gobsmacked – swarf and shiny metal everywhere. In these days of namby pamby light industry, it was somewhat refreshing to see blood, snot sweat and a bit of the old Victorian ‘can do’ ethos coming through.
It’s also good to see Airbus industries spanking Boeing for market share – Airbus currently have 80% of the global civil aircraft market – outselling the Yanks – whatever next? We sidled over to the carts that held the wing spars, again size matters – they are monsters …… "How the hell are they going to fit on a plane fuselage without flopping down?" – I was just like a 10 year old kid, asking my dad who invented gravity. (He used to tell me that apparently Otto Gravity from Germany invented it)…..
My contact looked a bit surprised and reassured me, telling me not to worry and that it would all work swimmingly - he almost patted me on the head!
I left this hive of industry reassured that when all the bits being made from factories all over Europe are finally put together in Toulouse – the thing will actually fly.
I can’t wait to see it – from a distance obviously, much too scary to actually fly on it.
Have a good weekend.
Very exciting times at work at the moment……. Over the last few weeks I’ve been travelling the length and breadth of the Country art directing some photography for the new, yet to fly and size of a Continent Airbus airliner – the A380.
This thing is bloody massive, in a Sprucey-Goosey, Howard Hughesey sort of way. The biggest civil aircraft ever planned - it makes a ‘jumbo’ looks like a weedy adolescent in comparison – it’ll take over 550 passengers, easy and resides in several time zones at any one time (nearly).
When we first arrived at one of the designated factories and saw wing struts being milled out of solid slabs of Aluminium on a milling machine 80 metres long, I was gobsmacked – swarf and shiny metal everywhere. In these days of namby pamby light industry, it was somewhat refreshing to see blood, snot sweat and a bit of the old Victorian ‘can do’ ethos coming through.
It’s also good to see Airbus industries spanking Boeing for market share – Airbus currently have 80% of the global civil aircraft market – outselling the Yanks – whatever next? We sidled over to the carts that held the wing spars, again size matters – they are monsters …… "How the hell are they going to fit on a plane fuselage without flopping down?" – I was just like a 10 year old kid, asking my dad who invented gravity. (He used to tell me that apparently Otto Gravity from Germany invented it)…..
My contact looked a bit surprised and reassured me, telling me not to worry and that it would all work swimmingly - he almost patted me on the head!
I left this hive of industry reassured that when all the bits being made from factories all over Europe are finally put together in Toulouse – the thing will actually fly.
I can’t wait to see it – from a distance obviously, much too scary to actually fly on it.
Have a good weekend.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
A northern cheeky chappie legend…..
Wow, if George Formby was still alive, then today would be the first day of his hundred and first year. Well he’s not alive, he’s dead – at least, I hope he’s dead coz they buried him some 40 odd years ago…..
But what a comedy genius, bundle of talent-type geezer old Georgie boy was. There, with his lickle Ukulele in his hand – well, they can’t touch you for it nowadays can they?
Funnee? I’ll bloody say so, George, originator of such memorable catch phrases as "Can you hear me mother, "Turned out nice again" and probably lots and lots more great phrases that I can’t quite remember at the moment…… Every time he walked on stage and uttered those immortal words "Turned out nice again" the adoring audience would wet their knickers with laughter – ‘scuse me, got to go to the toilet…..
Talented? Bloody too right. George could play a host of instruments – as long as the instrument he was playing was called the ‘Ukulele’. Such immortal songs as ‘Leaning on a lamppost’, 'When I'm cleaning windies' and ‘I’m a Lancashire lad - and I’m a reet good shag’…… Maybe not.
Could he make it in today’s vacuous celeb–obsessed world? Could he do a ‘Dale Winton’ on the Lottery show? "Eeeeee baa gum, we’re ‘aving a lot o’ fun today…. Ay up, can we ‘ave t’dropped balls please cock?"…….
He’d have to change his delivery, get all ‘estuary’ maybe – or possibly a bit of mid-Atlantic? ‘Can you hear me Mother’ would have to change to - "Yo Muthaf****r, get those cans offa yo’ head and listen up, bitch"…
The ‘Uke’ would have to go – traded in for an ‘axe’…. A Strat’ would do. A shiny suit maybe, a hair and dental makeover – and not forgetting a new street-cred name… and there you have it.
