Don't Mess With Grandma

The generation of tough Grannies belongs to a generation that grew up after the second 

World War; I tell you, Grannies were made of iron and their rule was iron as well.

The universal marker seems to be that Grandmothers were small of stature but tough as old 

boots; most of them lived into their nineties, and if children wanted to survive, you did as 

you were told, oh yes.

Grandma was viewed with a mixture of fear and wonder: the rules of the house were laid 

down by her, and everyone knew it.

One such Grandma had the dinner ready by the appointed hour, no if’s or buts. If any of her 

daughters were kept in at school, retribution was swift. Off came the apron, and Gran 

marched down to the school.

“You, the dinner is on the table, home!” When the teacher protested the answer was “You

have my girls ‘till four. After that it’s my time, not yours.” So there; after Gran had broken 

the teacher’s cane, I guess that teacher knew she was beaten.

I’m sure that religion was a factor; God could see everything you did, so behave, or else you 

were in trouble. For that reason, children did all they could to make sure that parents (and

Grandma) never got to find out what their offspring were doing. God might, but that didn’t 

matter. Don’t get caught, words to live by you know.

That didn’t work for one young lad who made a rough version of a sleigh with wheels that 

he nicked off a pram. After he and a mate had terrorised the entire street racing down the

hill, no brakes of course, his Mum seized an axe and chopped the sleigh into bits of 

matchwood. She was four foot nothing, obviously a Gran-in-Training.

They don’t make them like that any more.

The lore of Grandma is an old one: think about the story of Red Riding Hood. For pity’s 

sake, the Grandmother is bloody terrifying: the core of this tale is that Grandmothers are

terrible things, they want to eat you, they have these teeth and you have to placate them

with gifts, mostly food.

Someone back in the mists of time was tortured or nearly eaten by a hungry Grandma. If you

 stop to count them up there are a lot of very angry Grannies in those “fairy stories.’

Worried? Damn right you should be.

No wonder kids look at Grandmother sideways.

Just as I was sure that tough Grannies are a thing of the past, I began to wonder – talking to

one of the post war children, now a grandmother herself.

She had a run-in with the grandson; before he went off in a huff she told him “I won’t 

forget, and I shall be waiting.” So she waited, and as he floated past her in a teenage dream, 

Granny jumped him. Oh yeah.

When asked why, Grandmother replied “Because I did remember, and I am not stupid.”

Result – Grandmother 150 points. Teenage grandson – Null, Zero, Nada.

That child has learned a valuable life lesson.

 'Don’t Mess With Grandma.'

  Yep.

                                               

                                         

If Life Was A Rainbow

Let us go and live in La La land; no, I do not mean the movie, rather the world of television advertising.

In moments of stress I want to be in television land where all you have 

to worry about is, how clean is your sink, how clean is your dog, child, 

whatever.

The weekly wash day is transformed into a singing, dancing affair 

with ladies in green tights – I think there are some blokes in it but not 

sure about the tights.

When the doorbell rings, I rush to the door, open, and greet some 

hunky guy who wants to check my fire extinguisher.

"Hi ya.."

I’ve got news for you; if Hunky Guy wants to extinguish my fire, then 

come right in.

But at the crucial moment….Yes! Big problem, is the toilet absolutely

spotless?

In the world of Reality, are you really, really going to give a tea-leaf 

about the sodding loo? If it was for real, you and he are heading for the

bedroom, and if life was a rainbow, you would be tearing that shirt off 

his manly torso.

All right, not the shirt but you get the idea ?

You have to come back to Planet Earth in the end - machines break 

down, things stops working, and it’s time to find a Person to Fix -It.

Of course the Fix It Person, is out, terribly busy, will ring you back.

When they do, make damn sure to be waiting for him.

In television land this is where the Hunky Guy appears at your door, he 

has a mega watt smile, abs and pecs to die for, and underneath 

that shirt, the muscles ripple.

A deep husky voice asks if he can help; you bet, come right in.

Wake Up.

What you actually get is a wrinkly guy, of mature years, in scruffy blue 

overalls and a toothy smile – just the one tooth you understand. He

carries a bag of clanking tools and leaves mud on the carpet.

To make sure the work gets done, you listen to a long (and painful)

recital of all the problems he struggles with, and how hard life is.

Bite your lip - do not mutter “Problems? Keep it to yourself, why don’t 

you?”

If he wants tea, don’t throw it at him, it won’t go down too well.

When Mr Wrinkly has finished telling you what a good job he has done,

and goes, at last, just nod, and shut the door – quickly.

There is the Postman of course – OK, my Postman is short, and rotund 

I have to say. He wears shorts in all weathers, and they are a tad 

baggy. But I see those Legs twinkle down the road in the morning, and 

my day acquires a Sparkle.

