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’?
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……