Georgie Boy Formby – the baddest ass outta the Wigan ghetto-massive……..
Wow, if George Formby was still alive, then today would be the first day of his hundred and first year. Well he’s not alive, he’s dead – at least, I hope he’s dead coz they buried him some 40 odd years ago…..
But what a comedy genius, bundle of talent-type geezer old Georgie boy was. There, with his lickle Ukulele in his hand – well, they can’t touch you for it nowadays can they?
Funnee? I’ll bloody say so, George, originator of such memorable catch phrases as "Can you hear me mother, "Turned out nice again" and probably lots and lots more great phrases that I can’t quite remember at the moment…… Every time he walked on stage and uttered those immortal words "Turned out nice again" the adoring audience would wet their knickers with laughter – ‘scuse me, got to go to the toilet…..
Talented? Bloody too right. George could play a host of instruments – as long as the instrument he was playing was called the ‘Ukulele’. Such immortal songs as ‘Leaning on a lamppost’, 'When I'm cleaning windies' and ‘I’m a Lancashire lad - and I’m a reet good shag’…… Maybe not.
Could he make it in today’s vacuous celeb–obsessed world? Could he do a ‘Dale Winton’ on the Lottery show? "Eeeeee baa gum, we’re ‘aving a lot o’ fun today…. Ay up, can we ‘ave t’dropped balls please cock?"…….
He’d have to change his delivery, get all ‘estuary’ maybe – or possibly a bit of mid-Atlantic? ‘Can you hear me Mother’ would have to change to - "Yo Muthaf****r, get those cans offa yo’ head and listen up, bitch"…
The ‘Uke’ would have to go – traded in for an ‘axe’…. A Strat’ would do. A shiny suit maybe, a hair and dental makeover – and not forgetting a new street-cred name… and there you have it.
Georgie Boy Formby – the baddest ass outta the Wigan ghetto-massive……..
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Combustion and Tears…….
Last night’s tragic fire at the Tate Modern warehouse has apparently destroyed some of Brit Art's finest pieces. Tate Modern or Tate Crisp as it’s now to be called, is reeling from this disastrous news. Charles Saatchi, legendary benefactor of the modern art movement and avid collector of all things ordinary was inconsolable this morning as he learned that most of his extensive collection went up in this pyre of pretentious pap.
There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that Tracy Emmin has tried to sell the ashes of the building to Chaz – under the title ‘Remade Carbon’…. The word on the streets is however that Charles has bid up the original asking price of £2.5 million to £8 million and declared this "A very significant work, symbolising the elemental struggle of humanity and its elementary and eternal struggle to tame the elements – in this case ‘Fire" …. Ele-mental, obviously.
Unfortunately, in Charles’ hour of triumph – and whilst approving the building of a new Gallery to house his latest piece, ‘Remade Carbon’ became ‘Burnt Bits Chucked in a Skip by Unfeeling and misguided Fire Fighters’…..
Damien Hurst has rushed to the stricken Saatchi’s side and stated that he will redo all of his lost works and donate them to the gullible …… visionary collector. Damien said "Well it’s the least I could do, he’s lost at least 20 of my works – and anyhow, I’ve got a couple of hours free this afternoon".
Last night’s tragic fire at the Tate Modern warehouse has apparently destroyed some of Brit Art's finest pieces. Tate Modern or Tate Crisp as it’s now to be called, is reeling from this disastrous news. Charles Saatchi, legendary benefactor of the modern art movement and avid collector of all things ordinary was inconsolable this morning as he learned that most of his extensive collection went up in this pyre of pretentious pap.
There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that Tracy Emmin has tried to sell the ashes of the building to Chaz – under the title ‘Remade Carbon’…. The word on the streets is however that Charles has bid up the original asking price of £2.5 million to £8 million and declared this "A very significant work, symbolising the elemental struggle of humanity and its elementary and eternal struggle to tame the elements – in this case ‘Fire" …. Ele-mental, obviously.