How sad is that?

Yep

Don't Be A Zombie

One of the joys of British politics is the sheer madness of our 
politicians; we have plenty of nutters, lets be honest. By contrast,
Britain has a long history of splendid, dignified, traditions that should
guarantee the holders of public office also behave with dignity, or gravitas; but it doesn’t.

Want to look for the nutters? No better place than the House of 

Commons, with its members, and chief among them,  Speaker of the House.

The Hon. John Bercow, elected in 2009, by his fellow MP’s is a the

latest example; torrents of outrage and abuse ensued when our 

Speaker announced that he would not invite President Donald Trump to

address the House if he visits this country.

Speaker, Mr John Bercow

Given the torrents of vitriol that began with the President’s election

from residents of the United Kingdom, (and elsewhere) I am amused to

read that various Members of Parliament became so offended that they 

called for Mr Bercow’s resignation.

It seems that the Speaker crossed over the line of Impartiality.

In theory the Speaker is party neutral, and John Bercow is now listed 

as ‘no party affiliation’. But he was a Conservative MP, and I am 

sure that his heart and mind will be Tory to the end. Maybe not his most

glorious moment, but not the end of democracy either.

I quote Mr Duddridge "I think there will be a vote of no confidence and I think he will go. “

Daily Telegraph 2017/02/12

No, I’ve never heard of this MP, and I don’t expect we will hear of him

again. After that many and various crimes were cited.

Financial Irregularity – more than one MP is guilty of that, nothing new 

there.

How Mr Bercow voted in the EU referendum – It was either Yes or No wasn’t it?

A target of censure?

As his office said, he is entitled to vote, and nothing to do with his role 

as Speaker. Politics attracts many extroverts, nutcases, and idealists,

and it makes for a rich mix.

It is a mix we should all enjoy and keep alive, so sod anyone who 

longs for political correctness which adds up to a living death, and do 

you want to be a zombie?

The members who voted John Bercow into this post knew very well the 

sort of Speaker they would get, of course they did.

No good moaning about it now, got what they paid for wouldn’t you

say?

As the MP, John Whittingdale told the Telegraph , “John was elected with a very firm pledge that he wouldn't stay for more than eight or nine years, and we are pretty much getting close to the end of the that period. So, I wouldn't expect him to stay for much longer." 

Dream on sunshine, dream on.

None of you will be surprised to hear that at the time of writing, John

Bercow is, guess what? Still the Speaker of the House.

Yep.

http://www.parliament.uk

 http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/02/12

Britain is Closed (for the duration)

I’m sitting here in snow bound Britain in the sure and certain knowledge that northern Europe (and the Yanks) are wondering what all the fuss is about.

British airports close, the roads close, most of our schools close, and cars drift into ditches. Where they stay for the duration. Let’s face it, this country has closed shop, we’ll get back to ya ‘all.

Later.

It is hardly worth mentioning the trains, the network never runs properly. I expect the Krauts are laffing into their furry mittens at this very moment.

Scotland is excused, they do snow all the time, poor sods.

The news has been enlivened by interviews with Council officials who pontificate that (a) they are well prepared, and (b) can’t be expected to forecast the fall of snow.

Not true, the Met Office does a good job with this forecasting lark - we know when, where, and HOW MUCH.

Doesn’t help any, folks can’t get to work and spend hours shivering at stations or stuck in their cars.

Business suffers through lost work as we slide on black ice, deeper into recession.

For those of us who still live in the real world we got recession, whatever crap, Boy David is mouthing to camera.



 



What am I going to do? Going outside to build a large and politically incorrect snow lady.

Give the neigbours something to choke over eh?

Yep.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

Get a Shed

Every man needs a shed, there is no doubt about it; a kingdom, an entire universe that he can rule well away from her indoors, and reminders about those jobs around the house.

Jobs that a bloke couldn’t give two curses for. Her indoors says they are essential.

Sheds give out the message that a bloke has work to do, serious work you know, the sifting of nuts, the grading of bolts, you get the idea.

Well out of the wife’s domain. Far, far away out of her reach – Wow.

Better still, blokes can have sheds as a group activity: they do, set up societies for Blokes and Sheds.

Without going near these meetings I can tell you what they talk about.

Women – how unreasonable they are, the wife, the girlfriend, the mistress.

If it’s the wife, ‘She wants a new kitchen’ the mistress “She wants more sex’ and the girlfriend “When is the wedding?’

Do they talk about sheds? No of course  they don’t. Wake up, for pity’s sake.

After the females, down to the important stuff; Cars, the Footie, the Pub.

There is nothing to worry about, really there isn’t. Blokes can only think one thought at a time. For a very long time let me tell you.