Unfortunately, in Charles’ hour of triumph – and whilst approving the building of a new Gallery to house his latest piece, ‘Remade Carbon’ became ‘Burnt Bits Chucked in a Skip by Unfeeling and misguided Fire Fighters’…..
Damien Hurst has rushed to the stricken Saatchi’s side and stated that he will redo all of his lost works and donate them to the gullible …… visionary collector. Damien said "Well it’s the least I could do, he’s lost at least 20 of my works – and anyhow, I’ve got a couple of hours free this afternoon".
Monday, May 24, 2004
I’m just having a bit of a Victor Meldrew moment…....
Is it OK for people to sleep on the job? Apparently so if you are a fire fighter. The current dispute between employer and employee is all about the correct form of words with which to describe sleeping and resting time during the night shift. I have a form of words they could use - 'Wake up - and do some work'.
And if it's OK for our noble fire fighters to join our illustrious pack of MPs to zed out on the job, then everyone else should qualify as well - but of course, that's impossible isn't it? Sleeping on the job means the sack – right?
There is a right load of nonsense talked about the fire fighters. They seem to have this romantic aura about them - heroes doing the most dangerous job in the Country (which it has to be said they actively perpetuate). The most dangerous job outside of the armed services (and one of the most poorly paid) is the farm worker. Next comes such scary jobs as Scaffolder, Fisherman, Builder, Sewer worker etc, etc. For pure 'dangerousness', the fire fighters come a rather safe 24th - possibly just in front of estate agents?
I know 3 people that hold down 2 jobs at the same time - guess what, they are all fire fighters. Two of them freely admit that the fire service gives them a great base to pursue their other careers (the other one just smirks a lot - he's a fire fighter at night, then does an 8 hour day in his own antiques business). And the ONLY way they can have those other jobs is because they sleep when doing their fire fighting night shift.
One final point, I have actually been in a fire station, very nice (for a social club) ... Snooker table (full size), excellent canteen/bar, bandits, full spec' easy chairs - and a load of beds! I've done night shifts - and worked ALL night. Our heroes are paid to work - not to sleep - they should wake up and smell the coffee.
I don’t have anything personal against them – it just bugs me that they go on and on about the rough deal dealt to them and the fact that they say the service is in terminal decline. Apparently not, if the current waiting list to be a fire fighter is anything to go by.
Is it OK for people to sleep on the job? Apparently so if you are a fire fighter. The current dispute between employer and employee is all about the correct form of words with which to describe sleeping and resting time during the night shift. I have a form of words they could use - 'Wake up - and do some work'.
And if it's OK for our noble fire fighters to join our illustrious pack of MPs to zed out on the job, then everyone else should qualify as well - but of course, that's impossible isn't it? Sleeping on the job means the sack – right?
There is a right load of nonsense talked about the fire fighters. They seem to have this romantic aura about them - heroes doing the most dangerous job in the Country (which it has to be said they actively perpetuate). The most dangerous job outside of the armed services (and one of the most poorly paid) is the farm worker. Next comes such scary jobs as Scaffolder, Fisherman, Builder, Sewer worker etc, etc. For pure 'dangerousness', the fire fighters come a rather safe 24th - possibly just in front of estate agents?
I know 3 people that hold down 2 jobs at the same time - guess what, they are all fire fighters. Two of them freely admit that the fire service gives them a great base to pursue their other careers (the other one just smirks a lot - he's a fire fighter at night, then does an 8 hour day in his own antiques business). And the ONLY way they can have those other jobs is because they sleep when doing their fire fighting night shift.
One final point, I have actually been in a fire station, very nice (for a social club) ... Snooker table (full size), excellent canteen/bar, bandits, full spec' easy chairs - and a load of beds! I've done night shifts - and worked ALL night. Our heroes are paid to work - not to sleep - they should wake up and smell the coffee.
I don’t have anything personal against them – it just bugs me that they go on and on about the rough deal dealt to them and the fact that they say the service is in terminal decline. Apparently not, if the current waiting list to be a fire fighter is anything to go by.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Nil points….
Terry Wogan says that the Eurovision song contest is full of cheats, ne’er-do-wells and ‘creeping to their neighbour’ obsessives. Well that is a surprise not!
I must admit to watching it on Saturday – up to start of the voting marathon – well you’ve got to haven’t you? I mean, it’s great comedy, some of the acts look like they’re on Class A drugs – the sort of stimulant that takes away all sense of rhythm, timing and co-ordination. The gyrating men with their mullet haircuts, flared sparkly cat suits and stuck on chest hair seem to be styled courtesy of RETRO ‘70’s.com Then there’s the totty. The crapper the song, the skimpier the outfit – and there were lots of skimpy outfits on show….
Entertainment over, the voting begins – "Come in Berlin, can I have the totally political and biased voting please?"….
Eventually, I gave in and decided to watch Russel Crowe playing Lucius Maximus Jolly Jack Tarrius in the Napoleonic sailing epic, Master and Commander. instead.
I don’t like watching the voting bit for ‘EuroViz’ – too political.
I haven’t watched that part for years …. It sort of dawned on me that the Greeks never seemed to vote for the Turks, the Scandinavians always gave each other heaps of votes and the French adopted an ‘Anyone but the British’ attitude…… It’s not a song contest – more a series of diplomatic political alliances.
However….. I understand Blighty came somewhere just behind Nowheresvania in Saturdays contest, with some bird from the Ukraine dressed in a skimpy ensemble of leather, fur and sticky tape – and a bag full of talent (obviously), winning the top prize. It just aint good enough – we should be creaming the opposition shouldn’t we? Cliff, Sandy, Bucks Fizz, Lulu, Katrina, Gemini where are you when your Country needs you?
Well, maybe not Gemini – they should be playing for Norway-nil-points in the right out of tune position shouldn’t they?
It’s about time we started winning the damn thing again.
With this in mind, I thought Blog world could come to the rescue for next years comp’. We could write a song, a line here, a line there, with a boom-bangy, bangy inserted for good measure….
I’ll start the ball rolling, with the opening couple of lines….
I went tooooooo the park toooooo-day,
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,
I met my babe by the bowling green – I was late, she was mean,
Vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleeeeeen,
Mike Batt, make way for a surefire winner!
Terry Wogan says that the Eurovision song contest is full of cheats, ne’er-do-wells and ‘creeping to their neighbour’ obsessives. Well that is a surprise not!
I must admit to watching it on Saturday – up to start of the voting marathon – well you’ve got to haven’t you? I mean, it’s great comedy, some of the acts look like they’re on Class A drugs – the sort of stimulant that takes away all sense of rhythm, timing and co-ordination. The gyrating men with their mullet haircuts, flared sparkly cat suits and stuck on chest hair seem to be styled courtesy of RETRO ‘70’s.com Then there’s the totty. The crapper the song, the skimpier the outfit – and there were lots of skimpy outfits on show….
Entertainment over, the voting begins – "Come in Berlin, can I have the totally political and biased voting please?"….
Eventually, I gave in and decided to watch Russel Crowe playing Lucius Maximus Jolly Jack Tarrius in the Napoleonic sailing epic, Master and Commander. instead.
I don’t like watching the voting bit for ‘EuroViz’ – too political.
I haven’t watched that part for years …. It sort of dawned on me that the Greeks never seemed to vote for the Turks, the Scandinavians always gave each other heaps of votes and the French adopted an ‘Anyone but the British’ attitude…… It’s not a song contest – more a series of diplomatic political alliances.
However….. I understand Blighty came somewhere just behind Nowheresvania in Saturdays contest, with some bird from the Ukraine dressed in a skimpy ensemble of leather, fur and sticky tape – and a bag full of talent (obviously), winning the top prize. It just aint good enough – we should be creaming the opposition shouldn’t we? Cliff, Sandy, Bucks Fizz, Lulu, Katrina, Gemini where are you when your Country needs you?
Well, maybe not Gemini – they should be playing for Norway-nil-points in the right out of tune position shouldn’t they?
It’s about time we started winning the damn thing again.
With this in mind, I thought Blog world could come to the rescue for next years comp’. We could write a song, a line here, a line there, with a boom-bangy, bangy inserted for good measure….
I’ll start the ball rolling, with the opening couple of lines….