It takes well over 24 hours before the bloke moves on to the next thought; most women have gone through a whole books worth of thoughts in half that time.

Give your bloke a shed – then lock him in it. He won’t notice, far too busy  isn't he?

Yep.

Is My Egg Happy?

Need all the brain cells firing when you go shopping these days – gone are the days of just buying the bread, the milk and the eggs. Basic foods are now multi-choice, bread with nuts, bread without.  With added fibre or just the bog standard white stuff?

Can’t even just buy brown or white, it come in mixtures so you can have beige bread - if you want.

And eggs are complicated you know, I’m sure you didn’t; we have large and then very large, and Extra Large.

Sometimes, you can find eggs so large it makes you wince, well, think what it did to the hen. Enough to make your eyes water don’t you think?

No hen with feelings could sit there producing mammoth eggs without a great big squawk of protest.

Supermarkets get up to all sorts of tricks, and the deception begins well before the egg gets to the carton. Not content with the hen clucking her heart out, the buggers try to fool us into thinking that she enjoys it. Yes they do, why else would the cartons be labelled HAPPY EGGS? We are being misled, that’s what.

Think about it –each little bundle of egg is so happy, and the hen is smiling from ear to ear as she lays another size 8 egg? I don’t think so.
If this trend goes on I’ll be looking at my boiled egg only to see a little smiley face beaming at me.

It’s the stuff of nightmares

Yep.

Get Ahead Get a Torch

A word of advice to all you folks out there; go, get yourself a torch because we are entering The Age of Darkness. For real.

Where I live, we will be in darkness as the council has decided to turn all the road lights off ‘except the essential ones at junctions and roundabouts’.

So we can all creep up the road in the dark can’t we?

One local lady complained about the lack of lighting down her street, and guess what?

She was told to get herself a TORCH!

There you are nothing to worry about is there? No good if we do as you, me and the rest of the populace can jolly well look after ourselves.

It seems that in some parts of the country, the police won’t go out in the dark as it is too dangerous; and there we were thinking the police are employed to protect us. Afraid not, it seems that our coppers can’t face the darkness; in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire, officers will not patrol a playground plagued by teenage hoodlums.

“A senior officer told stunned councilors there would be no patrols after 8pm at newly-built Waterlees Park in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire, for health and safety reasons.”

The Inspector said his staff couldn’t go into the Park at night as …get this, ‘They can’t see where they’re going”

Understandably the council was stunned by this pearl of wisdom, and one council chappie asked” Don’t they carry torches?’

NO, that’s what the rest of us have to do, Councilor and the police are going to stay indoors with all the lights on.

But the Cambridge police did say that if a crime was committed they would turn out and ‘take appropriate action.’ So that’s all right then, don’t you worry none.

But get a torch – a stonking great big one, you’ll going to need it.

YEP

 Source/Mail Online Monday, Jan 31 2011

Yes Dear, No Dear

Now that the festive hols are over and the Christmas tree gets shoved back in the loft, blokes all over the country heave a sigh of relief and hurry off to places like B&Q, or any DIY they can find.
You see them pacing the store, brows furrowed in deep thought as they consider the merits of anodised bolts or plated screws, so happy to be free of domestic woes, the turkey that crisped a tad too much or the unwanted gifts from family.

And the Missus is still smouldering cos she didn’t get those hair straightners or the sparkly little trifle she had pointed out, very carefully.


Big Mistake, yes indeed, so he escapes to B&Q to get on with the things that matter like the new garden shed, or the essential refurbishments for the garage; no bloke can manage without a well equipped garage and I’m not talking about the car.

No one is going to bug them with unwanted reminders or suggest they get on with enhancing the kitchen, or ‘Do you need any help, Sir?”
Not in B&Q I can tell you, as the staff are either invisible or down the Job Centre, so it’s peace, folks, total peace.

But not for the couples who have decided to tackle the biggie, the NEW KITCHEN.

One of you has at be in charge, and I suggest to all the blokes that it’s left to the Missus or your life is going to be hell, the sort that never ends.
Just watch Madame as she goes into kitchen details, the hob, the dishwasher, the self cleaning sink and the toaster that lights up, but try to stay awake because it’s you that will be paying.