I went tooooooo the park toooooo-day,
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,
I met my babe by the bowling green – I was late, she was mean,
Vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleeeeeen,
Mike Batt, make way for a surefire winner!
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Application of the mind ….….
Last Sunday morning, Head gently throbbing, stomach on the spin cycle, I patiently wait my turn for my drug of choice at Safeway Chemist shop. The woman in front is collecting a prescription. She’s nervous and twitchy. The pharmacist gives her an emergency bag of stuff, to see her through to the Monday – when she can get a really big, bumper big pack.
Chemist queues are great places aren’t they? – I long for the day when the nervous, spotty youth hands over a packet of jonnies along with a bottle of Lucozade and a fiver – only for the very loud assistant to shout to the chemist …"Mr Jones, how much are these Durex Supa-Snug – Extra Sensitives?"
Anyway, back to the furtive drama unfolding in front of me.
Miss nervy twitcher looks into the bag and seems a bit confused.
"There’s no applicator" she whispered.
The pharmacist looked at her in surprise
"They’re suppositories – they don’t come with an applicator."
"I’m sure they used to have to have an applicator."
"No Madam, they’ve never had an applicator."
"Well, what do I use for an applicator then?"
It was a bit like that old joke about the fishmonger and the customer who will not be told that there is no haddock.... He takes his customer onto a spelling lesson, eventually arriving at the last question "Now, take the letter 'F' out of the word HADDOCK".
"But there is no 'F' in Haddock"
"Precisely Madam"...
Back to the Pharmacist - "You know......... you use your own 'applicator'
"I don't think I have one do I?"
"Yes you do - you have 10 of them"
With that, the pharmacist holds up her middle finger right in front of the customer’s face and drives it skyward.
Bit much, I thought… she was only asking. Mental note to me, don’t ask a fed up Pharmacist who would rather be somewhere else on a fine Sunday morning, bloody stupid questions ….
Last Sunday morning, Head gently throbbing, stomach on the spin cycle, I patiently wait my turn for my drug of choice at Safeway Chemist shop. The woman in front is collecting a prescription. She’s nervous and twitchy. The pharmacist gives her an emergency bag of stuff, to see her through to the Monday – when she can get a really big, bumper big pack.
Chemist queues are great places aren’t they? – I long for the day when the nervous, spotty youth hands over a packet of jonnies along with a bottle of Lucozade and a fiver – only for the very loud assistant to shout to the chemist …"Mr Jones, how much are these Durex Supa-Snug – Extra Sensitives?"
Anyway, back to the furtive drama unfolding in front of me.
Miss nervy twitcher looks into the bag and seems a bit confused.
"There’s no applicator" she whispered.
The pharmacist looked at her in surprise
"They’re suppositories – they don’t come with an applicator."
"I’m sure they used to have to have an applicator."
"No Madam, they’ve never had an applicator."
"Well, what do I use for an applicator then?"
It was a bit like that old joke about the fishmonger and the customer who will not be told that there is no haddock.... He takes his customer onto a spelling lesson, eventually arriving at the last question "Now, take the letter 'F' out of the word HADDOCK".
"But there is no 'F' in Haddock"
"Precisely Madam"...
Back to the Pharmacist - "You know......... you use your own 'applicator'
"I don't think I have one do I?"
"Yes you do - you have 10 of them"
With that, the pharmacist holds up her middle finger right in front of the customer’s face and drives it skyward.
Bit much, I thought… she was only asking. Mental note to me, don’t ask a fed up Pharmacist who would rather be somewhere else on a fine Sunday morning, bloody stupid questions ….
Sunday, May 16, 2004
What a great day Saturday was, hot and sunny, all was well with the world…. – but of course, that means the bad news is….. ‘Betty’s’ back……
Global warming, a result of industrial process, farting cows, racing starts at traffic lights and generally burning lots and lots of things has a lot to answer for alright. The Americans failure to ratify Kyoto hasn’t helped either. The planet’s mean temperature is going up, season on season, year on year – and things, nasty things are beginning to happen. Hotter, dryer summers, stiflingly clammy nights follow burning hot days……. Something’s got to give – and for us, usually cool, usually relaxed, well-adjusted guys it really does….. down in the trouser department.
I’m talking hot, I’m talking sweaty, I’m talking male dangly bits.
It’s a lethal combination for us guys - in short (long in my case, obviously), it’s the male curse known as ‘Betty Swallocks’….
Amble down any street in high summer and you’ll see men suffering in silence from Betty’s Bane. Things are getting so clammy in the nether regions lately that us guys are beginning to dread summer. It’s one hot season’s worth of discomfort – 12 whole weeks! Showers relieve the agony for an hour or two, boxers help – and kilts are great…. But the bettyness and swallockins soon starts up again. Gently sautéed sweet meats and infertility follows…..
I was thinking about a fab’ invention I had dreamt up to solve the problem. A small, but powerful fan mounted to the front of the underpants - thereby flooding the affected area with circulated air and cooling waves of fresh, fresh cooliness – Unfortunately, field trials have not gone well – I’d forgotten the ‘bonk-on enigma of the average male. Next time, I’ll have to leave at least a good 10 inch clearance. (I've taken mine as a guide and added an extra inch for good luck - honest!).
Oh, if only it was just a few days at the end of each month, getting past ‘the time of inconvienence' would be a piece of cake….
Do we moan, do we go on and on about our 3 monthly curse?
Of course we do…..
Global warming, a result of industrial process, farting cows, racing starts at traffic lights and generally burning lots and lots of things has a lot to answer for alright. The Americans failure to ratify Kyoto hasn’t helped either. The planet’s mean temperature is going up, season on season, year on year – and things, nasty things are beginning to happen. Hotter, dryer summers, stiflingly clammy nights follow burning hot days……. Something’s got to give – and for us, usually cool, usually relaxed, well-adjusted guys it really does….. down in the trouser department.
I’m talking hot, I’m talking sweaty, I’m talking male dangly bits.
It’s a lethal combination for us guys - in short (long in my case, obviously), it’s the male curse known as ‘Betty Swallocks’….
Amble down any street in high summer and you’ll see men suffering in silence from Betty’s Bane. Things are getting so clammy in the nether regions lately that us guys are beginning to dread summer. It’s one hot season’s worth of discomfort – 12 whole weeks! Showers relieve the agony for an hour or two, boxers help – and kilts are great…. But the bettyness and swallockins soon starts up again. Gently sautéed sweet meats and infertility follows…..
I was thinking about a fab’ invention I had dreamt up to solve the problem. A small, but powerful fan mounted to the front of the underpants - thereby flooding the affected area with circulated air and cooling waves of fresh, fresh cooliness – Unfortunately, field trials have not gone well – I’d forgotten the ‘bonk-on enigma of the average male. Next time, I’ll have to leave at least a good 10 inch clearance. (I've taken mine as a guide and added an extra inch for good luck - honest!).
Oh, if only it was just a few days at the end of each month, getting past ‘the time of inconvienence' would be a piece of cake….
Do we moan, do we go on and on about our 3 monthly curse?
Of course we do…..
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Anyone got any cranberry sauce?…..
Here’s one for the twitchers….. looking out of our work window today we mostly espied the regulation fauna populating this part of ‘small garden’ suburbia in Lancashire…
It’s the ‘same as usual’ stuff - a grey squirrel, maggie-pies, blue tits, a song thrush, spadgers, jackie-daws ……and a bloody monster Peacock.
The Liberace of the bird world with his multicoloured zoot suit and train has just flounced into our garden – we haven’t a clue where he’s come from, but here he is in all his azure splendour…. Bizarre or what?
Do you cook them the same as turkeys?
Not that I would ....... obviously.
It was just a thought.
Here’s one for the twitchers….. looking out of our work window today we mostly espied the regulation fauna populating this part of ‘small garden’ suburbia in Lancashire…
It’s the ‘same as usual’ stuff - a grey squirrel, maggie-pies, blue tits, a song thrush, spadgers, jackie-daws ……and a bloody monster Peacock.
The Liberace of the bird world with his multicoloured zoot suit and train has just flounced into our garden – we haven’t a clue where he’s come from, but here he is in all his azure splendour…. Bizarre or what?