Don’t follow the example of our chum, telling his wife just what they need and would have, how this kitchen was really great, and so on. The expression on his wife’s face said it all.‘Kill, Kill, Kill




Poor sod, quite oblivious that his wife wasn’t on the same page, had left the room, and she will never ever forgive him.
Believe me, she won‘t.
Wander as a cloud or maybe a six throttle Black & Decker through the spaces of your DIY store, but leave the kitchen to your Domestic Goddess, and practice chanting every day,

“Yes dear, No dear, whatever you say, dear” and if you must, “Three bags full, dear.”But the last mentioned, is best kept silent, don’t you think?
Yep.
Red Fred, who is not a bloke or red, likes to rant; in fact has a Diploma in it. Has no interest in helping little old ladies across the road or kissing babies.
Boil babies? Of course

Red Fred 2005 -2011

 6R49GQCPQ9PG


 

The Other Side of Christmas

As we crawl out of the other side of Christmas falling over a mound of tinsel, paper and dying mince pies, there is a sense of surprise, that we are still here.
The world hasn’t ended and we have to get on with the business of greeting the New Year.
Damn.





Round about this time of year, folks who never take any notice of what us humble populace want or like, suddenly want to share their thoughts with one and all.
Of course there is our own dear Queen, this year she was fluting away in those eggshell vowels of hers about the value of Sport.


Sport? When the Public sector in this country is collapsing into a series of savage cuts, we wanna take to the Sports fields? I don’t think so. Then there was the Pontiff, who also made a speech: let me see now, God is a good thing and he wants to hug us, the Pope that is. Note to self; if the Pope comes here again, avoid Papal hugs.

Last, our Prime Minister, dear Davy Cameron gave us all a kick in the pants by sharing his Christmas thoughts: basically ‘things are going to be tough’.
Really?

Us great populace would never have guessed, would we, after all, there is only the continuing downturn in the British economy, the continuing loss of jobs and the continuing rise in the price of consumer goods.



We do a lot of continuing over here in the UK you know, we continue to put up with it: we can’t even take to the streets and protest with the enviable flair that the French show in troubled times. Change the pension age? No way, ‘C’est la guerre mon ami!” and the streets of Paris fill up with angry citizens who bring the city to a standstill.

Us Brits have different priorities, we know what the real issues are, oh yeah .
So empathise with the lady in Kent who dialled 999 to report the theft of a snowman outside her house.
She had used pound coins for the eyes and teaspoons for the arms, and as she said herself
"It ain't a nice road but you don't expect anybody to nick your snowman."



The police didn’t see the funny side of that but I’m sure you lot do, so with that thought I’ll bid you all
A Happy New Year.

Yep.


6R49GQCPQ9P

My Long Johns ?

Some deluded folks think you can be a fashion plate in winter, keep warm and still be a Vogue cover girl
Not true – in winter the young ladies wander around in skimpy t-shirts and something my beloved calls a curtain pelmet, but is really a skirt.
Quite, but that’s blokes.



I came across an article by one of these deluded people, but she’s a journalist, which kind of says it all. The items in her wardrobe could send me on holiday, several holidays in fact, so I’m sure she can be a fashion icon.

Let’s face it, wanna keep warm, then you wrap up and look like a Michelin man (or woman) and wear a bobbly hat, or one of those creations with ear flaps.
Have I got such head gear, yes I have and it’s furry as well.

In countries where snow is a serious business, people dress to suit the climate, everyone looks like a rubber tyre on legs and you wear them thermal undies, yes you do, but no one makes jokes about your Long Johns.
Of course they think us Brits are staring mad, we can’t dress properly but if we want to look blue and pimply with cold, that’s our misfortune.




I agree with the journalist’s comment
‘When tempted by The Military Look, remind yourself You Are Not In A Fashion Shoot’ but need to think about her passion for red coats. Must be thinking of Father Christmas.
If you see a shortish person in long red coat and furry hat with flaps, flapping...
Then it might be me – or Santa.

Expecting a picture of said hat are you?
Live in hope

Yup.




Quotes from The Guardian - Saturday, 30 October 2010.

Winter of Discontent

I have given up with the coaxing of the garden, there is no more so I guess we are about to enter our Winter of Discontent.


There is no more in the Councils' money box.
Up and down the country, councils look for ways of saving money they haven’t got. If the Government believes these bods can save millions in the year, they are dreaming.

But that don’t stop the morons threatening us all with cuts that will be ineffective, and worse, harm us all.




A little chip here, another chip over there – and a few part- time jobs go in the trash can leaving kids without help in school, and some poor sod looses benefit. But still disabled, you know and no amount of Cameron’s clap-trap will restore life to dead limbs.
As these politicians trot back to their country homes, pick up their snotty children from school (private), do they worry about us?

Of course not, and I expect some bastard is still creaming cash off us tax payers to finance the lifestyle he/she enjoys.




What we should do is begin a campaign of UTWS.
Useless time-wasting suggestions to stop the Government in its tracks, it will be so busy the councils will be left in peace.
And let me be the first bod to put up a suggestion

‘All road signs should match the surrounding environs, for example signs should be colour toned with the autumn foliage, so that everything….’blends’, yeah, just blends.’

Good one, don’t you think?
Yep.