Do you cook them the same as turkeys?
Not that I would ....... obviously.
It was just a thought.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Pensions, a cautionary tale……
Today, courtesy of good old Royal Mail, I got the last of my forecasts from my 3 incredibly vibrant and profitable pensions. I know they are superb investments because the suits that sold me them said so – and I believed them.
‘Three pensions’ I hear you ask in incredulous unison.
‘Three pensions’ what’s that all about then?
To paraphrase Oscar Wilde – To have one pension is prudent, to have two is smarmy-arsey, but to have three is downright greedy! Actually, two of the pensions have been parked – the results of a Company crash & burn and a personal liquidity problem. Still – with the amount of cash already put into them and the wise, wise investment ability of the pension fund managers, clover fields and my smug retirement smirk seemed assured.
Oh yes, when the big ‘R’ rides into view, I’ll be thinking of you from my private island in the Windies. I’ll be lighting the finest Cuban cigars with £10 notes, sipping a ‘96 Dom Perignon and balancing a dusky babe on each knee…… Well, that’s what the honest John salesman said anyway – and I believed them.
For a lifetime of private contributions my 3 pension funds will afford me the grand sum of …..
Pension A (parked) - £385
Pension B (parked) - £815
Pension C (actively contributing) - £1,145
Sounds pretty impressive eh? – That is until you see the two little letters that follow each figure …. P and A.
The princely sum of just over 2 grand per-kin-annum is what Alfie the skint bastard will be existing on when he gets crinkly. Christ! By then, a bag of crisps will cost 50 quid…..
Let Alfie the far seeing seer give all you young turks a bit of advice. The next time a pension ‘suit’ collars you and paints a future that is cold, lonely and cash strapped, unless you buy into his pension plans – just knee him in the balls and spend your money on partying.
If I had my time again, my 10 point life-plan would go as follows –
1) Leave Uni’
2) Get drunk.
3) Get job in marketing.
4) Run things up flag-poles.
5) Think outside box, push envelope.
6) Knee pensions salesman in balls – hard.
7) Win lottery.
8) Get drunk.
9) Practice my two fingered salute.
10) Retire.
Today, courtesy of good old Royal Mail, I got the last of my forecasts from my 3 incredibly vibrant and profitable pensions. I know they are superb investments because the suits that sold me them said so – and I believed them.
‘Three pensions’ I hear you ask in incredulous unison.
‘Three pensions’ what’s that all about then?
To paraphrase Oscar Wilde – To have one pension is prudent, to have two is smarmy-arsey, but to have three is downright greedy! Actually, two of the pensions have been parked – the results of a Company crash & burn and a personal liquidity problem. Still – with the amount of cash already put into them and the wise, wise investment ability of the pension fund managers, clover fields and my smug retirement smirk seemed assured.
Oh yes, when the big ‘R’ rides into view, I’ll be thinking of you from my private island in the Windies. I’ll be lighting the finest Cuban cigars with £10 notes, sipping a ‘96 Dom Perignon and balancing a dusky babe on each knee…… Well, that’s what the honest John salesman said anyway – and I believed them.
For a lifetime of private contributions my 3 pension funds will afford me the grand sum of …..
Pension A (parked) - £385
Pension B (parked) - £815
Pension C (actively contributing) - £1,145
Sounds pretty impressive eh? – That is until you see the two little letters that follow each figure …. P and A.
The princely sum of just over 2 grand per-kin-annum is what Alfie the skint bastard will be existing on when he gets crinkly. Christ! By then, a bag of crisps will cost 50 quid…..
Let Alfie the far seeing seer give all you young turks a bit of advice. The next time a pension ‘suit’ collars you and paints a future that is cold, lonely and cash strapped, unless you buy into his pension plans – just knee him in the balls and spend your money on partying.
If I had my time again, my 10 point life-plan would go as follows –
1) Leave Uni’
2) Get drunk.
3) Get job in marketing.
4) Run things up flag-poles.
5) Think outside box, push envelope.
6) Knee pensions salesman in balls – hard.
7) Win lottery.
8) Get drunk.
9) Practice my two fingered salute.
10) Retire.
